11062	----	THE DOZEN FROM LAKERIM By RUPERT HUGHES Author of "The Lakerim Athletic Club" WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY C.M. RELYEA 1899. TO THE BEST *Father* A BOY EVER HAD (EXCEPT POSSIBLY YOURS) BELONGS THE DEDICATION OF THIS STORY OF LIFE AT AN ACADEMY, SINCE HIS GOODNESS ENABLED ME TO KNOW IT AND WRITE IT NOTE About half of this book was published serially in "St. Nicholas." The rest of it is here printed for the first time. If in this story of life at a preparatory school I have neglected to say very much about books and studies, and have stuck to far less interesting matters, such as the games and gambols that while away the dull hours between classes, I hope my readers will graciously forgive the omission. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IT WAS EVIDENT THAT A SEVERE STRUGGLE HAD TAKEN PLACE "STOP THE TRAIN AND WAIT FOR ME. I'M GOING TO KINGSTON, TOO!" TUG IS TREATED TO A LITTLE SURPRISE-PARTY QUIZ LEARNED TO SHOOT THE HILLS AT A BREATHLESS RATE JUMBO SAW A PAIR OF FLASHING EYES GLARING AT HIM OVER THE COVERLET PRETTY AND ENID THE CROSS-COUNTRY RUN THE BOXING-MATCH TIED UP LIKE DUMMIES IN SACKS "STRIKER--OUT!" BURNING THE BOOKS THE DOZEN FROM LAKERIM I Some people think it great fun to build a house of cards slowly and anxiously, and then knock it to pieces with one little snip of the finger. Or to fix up a snow man in fine style and watch a sudden thaw melt him out of sight. Or to write a name carefully, like a copy-book, and with many curlicues, in the wet sand, and then scamper off and let the first high wave smooth it away as a boy's sponge wipes from his slate some such marvelous statement as, 12 × 12 = 120, or 384 ÷ 16 gives a "koshunt" of 25. When such things are erased it doesn't much matter; but there are occasions when it hurts to have Father Time come along and blot out the work you have taken great pains with and have put your heart into. Twelve young gentlemen in the town of Lakerim were feeling decidedly blue over just such an occasion. You may not find the town of Lakerim on the map in your geography. And yet it was very well known to the people that lived in it. And the Lakerim Athletic Club was very well known to those same people. And the Lakerim Athletic Club, or, at least the twelve founders of the club, were as blue as the June sky, because it seemed to them that Father Time--old Granddaddy Longlegs that he is--was playing a mean trick on them. For hadn't they given all their brain and muscle to building up an athletic club that should be a credit to the town and a terror to outsiders! And hadn't they given up every free hour for two years to working like Trojans? though, for that matter, who ever heard of any work the Trojans ever did that amounted to anything--except the spending of ten years in getting themselves badly defeated by a big wooden hobby-horse? But while all of the Dozen were deep in the dumps, and had their brows tied up like a neglected fish-line, the loudest complaint was made, of course, by the one who had done the least work in building up the club--a lazybones who had been born tired, and had spent most of his young life in industriously earning for himself the name of "Sleepy." "It's a dad-ratted shame," growled he, "for you fellows to go and leave the club in the lurch this way, after all the trouble we have had organizing it." "Yes," assented another, who was called "B.J." because he had jumped from a high bridge once too often, and who read wild Western romances more than was good for his peace of mind or his conversation; "it kind of looks as if you fellows were renegades to the cause." None of the Twelve knew exactly what a renegade was, but it sounded unpleasant, and the men to whom the term was applied lost their tempers, and volunteered to clean out the club-room where they all sat for two cents. But the offenders either thought they could have more fun for less money, or hadn't the money, for they changed their tune, and the debate went on in a more peaceful manner. The trouble was this: Some of you who are up on the important works of history may have heard how these twelve youth of the High School at Lakerim organized themselves into an athletic club that won many victories, and how they begged, borrowed, and earned enough money to build themselves a club-house after a year of hard work and harder play. Well, now, after they had gone to all this trouble and all this expense, and had enjoyed the fruits of their labors barely a year, lo and behold, one third of the Dozen were planning to desert the club, leave the town, and take their good muscles to another town, where there was an academy! The worst of it was that this academy was the very one that had worked hardest to keep the Lakerim Athletic Club from being admitted into the league known as the Tri-State Interscholastic. And now that the Lakerim Club had forced its way into the League, and had won the pennant the very first year, it seemed hard that some of the most valuable of the Lakerimmers should even consider joining forces with a rival. The president of the club himself was one of the deserters; and the rest of the Dozen grew very bitter, and the arguments often reached a point where it needed only one word more to bring on a scrimmage--a scrimmage that would make a lively football game seem tame by comparison. And now the president, or "Tug," as he was always called, had been baited long enough. He rose to his feet and proceeded to deliver an oration with all the fervor of a Fourth-of-July orator making the eagle scream. "I want you fellows to understand once for all," he cried, "that no one loves the Lakerim Athletic Club more than I do, or is more patriotic toward it. But now that I have graduated from the High School, I can't consider that I know everything that is to be known. There are one or two things to learn yet, and I intend to go to a preparatory school, and then through college; and the best thing you follows can do is to make your plans to do the same thing. Well, now, seeing that my mind is made up to go to college, and seeing that I've got to go to some preparatory school, and seeing there is no preparatory school in Lakerim, and seeing that I have therefore got to go to some other town, and seeing that at Kingston there is a fine preparatory school, and seeing that I want to have some sort of a show in athletics, and seeing that the Athletic Association of the Kingston Academy has been kind enough to specially invite three of us fellows to go there--why, seeing all this, I don't see that there is any kick coming to you fellows if we three fellows take advantage of our opportunities like sensible people; and the best advice I can give you is to make up your minds, and make up your fathers' and mothers' minds, to come along to Kingston Academy with us. Then there won't be any talk about our being traitors to the Dozen, for we'll just pick the Dozen up bodily and carry it over to Kingston! The new members we've elected can take care of the club and the club-house." Tug sat down amid a silence that was more complimentary than the wildest applause; for he had done what few orators do: he had set his audience to thinking. Only one of the Twelve had a remark to make for some time, and that was a small-framed, big-spectacled gnome called "History." He leaned over and said to his elbow-companion, "Bobbles": "Tug is a regular Demoskenes!" "Who's Demoskenes?" whispered Bobbles. "Why, don't you remember him?" said History, proudly. "He was the fellow that used to fill his mouth full of pebbles before he talked." "I'll bet he would have choked on some of your big words, though, History," growled a little fellow called "Jumbo." But the man at his side, known to fame as "Punk," broke in with a crushing: "Aw, let up on that old Dutchman of a Demoskenes, and let's talk business." So they all got their heads together again and discussed their affairs with the solemnity due to their importance. They talked till the janitor went round lighting up the club-house, which reminded them that they were keeping dinner waiting at their various homes. Then they strolled along home. They met again and again; for the fate of the club was a serious matter to them, and the fate of the Dozen was a still more serious matter, because the Dozen had existed before the club or the club-house, and their hearts ached at the mere thought of breaking up the old and dear associations that had grown up around their partnership in many an hour of victory and defeat. But where there are many souls there are many minds, and it seemed impossible to keep the Twelve together for another year. It was settled that Tug and Jumbo and Punk should accept the flattering invitation of the Kingston Athletic Association, and their parents were glad enough to have them go, seeing that Kingston was an academy of excellent standing. History was also to be there, for his learning had won him a free scholarship in a competitive examination. B.J., "Quiz," and Bobbles were to be sent to other academies--to Charleston, to Troy, and to Greenville; but they made life miserable for their fathers and mothers with their pleadings, until they, too, were permitted to join their fellows at Kingston. Sleepy was the only one that did not want to go, and he insisted that he had learned all that was necessary for his purpose in life; that he simply could not endure the thought of laboring over books any longer. But just as the Dozen had resigned themselves to losing the companionship of Sleepy (he was a good man to crack jokes about, if for no other reason), Sleepy's parents announced to him that his decision was not final, and that, whether or not he wanted to go, go he should. And then there were eight. The handsome and fashionable young Dozener, known to his friends as Edward Parker, and to fame as "Pretty," was won over with much difficulty. He had completely made up his mind to attend the Troy Latin School--not because he loved Latin, but because Troy was the seat of much social gaiety, and because there was a large seminary for girls in that town. He was, however, at length cajoled into consenting to pitch his tent at Kingston by the diplomatic Jumbo, who told him that the girls at Kingston were the prettiest in three States. And then there were nine. The Phillips twins, "Reddy" and "Heady," were the next source of trouble, for they had recently indulged in an unusually violent squabble, even for them, and each had vowed that he would never speak to the other again, and would sooner die than go to the same boarding-school. The father of this fiery couple knew that the boys really loved each other dearly at the bottom of their hearts, and decided to teach them how much they truly cared for each other; so he yielded to their prayer that they be allowed to go to different academies. The boys, in high glee, tossed up a penny to decide which should go with the Dozen to Kingston, and which should go to the Brownsville School for Boys. Reddy won Kingston, and rejoiced greatly. But though Heady was so blue that his brick-colored hair was almost dyed, nothing could persuade him to "tag along after his brother," as he phrased it. And so there were ten. The deepest grief of the Dozen was the plight of the beloved giant, "Sawed-Off." There seemed to be no possible way of getting him to Kingston, much as they thought of his big muscles, and more us they thought of his big heart. His sworn pal, the tiny Jumbo, was well nigh distracted at the thought of severing their two knitted hearts; but Sawed-Off's father was dead, and his mother was too poor to pay for his schooling, so they gave him up for lost, not without aching at the heart, and even a little dampness at the eyelids. Heady was the first to leave town. He slipped away on an early morning train without telling any one, for he felt very much ashamed of his stubbornness; and he and his brother shook hands with each other as nervously as two prize-fighters. A few days later the five sixths of the Dozen that were booked for Kingston stood on the crowded platform of the Lakerim railroad-station, bidding good-by to all the parents they had, and all the friends. All of them had paid long calls on their best girls the evening before, and exchanged photographs and locks of hair and various keepsakes more or less sentimental and altogether useless. So, now that they were in public, they all shook hands very formally: Tug with a girl several years older than he; Pretty with the beautiful Enid; Quiz with the fickle Cecily Brown; bashful Bobbles with the bouncing Betsy; B.J. with a girl who had as many freckles as B.J. had had imaginary encounters with the bandits who had tried to steal her; the unwilling Sleepy with a lively young woman who broke his heart by congratulating him on being able to go to Kingston; tiny Jumbo with plump Carrie Shields, whom he had once fished out of the water; and Reddy with the girl over whom he and his brother had had their bitterest quarrels, and who could not for the life of her tell which one she liked the better. [Illustration: STOP THE TRAIN AND WAIT FOR ME, I'M GOING TO KINGSTON, TOO!] But there was one very little girl in the crowd whose greatest sorrow, strangely enough, was the fact that she had no one to bid good-by to, since her dearest friend, the huge Sawed-Off, was not to go to Kingston. Just as the engine began to ring its warning bell, and the conductor to wave the people aboard, there was a loud clatter of hoofs, and the rickety old Lakerim carryall came dashing up, drawn by the lively horses Sawed-Off had once saved from destroying themselves and the Dozen in one fell swoop down a steep hill. The carryall lurched up to the station came to a sudden stop, and out bounced--who but Sawed-Off himself, loaded down with bundles, and yelling at the top of his voice: "Stop the train and wait for me. I'm going to Kingston, too!" II There was just time to dump his trunk into the baggage-car, and bundle him and his bundles on to the platform, before the train steamed away; and the eleven Lakerimmers were so busy waving farewell to the waving and farewelling crowd at the station that it was some minutes before they could find time to learn how Sawed-Off came to be among them. When he explained that he had made arrangements to work his way through the Academy, they took no thought for the hard struggle in front of him, they were so glad to have him along. Jumbo and he sat with their arms around each other all the way to Kingston, their hearts too full for anything but an occasional "Hooray!" The journey to Kingston brought no adventures with it--except that History, of course, had lost his spectacles and his ticket, and had to borrow money of Pretty to keep from being put off the train, and that when they reached Kingston they came near forgetting Sleepy entirely, for he had curled up in a seat, and was reeling off slumber at a faster rate than the train reeled off miles. The first few days at Kingston were so busily filled with entrance examinations and selection of rooms and the harder selection of room-mates and other furniture that the Dozen saw little of each other, except as they crunched by along the gravel walks of the campus or met for a hasty meal in the dining-hall. This dining-hall, by the way, was managed by an estimable widow named Mrs. Slaughter, and of course the boys called it the "Slaughter-house," a name not so far from the truth, when one considers the way large, tough roasts of beef and tons of soggy corned beef were massacred by the students. It might be a good idea to insert here a little snap shot of Kingston Academy. The town itself was a moth-eaten old village that claimed a thousand inhabitants, but could never have mustered that number without counting in all the sleepy horses, mules, cows, and pet dogs that roamed the streets like the rest of the inhabitants. The chief industry of the people of Kingston seemed to be that of selling school-books, mince-pies, and other necessaries of life to the boys at the Academy. The grown young men of the town spent their lives trying to get away to some other cities. The younger youth of the town spent their lives trying to interfere with the pleasures of the Kingston academicians. So there were many of the old-time "town-and-gown" squabbles; and it was well for the health of the Kingston Academy boys that they rarely went around town except in groups of two or three; and it was very bad for the health of any of the town fellows if they happened to be caught within the Academy grounds. The result of being situated in a half-dead village, which was neither loved nor loving, did not make life at the Academy tame, but quite the opposite; for the boys were forced to find their whole entertainment in the Academy life, and in one another, and the campus was therefore a little republic in itself--a Utopia. Like every other republic, it had its cliques and its struggles, its victories and its defeats, its friendships and its enmities, and everything else that makes life lively and lifelike. The campus was beautiful enough and large enough to accommodate its citizens handsomely. Its trees were many and tall, venerable old monarchs with foliage like tents for shade and comfort to any little groups that cared to lounge upon the mossy divans beneath. The grounds were spacious enough to furnish not only football and baseball fields and tennis-courts, but meadows where wild flowers grew in the spring, and a little lake where the ice grew in the winter. Miles away--just enough to make a good "Sabbath day's journey"--was a wonderful region called the "Ledges," where glaciers had once resided, and left huge boulders, scratched and scarred. As Jumbo put it, it seemed, from the chasms and caves and curious distortions of stone and soil, that "nature must have once had a fit there.". Most of the buildings of the Academy looked nearly old enough to have been also deposited there by the primeval glaciers, but they were huge and comfortable, and so many colonies of boys had romped and ruminated there, and so much laughter and so much lore had soaked into the old walls, that they were pleasanter than any newer and more gorgeous architecture could possibly be. They were homely in the better as well as the worse sense. But this is more than enough description, and you must imagine for yourselves how the Lakerim eleven, often as they thought of home, and homesick as they were in spite of themselves now and then, rejoiced in being thrown on their own resources, and made somewhat independent citizens in a little country of their own. Unwilling to make selections among themselves, more unwilling to select room-mates from the other students (the "foreigners," as the Lakerimmers called them), they drew lots for one another, and the lots decided that they should room together thus: Tug and Punk were on the ground floor of the building known as South College, in room No. 2; in the room just over them were Quiz and Pretty; and on the same floor, at the back of the building, were Bobbles and Reddy (Reddy insisted upon this room because it had a third bedroom off its study-room; while, of course, he never expected to see Heady there, and didn't much care, of course, whether he came or not, still, a fellow never can tell, you know); on the same floor were B.J. and Jumbo. Jumbo did not stoop to flatter B.J. by pretending that he would not have preferred Sawed-Off for his room-mate; but Sawed-Off was working his way through, and the principal of the Academy had offered to help him out, not only with a free scholarship, but with a free room, as well, in Middle College, an old building which had the gymnasium on the first floor, the chapel on the second, and in the loft a single store-room fixed up as a bedroom. The lots the fellows drew seemed to be in a joking mood when they selected History and Sleepy for room-mates--the hardest student and the softest, not only of the Dozen, but of the whole Academy. Sleepy had been too lazy to pay much heed when the diplomatic History had suggested their choosing room No. 13 for theirs, and he assented languidly. History had said that it was the brightest and sunniest room in the building, and if there was one thing that Sleepy loved almost better than baseball, it was a good snooze in the sun after he had worked hard stowing away any of the three meals. His heart was broken, however, when he learned that the room chosen by the wily History was on the top floor, with three long flights to climb. After that you could never convince him that thirteen was not an unlucky number. The Lakerimmers had thus managed quietly to ensconce themselves, all except Sawed-Off, in one building; and it was just as well, perhaps, that they did so establish themselves in a stronghold of their own, for they clung together so steadfastly that there was soon a deal of jealousy among the other students toward them, and all the factions combined together to try to keep the Lakerimmers from cabbaging any of the good things of academy life. There was a craze of skylarking the first few weeks after the school opened. Almost every day one of the Lakerimmers would come back from his classes to find his room "stacked"--a word that exactly expresses its meaning. There is something particularly discouraging in going to your room late in the evening, your mind made up to a comfortable hour of reading on a divan covered with cushions made by your best girls, only to find the divan placed in the middle of the bed, with a bureau and a bookcase stuck on top of it, a few chairs and a pet bulldog tied in the middle of the mix-up, and a mirror and a well-filled bowl of water so fixed on the top of the heap that it is well-nigh impossible to move any one of the articles without cracking the looking-glass or dousing yourself with the water. The Lakerimmers tried retaliation for a time; but the pleasure of stacking another man's room was not half so great as the misery of unstacking one's own room, and they finally decided to keep two or three of the men always on guard in the building. There was a rage for hazing, too, the first few weeks; and as the Lakerimmers were all new men in the Academy, they were considered particularly good candidates for various degrees of torment. Hazing was strictly against the rules of the Academy, but the teachers could not be everywhere at once, and had something to do besides prowl around the dark corners of the campus at all hours of the night. Some of the men furiously resisted the efforts to haze them; but when they once learned that their efforts were vain, and had perforce to submit, none of them were mean enough to peach on their tormentors after the damage was done. The Lakerimmers, however, decided to resist force with force, and stuck by each other so closely, and barricaded their doors so firmly at night, when they must necessarily separate, that time went on without any of them being subjected to any other indignities than the guying of the other Kingstonians. Sawed-Off had so much and such hard work to do after school hours that the whole Academy respected him too much to attempt to haze him, though he roomed alone in the old Middle College. Besides, his size was such that nobody cared to be the first one to lay hand on him. * * * * * There was just one blot on the happiness of the Dozen at Kingston. Tug and Punk and Jumbo had started the whole migration from Lakerim because they had been invited by the Kingston Athletic Association to join forces with the Academy. The magnificent game of football these three men had played in the last two years had been the cause of this invitation, and they had come with glowing dreams of new worlds to conquer. What was their pain and disgust to find that the captain of the Kingston team, elected before they came, had decided that he had good cause for jealousy of Tug, and had decided that, since Tug would probably win all his old laurels away from him if he once admitted him to the eleven, the only way to retain those laurels was to keep Tug off the team. When the Lakerim three, therefore, appeared on the field as candidates for the eleven, they were assigned to the second or scrub team. (The first team was generally called the "varsity," though of course it only represented an academy.) The Lakerim three, though disappointed at first, determined to show their respect for discipline, and to earn their way; so they submitted meekly, and played the best game they could on the scrub. When the varsity captain, Clayton by name, criticized their playing in a way that was brutal,--not because it was frank, but because it was unjust,--they swallowed the poison as quietly as they could, and went back into the game determined not to repeat the slip that had brought upon them such a deluge of abuse. It soon became evident, however, from the way Clayton neglected the mistakes of the pets of his own eleven, and his constant and petty fault-finding with the three Lakerimmers, that he was determined to keep them from the varsity, even if he had to keep second-rate players on the team, and even if he imperiled the Academy's chances against rival elevens. When this unpleasant truth had finally soaked into their minds, the Lakerimmers grew very solemn; and one evening, when the whole eleven happened to be in room No. 2, and when the hosts, Tug and Punk, were particularly sore from the outrageous language used against them in the practice of the afternoon, Punk, who was rather easily discouraged, spoke up: "I guess the only thing for us to do, fellows, is to pack up our duds and go back home. There's no chance for us here." Tug, who was feeling rather muggy, only growled: "Not on your life! I had rather be a yellow dog than a quitter." Then he relapsed into a silence that reminded History of Achilles in his tent, though he was ungently told to keep still when he tried to suggest the similarity. Reddy was fairly sizzling with rage at the Clayton faction, and sang out: "I move that we go round and throw a few rocks through Clayton's windows, and then if he says anything, punch his head for him." This idea seemed to please the majority of the men, and they were instantly on their feet and rushing out of the door to execute their vengeance on the tyrant, when Tug thundered out for them to come back. "I've got a better idea," he said, "and one that will do us more credit. I'll tell you what I am going to do: I am going to take this matter into my own hands, and drill that scrub team myself, and see if we can't teach the varsity a thing or two. I believe that, with a little practice and a little good sense, we can shove 'em off the earth." This struck the fellows as the proper and the Lakerim method of doing things, and they responded with a cheer. III Tug persuaded Reddy, B.J., Pretty, and Bobbles, who had not been trying for the team, to come out on the field. He even coaxed the busy Sawed-Off into postponing some of his work for a few days to help them out. He thus had almost the old Lakerim eleven at his command; and that very night, in that very room, they concocted and practised a few secret tricks and a few surprises for Clayton, who was neither very fertile in invention nor very quick to understand the schemes of others. Clayton was too sure of his own position and power to pay any heed to the storm that was brewing for him, and was only too glad to see more Lakerim men on the scrub team for him to abuse. The next day Tug persuaded some of the others of the scrub eleven to "lay off" for a few days, and he also persuaded the captain of the scrub team to give him command for a week. Then he took his new eleven, seven of them old Lakerim veterans, out on the field, and worked with them early and late. To instil into the heads of his men the necessity of being in just the right place at the right time, Tug drew a map of the field on a large sheet of paper, and spread it on his center-table; then he took twenty-two checkers and set them in array like two football teams. He gathered his eleven into his room at night, told each man Jack of them which checker was his, and set them problems to work out. "Suppose I give the signal for the left-guard to take the ball around the right-end," he would say, and ask each man in turn, "Where would you go?" Then the backs drew their checkers up to position as interference, and the tackles and guards showed what particular enemies they were to bowl over. Many ridiculous mistakes were made at first, and each man had a good laugh at the folly of each of the others for some play that left a big hole in the flying protection. But they could practise at night and worry it out in theory, while their legs rested till the next day's practice. When he could find an empty recitation-room at an idle hour, "Professor Tug," as they soon called him, would gather his class about him and work out the same problems on the blackboards, each man being compelled to draw an arrow from his position at the time of the signal to his proper place when the ball was in play. The game now became a true science, and the scrub took it up with a new zest. This indoor drill made it easy also to revive a trick popular at Yale in the 'Eighties--the giving of one signal to prepare for a series of plays. Then Tug would call out some eloquent gibberish like "Seventy-'leven-three-teen," and that meant that on the first down the full-back was to come in on the run, and take the ball through the enemy's left-guard and tackle; on the second down the right half-back was to crisscross with the left half-back; and on the third down the right-guard was to scoot round the left-end. The beauty of this old scheme was that it caught the enemy napping: while he was lounging and waiting for the loud signal, the ball was silently put in play before he was ready. On the fatal day Tug found that the scheme was well worth the trouble it took. It has its disadvantages in the long run, but on its first appearance at Kingston it fairly made the varsity team's eyes pop with amazement. Tug did not put into play the whole strength of his eleven, but practised cautiously, and instructed his team in the few ruses Clayton seemed to be fond of. He was looking forward to the occasion when a complete game was to be played before the townspeople between the varsity and the scrub; and Clayton was looking forward to this same day, and promising himself a great triumph when the Academy and the town should see what a rattling eleven he had made up. The day came. The whole Academy and most of the town turned out and filled the grand stand and the space along the side lines. It was to be the first full game of the season on the Academy grounds, and every one was eager to renew acquaintance with the excitements of the fall before. You have doubtless seen and read about more football games than enough, and you will be glad to skip the details of this contest. It will be unnecessary to do more than suggest how Clayton was simply dumfounded when he saw his first long kick-off caught by the veteran full-back Punk, and carried forward with express speed under the protection of Tug's men, who were not satisfied with merely running in front of Clayton's tacklers, but bunted into them and dumped them over with a spine-jolting vigor, and covered Punk from attack on the rear, and carried him across the center line and well on into Clayton's territory before Clayton realized that several of his pets were mere straw men, and dashed violently and madly into and through Punk's interference, and downed him on the 15-yard line; how the spectators looked on in silent amazement at this unexpected beginning; how promptly Tug's men were lined up, a broad swath completely opened with one quick gash in Clayton's line, and the ball shoved through and within five yards of the goal-posts, almost before Clayton knew it was in play; how Clayton called his men to one side, and rebuked them, and told them just what to do, and found, to his disgust, that when they had done it, it was just the wrong thing to do; how they could not hold the line against the fury of the scrub team; how the ball was jammed across the line right under the goal-posts, and Clayton's head well whacked against one of those same posts as he was swept off his feet; how Tug's men on the line were taught to avoid foolish attempts to worry their opponents, and taught to reserve their strength for the supreme moment when the call came to split the line; how Sawed-Off, though lighter than Clayton's huge 200 pound center, had more than mere bulk to commend him, and tipped the huge baby over at just the right moment; how Tug now and then followed a series of honest football maneuvers with some unexpected trick that carried the ball far down the field around one end, when Clayton was scrambling after it in the wrong place; how Tug had perfected his interference until the man carrying the ball seemed almost as safe as if Clayton's men were Spaniards, and he were in the turret of the U.S.S. _Oregon_; how little time Tug's men lost in getting away after the ball had been passed to them; how little they depended on "grand stand" plays by the individual, and how much on team-work; how Tug's men went through Clayton's interference as neatly as a fox through a hedge; how they resisted Clayton's mass plays as firmly as harveyized steel; how Clayton fumed and fretted and slugged and fouled, and threatened his men, and called them off to hold conferences that only served to give Tug's men a chance to get their wind after some violent play; how Tug was everywhere at once, and played for more than the pleasure of winning this one game--played as if he were a pair of twins, and only smiled back when Clayton glared at him; how Punk guarded the goal from the longest punts the varsity full-back could make, and how he kicked the goal after all but one of the many touch-downs the scrub team made; how little Jumbo, as quarter-back, passed the ball with never a fumble and never a bad throw; how, when it came back to his hands, he skimmed almost as closely and as silently and as swiftly over the ground as the shadow of a flying bird, and made long run after long run that won the cheers of the crowd; how B.J., Sawed-Off, and Pretty, as right-end, center, and left-end, responded at just the right moment, and how Pretty dodged and ran with the alertness he had learned in many a championship tennis tournament; and how Reddy, as left half-back, flew across the field like a firebrand, or hurled himself into the line with a fury that seemed to have no regard for the bones or flesh of himself or the Claytonians; how-- IV But did any one ever read such a string of "hows"? Why, that sentence was getting to be longer and more complicated than the game it was pretending not to describe; so here's an end on't, with the plain statement that the game (like that sentence) came finally to an end. But the effects of the contest did not end with the dying out of the cheers with which the victory of the scrub was greeted. And Tug's elevation did not cease when he had been caught up on the shoulders of the crowd and carried all over the field, amid the wild cheers of the whole Academy. No more did Captain Clayton's chagrin end with his awakening from the stupor into which he had been sent by the surprisingly good form of the scrub. Clayton felt bitter enough at the exposure of his bad captaincy, but a still greater bitterness awaited him, and a still greater triumph awaited Tug, for the Athletic Association put their heads together and decided to have their little say. The result was published in the Kingston weekly, and Tug, after the overwhelming honor of being interviewed by a live reporter, read there the following screaming head-lines: SCRUB WIPES THE EARTH WITH VARSITY! * * * * * Kingston Football Team Meets with a Crushing Defeat at the Hands of the Second Eleven. * * * * * SCORE, 28 to 4. * * * * * VARSITY OUTPLAYED AT EVERY POINT. * * * * * Popular Opinion Forces Captain Clayton to Resign in Favor of "Tug" Robinson. * * * * * KINGSTON TEAM TO BE COMPLETELY REORGANIZED. * * * * * Mr. Robinson Declares that Favoritism will Have no Part in the Make-up of the New Team, and Magnanimously Offers Ex-Captain Clayton a Position on the New Eleven. There is no need telling here the wild emotions in the hearts of Clayton and his faction at the end of the game, and no need of even hinting the wilder delight of the Lakerimmers at the vindication of their cause. The whole eleven of them strolled home in one grand embrace, and used their jaws more for talking than for eating when they reached the long-delayed meal at the "Slaughter-house"; and after supper they met again at the fence, and sang Lakerim songs of rejoicing, and told and retold to each other the different features of the game, which they all knew without the telling. So much praise was heaped upon Tug by the rest of the Academy, and he was so fêted by the Lakerimmers, that he finally slipped away and went to his room. And little History also bade them good night, on his old excuse of having to study. It was very dark before the Lakerimmers had talked themselves tired. Then they voted to go around and congratulate Tug once more upon his victory, and give him three cheers for the sake of auld lang syne. When they went to his room, they were amazed to see the door swinging open and shut in the breeze; they noted that the lock was torn off. They hurried in, and found one of the windows broken, and books and chairs scattered about in confusion; the mantel and cloth and the photographs on it were all awry. It was evident that a fierce struggle had taken place in the room. The nine Lakerimmers stood aghast, staring at each other in stupefaction. Reddy was the first to find tongue, and he cried out: "I know what's up, fellows: that blamed gang of hazers has got him!" Now there was an excitement indeed. Punk suggested that perhaps he might be in History's room, and Bobbles scaled the three flights, three steps at a time, only to return with a wild look, and declare that History's room was empty, his lock broken, and his student lamp smoking. Plainly the hazing committee had lost no time in seizing its first opportunity. Plainly the Lakerimmers must lose no time in hurrying to the rescue. "Up and after 'em, men!" cried B.J.; and, trying to remember what was the proper thing for an old Indian scout to do under the circumstances, he started off on a dead run. And the others followed him into the night. V Tug had stood the praise and applause of his fellow-students, and especially the wild flattery of the Dozen, who were almost insanely joyful over his success in captaining the scrub football team and wiping the earth up with the varsity, until he was as sick as a boy that has overfed on candy. Finally he had slunk away, rather like a guilty man than a hero, and started for his room. Once he had left the crowd and was alone under the great trees, darkly beautiful with the moonlight, he felt again the delicious pride of his victory against the heavy odds, and the conspiracy of his deadly rival in football. He planned, in his imagination, the various steps he would take to reorganize the varsity eleven, to which it was evident that he would be elected captain; and he smacked his lips over the prospects of glorious battles and hard-won victories in the games in which he and his team would represent the Kingston Academy against the other academies of the Tri-State Interscholastic League. His waking dreams came true, in good season, too; for, under his inspiring leadership, the Kingston men took up the game with a new zest, gave up the idea that individual grand-stand plays won games, and learned to sink their ambitions for themselves into a stronger ambition for the success of the whole team. And they played so brilliantly and so faithfully that academy after academy went down before them, and they were not even scored against until they met the most formidable rivals of all, the Greenville Academy. Greenville was an old athletic enemy of the Lakerim Club, and Tug looked forward to meeting it with particular delight, especially as the championship of the League football series lay between Greenville and Kingston. I have only time and room enough to tell you that when the final contest came, Tug sent his men round the ends so scientifically, and led them into the scrimmages so furiously, that they won a glorious victory of 18 to 6. But this is getting a long way into the future, and away from Tug on his walk to his room that beautiful evening, when all these triumphs were still in the clouds, and he had only one victory to look back upon. Tug's responsibility had been great that afternoon, and the strain of coaxing and commanding his scrub players to assault and defeat the heavier eleven opposed to them had worn hard on his muscles and nerves. When he got to his room he was too tired to remember that he had forgotten to take the usual precautions of locking his door and windows, or even of drawing the curtains. He did not stop to think that hazing had been flourishing about the Academy grounds for some time, and that threats had been made against any of the Lakerim Dozen if they were ever caught alone. He could just keep awake long enough to light his student lamp; then he dropped on his divan, and buried his head in a red-white-and-blue cushion his best Lakerim girl had embroidered for him in a fearful and wonderful manner, and was soon dozing away into a dreamland where the whole world was one great football, and he was kicking it along the Milky Way, scoring a touch-down every fifty years. A little later History poked his head in at the door. He also had left the crowd seated on the fence, and had started for his room to study. He saw Tug fast asleep, and let him lie undisturbed, though he was tempted to wake him up and say that Tug reminded him of the Sleeping Beauty before taking the magic kiss; but he thought it might not be safe, and went on up to his room whistling, very much off the key. Tug slept on as soundly as the mummy of Rameses. But suddenly he woke with a start. He had a confused idea that he had heard some one fumbling at his window. His sleepy eyes seemed to make out a face just disappearing from sight outside. He dismissed his suspicions as the manufactures of sleep, and was about to fall back again on the comfortable divan when he heard footsteps outside, and the creak of his door-knob. He rose quickly to his feet. A masked face was thrust in at the door, and the lips smiled maliciously under the black mask, and a pair of blacker eyes gleamed through it. Tug made a leap for the door to shut the intruder out, realizing in a flash that the hazers had truly caught him napping. But he was too late. The masked face was followed swiftly into the room by the body that belonged to it, and by other faces and other bodies--all the faces masked, and all the bodies hidden in long black robes. Tug fell back a step, and said, with all the calmness he could muster: "I guess you fellows are in the wrong room." "Nope; we've come for you," was the answer of the first masker, who spoke in a disguised voice. Tug looked as resolutely as he could into the eyes behind the mask, and asked rather nervously a question whose answer he could have as easily given himself: "Well, now that you're here, what do you want?" Again the disguised voice came deeply from the somber-robed leader: "Oh, we just want to have a little fun with you." "Well, I don't want to have any fun with you," parleyed Tug, trying to gain time. "Oh, it doesn't make any difference whether you want to come or not; this isn't your picnic--it's ours," was the cheery response of the first ghost; and the other black Crows fairly cawed with delight. Still Tug argued: "What right have you men got to come into my room without being invited?" "It's just a little surprise-party we've planned." "Well, I'm not feeling like entertaining any surprise-party to-night." "Oh, that doesn't make any difference to us." Again the black flock flapped its wings and cawed. And now Tug, as usual, lost his temper when he saw they were making a guy of him, and he blurted fiercely: "Get out of here, all of you!" Then the crowd laughed uproariously at him. And this made him still more furious, and though they were ten to one, Tug flung himself at them without fear or hesitation. When five of them fell on him at once, he dragged them round the room as if they were football-players trying to down him; but the odds were too great, and before long they overpowered him and tied his wrists behind him; not without difficulty, for Tug had the slipperiness of an eel, along with the strength of a young shark. When they had him well bound, and his legs tethered so that he could take only very short steps, they lifted him to his feet. "I think we'd better gag him," said the leader of the Crows; and he, produced a stout handkerchief. But Tug gave him one contemptuous look, and remarked: "Do you suppose I'm a cry-baby? I'm not going to call for help." There was something in his tone that convinced the captain of the Crows. VI A detachment was now sent to scurry through the dormitory and see if it could find any other Lakerimmers. This squad finally came down the stairs, the biggest one of the Crows carrying little History under his arm. History was waving his arms and legs about as if he were a tarantula, but the big black Crow held him tight and kept one hand over the boy's mouth so that he could not scream. Then Tug began to struggle furiously again, and to resist their efforts to drag him out of the room. He could easily have raised a cry that would have brought a professor to his rescue and scattered his persecutors like sparrows; but his boyish idea of honor put that rescue out of his reach, and he fought like a dumb man, with only such occasional grunts as his struggle tore from him. He might have been fighting them yet, for all I know, had not History twisted his mouth from under the hand of his captor and threatened--he had not breath enough left to call for help: "If--you--don't let me go--I'll--_tell_ on you." The very thought of this smallness horrified Tug so much that he stopped struggling, and turned his head to implore History not to disgrace Lakerim by being a tattler. The Crows saw their chance, and while Tug's attention was occupied one of them threw a loosely woven sack over his head and drew it down about his neck. Then they started once more on the march, History scratching and kicking in all directions and doing very little harm, while Tug, with his hands tied behind him and his head first in a noose, used his only weapons, his shoulders, with the fury of a Spanish bull. And before they got him through the door he had nearly disabled three of his assailants, making one of them bite his tongue in a manner most uncomfortable. And the room looked as if a young cyclone had been testing its muscles there! The Crows hustled the Lakerimmers out without any unnecessary tenderness, forgetting to close the door after them. Out of the hall and across the board walk, on to the soft, frosty grass where the sound of their scuffling feet would not betray them, they jostled their way. Tug soon decided that the best thing for him to do was to reserve his strength; so he ceased to resist, and followed meekly where they led. They whirled him round on his heel several times to confuse him as to the direction they took, then they hurried him through the dark woods of a neglected corner of the campus. History simply refused to go on his own feet, and they had to carry him most of the way, and found only partial revenge in pinching his spidery legs and bumping his head into occasional trees. The two boys knew when they left the campus by the fact that they were bundled and boosted over a stone wall and across a road. History, as he stumbled along at. Tug's side, at length came to himself enough to be reminded of the way the ancient Romans used to treat such captives as were brought back in triumph by their generals. But Tug did not care to hear about the troubles of the Gauls--he had troubles of his own. Once they paused and heard a mysterious whispering among the Crows, who left them standing alone and withdrew a little distance. History was afraid to move in the dark, for fear that he might step out of the frying-pan into the fire; but Tug, always ready to take even the most desperate chance, thought, he would make a bolt for it. He put one foot forward as a starter, but found no ground in front of him. He felt about cautiously with his toe, and discovered that he was standing at the brink of a ledge. How deep the ravine in front of him was, he could only imagine, and in spite of his courage he shivered at the thought of what he might have done had he followed his first impulse and made a dash. There are pleasanter things on a dark night than standing with eyes blindfolded and hands bound on the edge of an unknown embankment. As he waited, the weakening effect of the struggle and the mysterious terrors of the darkness told on his nerves, and he shivered a bit in spite of his clenched teeth. Then he overheard the voices of the Crows, and one of them was saying: "Aw, go on, shove him over." Another protested: "But it might break his neck, and it's sure to fracture a bone or two." "Well, what of it? He nearly broke my jaw." Then Tug heard more excited whispering and what sounded like a struggle, and suddenly he heard some one rushing toward him; he felt a sharp blow and a shove from behind, and was launched over the brink of the ledge. I'll not pretend that he wasn't about as badly scared as time would allow. But there was barely space for one lightning stroke of wild regret that his glad athletic days were over and he was to be at least a cripple, if he lived at all, when the ground rose up and smote him much quicker even than he had expected. As he sprawled awkwardly and realized that he had hardly been even bruised, he felt a sense of rage at himself for having been taken in by the old hazing joke, and a greater rage at the men who had brought on him what was to him the greatest disgrace of all--a feeling of fear. He had just time to make up his mind to take this joke out of the hides of some of his tormentors, if it took him all winter, when he heard above him the sound of a short, sharp scuffle with History, who was pleading for dear life, and who came flying over the ledge with a shrill scream of terror, and plumped on the ground half an inch from Tug's head. It took History only half a second to realize that he was not dead yet, and he was so glad to be alive again--as he thought of it--that he began to sniffle from pure joy. The Crows were not long in leaping over the ledge and getting Tug and History to their feet. Then they took up the march again, staggering under their laughter and howling with barbarous glee. After half a mile more of hard travel, the prisoners were brought through a dense woods into a clearing, where their party was greeted by the voices of others. The sack over Tug's head was unbound and snatched away, and he looked about him to see a dozen more black Crows, with two other hapless prisoners, seated like an Indian war-council about a blazing lire, and, like an Indian war-council, pondering tortures for their unlucky captives. In the fire were two or three iron pokers glowing red-hot. The sight of this gave the final blow to any hope that might have remained of History's conducting himself with dignity. When he and Tug were led in, there was such an hilarious celebration over the two Lakerim captives as the Indian powwow indulged in on seeing a scouting party bring in Daniel Boone a prisoner. As Tug was the most important spoil of war, they took counsel, and decided that he should be given the position of honor--and tortured last. Then they went, enthusiastically to work making life miserable for the two captives brought in previously. The first was compelled to climb a tree, which he did with some little difficulty, seeing that, while half of them pretended to boost him, the other half amused themselves by grabbing his legs and pulling him back three inches for every one inch he climbed (like the frog and the well in the mathematical problem). He finally gained a point above their reach, however, and seated himself in the branches, looking about as happy as a lone wayfarer treed by a pack of wolves. Then, they commanded him to bark at the moon, and threatened him with all sorts of penalties if he disobeyed. So he yelped and gnarled and bow-wowed till there was nothing left of his voice but a sickly wheeze. Then they told him that the first course was over, and invited him to return to earth and rest up for the second. So he came sliddering down the rough bark with the speed of greased lightning. The second captive was a great fat boy who had been a promising candidate for center rush on the football team until Sawed-Off appeared on the scene. This behemoth was compelled to seat himself on a small inverted saucer and row for dear life with a pair of toothpicks. The Crows howled with glee over the ludicrous antics of the fellow, and set him such a pace that he was soon a perfect waterfall of perspiration, and was crying for mercy. At length he caught a crab and went heels over head backward on the ground, and they left him to recover his breath and his temper. History had watched these proceedings with much amusement, but when he saw the hazers coming for him he lost sight of the fun of the situation immediately. The head Crow now towered over the shivering little History, and said in his deepest chest-tones: "These Lakerim cattle are too fresh. They must be branded and salted a little." Then he fastened a handkerchief over History's eyes, and growled: "Are those irons hot yet?" "Red-hot, your Majesty," came the answer from one of the other ravens, and History heard the clanking of the pokers as they were drawn from the fire. He had seen before that they were red-hot, and now they were brandished before his very nose, so close that he could see the red glow through the cloth over his eyes and could feel the heat in the air close to his cheek. "Where shall we brand the wretch, your Honor?" was the next question History heard. The poor pygmy was too much frightened to move, and he almost fainted when he heard the first Crow answer gruffly: "Thrust the branding-iron right down the back of his neck, and give him a good long mark that shall last him the rest of his life." Instantly History felt a bitter, stinging pain at the back of his neck, a pain that ran like fire down along his spine, and he gave a great shriek of terror and almost swooned away. Tug's eyes were not blindfolded, and he had seen that, though the Crows had waved a red-hot poker before History's nose, they had quickly substituted a very cold rod to thrust down his back. The effect on the nerves of the blindfolded boy, however, was the same as if it had been red-hot, and he had dropped to earth like a flash. Tug, though he knew it would heighten his own tortures, could not avoid expressing his opinion of such treatment of the sensitive History. He did not know whether he was more disgusted and enraged at the actual pain the Crows had given their captives or at the ridiculous plights they had put them in, but he did know that he regarded the whole proceeding as a terrible outrage, a disgrace to the Academy; and ever after he used all his influence against the barbarous idea of hazing. But now he commanded as though he were master of the situation: "Throw some of that water on the boy's face and bring him to," and while they hastened to follow out his suggestion he poured out the rage in his soul: "Shame on you, you big cowards, for torturing that poor little kid! You're a nice pack of heroes, you are! Only twenty to one! But I'll pay you back for this some day, and don't you forget it! And if you'll untie my hands I'll take you one at a time now. I guess I could just about do up _two_ of you at a time, you big bullies, you!" And now one of the larger Crows rushed up to Tug, and drew off to strike him in the face. But Tug only stared back into the fellow's eyes with a fiercer glare in his own, and cried: "Hit me! My hands are tied now! It's a good chance for you, and you'll never get another, for I'll remember the cut of that jaw and the mole on your cheek in spite of your mask, and you'll wish you had never been born before I get through with you!" Tug's rash bravado infuriated the Crows until they were ready for any violence, but the head Crow interposed and pushed aside the one who still threatened Tug. He said laughingly: "Let him alone, boys; we want him in prime condition for the grand final torture ceremonies. Let's finish up the others." Then they laughed and went back to the first two wretches, and made life miserable for them to the end of their short wits. They were afraid to try any more experiments on History, and left him lying by the fire, slowly recovering his nerves. All the while Tug had remained so very quiet that the Crows detailed to watch him had slightly relaxed their vigilance. He had been silently working at the cords with which his hands were tied behind his back, and by much straining and turning and torment of flesh he had at length worked his right hand almost out of the rope. Soon he saw that the Crows were about to begin on him. He thought the whole performance an outrage on the dignity of an American citizen, and he gave the cords one last fierce jerk that wrung his right hand loose, though it left not a little of the skin on the cords; and the first Crow to lay a hand on his shoulder thought he must have touched a live wire, for Tug's hand came flashing from behind his back, and struck home on the fellow's nose. Then Tug warmed up to the scrimmage, and his right and left arms flew about like Don Quixote's windmill for a few minutes, until two of the two dozen Crows lighted on his back and pinioned his arms down and bore him gradually to his knees. Just as the rest were closing in to crush Tug,--into mincemeat, perhaps,--History, who had been lying neglected on the ground near the fire, rose to the occasion for once. It seemed as if he had, as it were, sat down suddenly upon the spur of the moment. He rolled over swiftly, caught up the two pokers which had been restored to the fire after they had been used to frighten him, and, before he could be prevented, thrust the handle of one of them into Tug's grasp, and rose to his feet, brandishing the other like a sword. Tug lost no time in adapting himself to the new weapon. He simply waved it gently about and described a bright circle in the air over his head. And his enemies fell off his back and scattered like grasshoppers. Tug now got quickly to his feet, and he and History shook hands with their left hands very majestically. Then they faced about and stood back to back, asking the Crows why they had lost interest so suddenly, and cordially inviting them to return and finish the game. They stood thus, monarchs of all they surveyed, for a few moments. But dismay replaced their joy as they heard the words of the first Crow: "They can't get back to their rooms before their pokers grow cold, and it is only a matter of a few minutes until they chill, anyway, so all that we have to do is to wait here a little while, and then go back and finish up our work--and perhaps add a little extra on account of this last piece of rambunctiousness." Tug saw that they were prisoners indeed, but intended to hold the fort until the last possible moment. He told History to put his poker back in the fire and to heat it up again, while he stood guard with his own. To this stratagem the first Crow responded with another,--he trumped Tug's ace, as it were,--for though he saw that the fire was going out and would not heat the pokers much longer, he decided not to wait for this, but set his men to gathering stones and sticks to pelt the two luckless Lakerimmers with. And now Tug saw that the chances of escape were indeed small. He felt that he could make a dash for liberty and outrun any one in the crowd, or outfight any one who might overtake him; but he would sooner have died than leave History, who could neither run well nor fight well, to the mercies of the merciless gang that surrounded them. "Let's give the Lakerim yell together, History," he said; "perhaps the fellows have missed us and are out looking for us, and will come to our rescue." So he and History filled their lungs and hurled forth into the air the old Lakerim yell, or as much of it as two could manage: {ray! {ri! {ro! "L`¨¡y-krim! L`¨¡y-krim! L`¨¡y-krim! Hoo-{row! {roo! {rah!" The Crows listened in amazement to the war-whoop of the two Lakerimmers. Then the first Crow, who had Irish blood in his veins, smiled and said: "Oho! I see what they are up to; they're calling for help. Well, now, we'll just drown out their yell with a little noise of our own." And so, when Tug and History had regained breath enough to begin their club cry again, the whole two dozen of the Crows broke forth into a horrible hullabaloo of shrieks and howls that drowned out Tug's and History's voices completely, but raised far more noise than they could ever have hoped to make. After a few moments of thus caterwauling night hideous, like a pack of coyotes, the Crows began to close in on the Lakerim stronghold, and stones and sticks flew around the two in a shower that kept them busy dodging. "We've got to make a break for it, Hist'ry," said Tug, under his breath. "Now, you hang on to me and I'll hang on to you, and don't mind how your lungs ache or whether you have any breath or not, but just leg it for home." He had locked his arm through History's, and made a leap toward the circle of Crows just as a heavy stone lighted on the spot where they had made their stand so long. Before the Crows knew what was up, Tug and History were upon them and had cut a path through the ring by merely brandishing their incandescent pokers, and had disappeared into the dark of the woods. There was dire confusion among the Crows, and some of them ran every which way and lost the crowd entirely as History and Tug vanished into the thick night. The glowing pokers, however, that were their only weapons of defense, were also their chiefest danger, and a pack of about a dozen Crows soon discovered that they could follow the runaways by the gleam of the rods. Tug realized this, too, very shortly, and he and History threw the pokers away. Tug and History, however, had come pretty well to the edge of the wood, and were just rushing down a little glade that would lead them into the open, when the first Crow yelled for some of his men to take a short cut and head them off. The Lakerimmers, then, their breath all spent and their hearts burning with the flight, which Tug would not let History give up, saw themselves headed off and escape no longer possible. Tug knew that History would be useless in a scrimmage, so, in a low tone, he bade him drop under a deep bush they were just passing. History was too exhausted to object even to being left alone, and managed to sink into the friendly cover of the bush without being observed. And Tug went right into a mob of them, crying with a fine defiance the old yell of the Athletic Club: "L`¨¡y-krim! L`¨¡y-krim! L`¨¡y-krim! Hoo-ray!" VII The nine Lakerimmers who had set forth to the rescue of Tug and History had no more clue as to the whereabouts of the kidnapped twain than some broken furniture and an open door; and even one who was so well versed in detective stories as B.J., had to admit that this was very little for what he called a "slouch-hound" to begin work on. There had been no snow, and the frost had hardened the ground, so that there were no footprints to tell the way the crowd of hazers had gone. As Jumbo said: "It's like looking for a needle in a haystack after dark; and it wouldn't do you any good to sit down in this haystack, either." The only thing to do, then, was to scour the campus in all its nooks and crannies, pausing now and then to look and listen hard for any sign or sound of the captives. But each man heard nothing except the pounding of his own heart and the wheezing of his own lungs. Then they must up and away again into the dark. They had scurried hither and yon, and yonder and thither, until they were well-nigh discouraged, when, just as they were crashing through some thick underbrush, B.J. stopped suddenly short. Sawed-Off bumped into him, and Jumbo tripped over Sawed-Off; but B.J. commanded them to be silent so sharply that they paused where they had fallen and listened violently. Then they heard far and faint in the distance to the right of their course a little murmur of voices just barely audible. B.J.'s quick ear made out the difference between this far-off hubbub and the other quiet sounds of the night. That dim little noise his breathless fellows could just hear was the wild hullabaloo the foolish Crows had set up to drown out the voices of Tug and History, as they gave the Lakerim yell. B.J.'s ear was correct enough not only to understand the noise but to decide the direction it came from, though to the other Lakerimmers it came from nowhere in particular and everywhere in general. Before they had made up their minds just how puzzled they were, B.J. was striking off in a new direction at the top of his speed, and was well over the stone wall before they could get up steam to follow him. Across the road and through the barbed-wire fence he led them pell-mell. There was a little pause while Jumbo helped the lubberly Sawed-Off through the strands that had laid hold of his big frame like fish-hooks. B.J. took this chance to vouchsafe his followers just one bit of information. "They're at Roden's Knoll," he puffed. Roden's Knoll was a little clearing in the woods that marked the highest point of land in the State, though it was approached very gradually, and nothing but a barometer could have told its elevation. It was a long run through the night, over many a treacherous bog and through many a cluster of bushes, which, as Jumbo said, had finger-nails; and there was many a stumble and jolt, and many a short stop at the edge of a sudden embankment. One of these pauses that brought the whole nine up into a knot was the little step-off where Tug and History had thought they were being shoved over the precipice of a Grand Cañon. At length Roden's Knoll was reached, but there the weary Lakerimmers were discouraged to find nothing but a smoldering fire and the signs of a hard straggle. "We're too late; it's all over," sighed Pretty, thinking sadly of the mud and the rips and tears that disfigured his usually perfect toilet. "I move we rest a bit," groaned Sleepy, seconding his own motion by dropping to the ground. "Shh!" commanded B.J.; "d'you hear that?" Instantly they were all in motion again, for they heard the noise of many runners crashing through the thicket. Soon they saw a shadowy form ahead of them and overtook it, and recognized one of the Crows. They gave him a glance, and then shoved him to one side with little gentleness, and ran on. Two or three of the Crows they overtook in this manner, but spent little time upon them. They were bent upon a rescue, not upon the taking of prisoners. Then, just as they were approaching the edge of the woods, they heard a cry that made their weary blood gallop. It was the "L`¨¡y-krim! L`¨¡y-krim!" of Tug making his last charge on the flock of Crows. In a moment they had reached the mass of humanity that was writhing over him, and they began to tear them off and fling them back upon the ground with fierce rudeness. Man after man they peeled off and flung back till they got down to one fellow with his knee on somebody's nose. That nose was Tug's, and they soon had the boy on his feet, and turned to continue the argument with the Crows. But there were no Crows to argue with. The Dozen had made up in impetus and vim what it lacked in numbers, and the Crows had fled as if from an army. A few black ghosts flying for their lives were all they could see of the band that had been so courageous with only History and Tug to take care of. So the ten from Lakerim gathered together, and while B.J. beat time they spent what little breath was left in them on the club yell. It sounded more like a chorus of bullfrogs than of young men, but it was gladsome enough to atone for its lack of music, and it was loud enough to convince History that it was safe to come out, of the bushes where he had been crouching in ghostly terror. The Lakerimmers were inclined to laugh at History for his fears, but Tug told them that if it had not been for his seizing the red-hot pokers there would have been a different story to tell; so they hugged him instead of laughing at him, and Sawed-Off clapped him on the back such a vigorous thump that History thought the hazers had hold of him again. Now they took up their way back to the Academy, and B.J. began to plot a dire revenge on the cowardly Crows. But Tug said: "I move we let the matter drop. They're the ones to talk now of getting even, for they have certainly had the worst of it. It'll be just as well to keep a sharp eye on them, though, and it is very important for us to stand together." When they had reached the dormitory they all joined in straightening up and rearranging Tug's room before they went to their well-earned sleep. * * * * * I am afraid the Lakerim eleven had the bad taste to do a little gloating over the Crows. Their wit was not always of the finest, but they enjoyed it themselves, though little the Crows liked it, and it kept them all unusually happy for many days-- All except Reddy. He showed a strange inclination to "mulp"--a portmanteau word that Jumbo coined out of "mope" and "sulk." VIII To see the hilarious Reddy mulping was very odd. About the only subject in or out of books that seemed to interest him in the slightest degree was the mention of the name of his twin brother, Heady; and that, too, in spite of the fact that the two of them had quarreled and bickered so much that their despairing parents had finally sent them to different schools. But now Reddy seemed to be inconsolable, grieving for the other half of his twin heart. Finally the boy's blues grew so blue that no one was much surprised when he announced his desperate determination to journey to the town where Heady was at school, and visit him. Reddy got permission from the Principal to leave on Friday night and return on Monday. He had been saving up his spending-money for many a dismal week, and now he went about borrowing the spending-money of all his friends. One Friday evening, then, after class hours, all the Lakerimmers went in a body down to the railroad-station to bid Reddy a short good-by. Jumbo felt inclined to crack a few jokes upon Reddy's inconsistency in struggling so hard to get away from his brother, and then struggling so hard to go back to him, but Tug told Jumbo that the subject was too tender for any of his flippancy. On reaching the depot they found that Reddy's train was half an hour late, and that a train from the opposite direction would get in first. So they all stood solemnly around and waited. When this train pulled into the station you can imagine the feelings of all when the first one to descend was-- Was-- Heady! The Twins stood and stared at each other like tailors' dummies for a moment, while the strangers on the platform and on the train wondered if they were seeing double. Then Reddy and Heady dropped each his valise, and made a spring. And each landed on the other's neck. Now Sawed-Off seized Heady's valise, and Jumbo seized Reddy's, and then they all set off together--the reunited Twins, the completed Dozen--for the campus. The whole Twelve felt a new delight in the reunion, and realized for the first time how dear the Dozen was. The Twins, of course, were blissfulest of all, and marched at the head of the column with their arms about each other, exchanging news and olds, both talking at once, and each understanding perfectly what the other was trying to say. Thus they proceeded, glowing with mutual affection, till they reached the edge of the campus, when the others saw the Twins suddenly loose their hold on each other, and fall to, hammer and tongs, over some quarrel whose beginning the rest had not heard. Jumbo grinned and murmured to Sawed-Off: "The Twins are themselves again." But Sawed-Off hastened to separate and pacify them, and they set off again for Reddy's room, arm in arm. Later Heady arranged with his parents to let him stay at Kingston for the rest of the school-year. * * * * * Heady had not been back among his old cronies long before they had him up in a corner in Reddy's room, and were all trying at the same time to tell him of the atrocious behavior of the Crows, their harsh treatment of Tug and History, the magnificent resistance, and the glorious rescue. "It reminds me," said History, "of one of Sir William Scott's novels, with moats and castles, and swords and shields, and all sorts of beautiful things." But B.J. broke in scornfully: "Aw, that old Scott, he's a deader! It reminds me of one of those new detective stories with clues and hair-breadth escapes. And Tug is like 'Iron-armed Ike,' who took four villyuns, two in each hand, and swung them around his head till they got so dizzy that they swounded away, and then he threw one of 'em through a winder, and used the other three like baseball bats to knock down a gang of desperate ruffians that was comin' to the rescue. Oh, but I tell you, it was great!" "'Strikes me," Bobbles interrupted, "it's more like one of Funnimore Hooper's Indian stories, with the captives tied to the stake and bein' tortured and scalluped, and all sorts of horrible things, when along comes old Leather-boots and picks 'em all off with his trusty rifle." Two or three others were evidently reminded of something else they were anxious to describe; but Heady was growing impatient and very wrathful, and he broke in: "Well, while you fellows are all being reminded of so many things, I'd like to ask just one thing, and that is, what are you going to do about it?" "Nothing at all," said History. And thinking of his unexpected escape from his terrible adventure, he added quickly: "I think we did mighty well to get out of it alive." "Pooh!" sniffed Heady, getting madder every moment. "Well, Tug says the same thing," drawled Sleepy. "He says that we got the best of it all around, and that if anybody's after revenge it ought to be the Crows, because we wiped 'em off the earth." "Bah!" snapped Heady. "It isn't enough for the Lakerim Athletic Club to get out of a thing even, and call quits. Leastways, that wasn't the pollersy when I used to be with you." This spirit of revolt from the calm advice of Tug seemed to be catching, and the other Lakerimmers were becoming much excited. Tug made a speech, trying to calm the growing rage, and he was supported by History, who tried to bring up some historical parallels, but was ordered off the floor by the others. Tug's plan, which was seconded by History from motives of timidity, was thirded by Sleepy from motives of laziness. But Heady leaped to his foot and delivered a wild plea for war, such another harangue as he had delivered during the famous snow-battle at the Hawk's Nest. He favored a sharp and speedy retaliation. "Well, how are you going to retaliate?" said Tug, who saw his let-her-go policy losing all its force, and who began to grow just a bit eager himself to give the Crows a good lesson. Still, he repeated, when Heady only looked puzzled and gave no answer: "How are you going to retaliate, I say?" "A chance will come," said Heady, solemnly. And Reddy, who had been burning up with patriotic zeal for the glory of Lakerim, was so proud of his brother's success in stirring up a warlike spirit that he moved over, and sat down beside him on the window-seat, and put his arms around him, and they never quarreled again--till after supper. But the chance came--sooner than any of them expected. IX For Quiz, whose curiosity threatened to be the death of him some day, and who was always snooping around, learned, not many days later, that the Crows were planning to give a great banquet in a room over the only restaurant in the village. This feast had been intended as a grand finale to the season of hazing, and it was to be paid for by the poor wretches who had been given the pleasure of being hazed, and taxed a dollar apiece for the privilege. Strange to say, the two Lakerim men whom the Crows had tried to haze were neither invited to pay the tax nor to be present at the banquet. In fact, the unkind behavior of the Lakerimmers had hurt the feelings of the Crows very badly, and cast a gloom over the whole idea of the banquet. As soon as Quiz learned, in a roundabout way, where and when the feast was to be held, he came rushing into Tug's room, where the Dozen had gathered Saturday evening after a long day spent in skating on the first heavy ice of the winter. Quiz crashed through the door, and smashed it shut behind him, and yelled: "I've got it! I've got it!" with such zeal that Sleepy, who was taking a little doze in a tilted chair, went over backward into a corner, and had to be pulled out by the heels. History spoke up, as usual, with one of his eternal school-book memories, and piped out: "You remind me, Quiz, of the day when Archimeter jumped out of his bath-tub and ran around yelling, 'Euraker! Euraker!" But Heady shouted: "Somebody stuff a sofa-cushion down History's mouth until we learn what it is that Quiz has got." "Or what it is that's got Quiz," added Jumbo. When History had been upset, and Sleepy set up, Quiz, who had run several blocks with his news, found breath to gasp: "The Crows are going to have a banquet!" Then he flopped over on the couch and proceeded to pant like a steam-roller. The rest of the Dozen stared at Quiz a moment, then passed a look around as if they thought that either Quiz was out of his head or they were. Then they all exclaimed in chorus: "Well, what of it?" And Jumbo added sarcastically: "It'll be a nice day to-morrow if it doesn't rain." Quiz was a long time getting his breath and opening his eyes; then it was his turn to look around in amazement and to exclaim: "What of it? What of it? Why, you numskulls, don't you see it's just the chance you wanted for revenge?" "What do you mean?" exclaimed the others. "Do you mean that we should go down and eat the banquet for 'em?" queried Sleepy, whose first thought was always either for a round sleep or a square meal. "I hadn't thought of that," said Quiz. "That would be a good idea, too. What I had in my mind was doing what they do in the big colleges sometimes: kidnap the president of the crowd so that he can't go to the dinner." "Great head! Great scheme!" the others exclaimed; and they jumped to their feet and indulged in a war-dance that shook the whole building. When they had done with this jollification, Tug, who objected to doing things by halves, asked: "Why not kidnap the whole kit and boodle of them?" Then there was another merry-go-round. But they all stopped suddenly, and Quiz expressed the sentiment of all of them when he said: "But how are we going to do it?" Then they all put their heads together for a long and serious debate, the result of which was a plan that seemed to promise success. The banquet was to be held on the next Friday night at night o'clock, and the Dozen had nearly a week for perfecting their plot. Sawed-Off suggested the first plan that looked feasible for taking care of the whole crowd of the Crows, about two dozen in number. The chapel, over which Sawed-Off had his room, had a large bell-tower--as Sawed-Off well knew, since it was one of his duties to ring the bell on all the many occasions when it was to be rung. In this cupola there was a loft of good size; it was reached by a heavy ladder, which could be removed with some difficulty. Under the chapel there was a large cellar, which seemed never to have been used for any particular purpose, though it was divided into a number of compartments separated by the stone walls of the foundation or by heavy boarding. A few hundred old books from the library were about its only contents. The only occupant of the chapel, except at morning prayers and on Sundays, was Sawed-Off. The gymnasium on the ground floor was not lighted up after dark, and so the building was completely deserted every evening. Some unusual scheme must be devised to enable twelve men to take care of twenty-four. Fortunately it happened that half a dozen of the twenty-four took the six-o'clock train for their homes in neighboring towns, where they went to spend Saturday and Sunday with their parents. This reduced the number to eighteen. Friday evening a number of the Crows appeared at the "Slaughterhouse," though there was to be a banquet at eight o'clock. With true boyhood appetite, they felt, that a bun in the hand is worth two in the future; and besides, what self-respecting boy would refuse to take care of two meals where he had been in the habit of only one? It would be flying in the face of Providence. Now, Sawed-Off, who, as you know, was paying his way through the Academy, earned his board by waiting on the table. He had an excellent chance, therefore, for tucking under the plates of all the Crows a note which read: The Crows will meet at the Gymnasium after dark and go to Moore's resteront in a body. N.B. Keep this conphedential. To half a dozen of the notes these words were added: You are wanted at the Gymnasium at a 1/4 to 7 to serve on a cummitty. Be there sharp. The Crows naturally did not know the handwriting of every one of their number, and did not recognize that the notes were of History's manufacture. They were a little mystified, but suspected nothing. The Dozen gathered in full force at the gymnasium as soon after supper as they could without attracting attention. Sawed-Off, who had the keys of the building, then posted a strong guard at the heavy door, and explained and rehearsed his plan in detail. At a quarter of seven the six who had been requested to serve on the "cummitty" came in a body, and finding the door of the gymnasium fastened, knocked gently. They heard a low voice from the inside ask: "Who's there?" And they gave their names. "Do you all belong to the Crows?" Of course they answered: "Yes." They were then admitted in single file into the vestibule, which was absolutely dark. As each one stepped in, a hand was laid on each arm and he was requested in a whisper to "Come this way." Between his two escorts he stumbled along through the dark, until suddenly the door was heard to close, and the key to snap in the lock; then immediately his mouth was covered with a boxing-glove (borrowed from the gymnasium), his feet were kicked out from under him, and before he knew it his two courteous escorts had their knees in the small of his back and were tying him hand and foot. One or two of the Crows put up a good fight, and managed to squirm away from the gagging boxing-gloves and let out a yelp; but the heavy door of the gymnasium kept the secret mum, and there was something so surprising about the ambuscade in the dark that the Dozen soon had the half-dozen securely gagged and fettered. Then they were toted like meal-bags up the stairs of the chapel, and on up and up into the loft, and into the bell-tower. There they were laid out on the floor, and their angry eyes discovered that they were left to the tender mercies of Reddy and Heady. The only light was a lantern, and Reddy and Heady each carried an Indian club (also borrowed from the gymnasium), and with this they promised to tap any of the Crows on the head if he made the slightest disturbance. The ten other Lakerimmers hastened down to the ground floor again just in time to welcome the earliest of the Crows to arrive. This was a fellow who had always believed up to this time in being punctual; but he was very much discouraged in this excellent habit by the reception he got at the gymnasium. For, on saying, in answer to the voice behind the door, that he had the honor of being a Crow, he was ushered in and treated to the same knock-down hospitality that had been meted out to the Committee of Six. The wisdom of using the words "after dark" on the forged invitation was soon made evident, because the Crows did not come all at once, but gradually, by ones and twos, every few minutes between seven and half-past. In this way eleven more of the Crows were taken in. These were bundled down into the dark cellar, and stowed away in groups of three or four in three of the compartments of the cellar, each with a guard armed with a lantern and an Indian club. By a quarter to eight the Lakerimmers believed that they had accounted for all of the twenty-four Crows except the president, MacManus. Six had left town, six were stowed aloft in the cupola, and eleven were, as B.J., the sailor, expressed it, "below hatches." Five of the Dozen were posted as guards, and that left seven to go out upon the war-path and bring in the chief of the Ravens. He had felt his dignity too great to permit him to take two meals in one evening; besides, he was very solemnly engaged in preparing a speech to deliver at the banquet; and his task was very difficult, since he had to make a great splurge about the glories of the campaign, without reminding every one of the inglorious result of the attempt to haze the Dozen. No note had been sent to him, and it seemed necessary to concoct some scheme to decoy him from his room, because any attempt to drag him out would probably bring one of the professors down upon the scene. Tug had an idea; and leaving three of the seven to guard the door, he took the other three and hurried to the dormitory where MacManus roomed, and threw pebbles against his window. The chief Crow soon stuck his head out and peered down into the dark, asking what was the matter. A voice that he did not recognize--or suspect--came out of the blackness to inform him that some of the Crows were in trouble at the gymnasium, and he must come at once. After waiting a moment they saw his light go out and heard his feet upon the stairs, for he had lost no time in stuffing into his pocket the notes for his address at the banquet, and flying to the rescue of the captive banqueters. As soon as he stepped out of the door of the dormitory, History's knit muffler was wrapped around his mouth, and he was seized and hustled along toward the gymnasium. Tug felt a strong desire to inflict punishment then and there upon the man who had tortured him when he was helpless, but that was not according to the Lakerim code. Another idea, however, which was quite as cruel, but had the saving grace of fun, suggested itself to him, and he said to the others, when they had reached the gymnasium: "I'll tell you what, fellows--" "What?" said the reunited seven, in one breath. "Instead of putting MacManus with the rest of 'em, let's take him along and make him look on while we eat the Crows' banquet." "Make him 'eat crow' himself, you mean," suggested Jumbo. The idea appealed strongly to the Lakerimmers, who, after all, were human, and couldn't help, now and then, enjoying the misery of those who had made them miserable. While MacManus was securely held by two of the Dozen, Sawed-Off and Tug went to the cupola to summon the Twins. The knots with which the "cummitty" were tied were carefully looked to and strengthened, and then the Lakerimmers withdrew from the cupola, taking the lantern with them, dragging a heavy trap-door over their heads as they descended the ladder, and then taking the ladder away and laying it on the floor. They hurried down the stairs then, and went to the cellar, looking alive again to the fetters of the Crows, and closing and barring the heavy wooden doors between the compartments as securely as they could. They came up the stairs, and put down and bolted the cellar door, and moved upon it with great difficulty the parallel bars with their iron supports, from the gymnasium, and several 25-pound dumb-bells, as well as the heavy vaulting-horse. Reddy and Heady were in favor also of blocking up the narrow little windows set high in the walls of the cellar, well over the head of the tallest of the Crows; but Tug said that these windows were necessary for ventilation, and History was reminded of the Black Hole of Calcutta, so it was decided to leave the windows open for the sake of the air, even if it did give the Crows a loophole of possible escape. "There's no fun in an affair of this kind if the other side hasn't even a chance," said Tug; and this appealed to the Lakerim theory of sport. X So they all left the gymnasium with its prisoners, and Sawed-Off locked the door firmly behind him. Then they went at a double-quick for Moore's restaurant and the waiting banquet, which, they suspected, was by this time growing cold. When MacManus left his room he had thrown on a long ulster overcoat with a very high collar. When this was turned up about his ears it completely hid the gag around his mouth, and Tug and Sawed-Off locked arms with him and hurried him along the poorly lighted streets of Kingston without fear of detection from any passer-by. MacManus dragged his feet and refused to go for a time, till Tug and Sawed-Off hauled him over such rough spots that he preferred to walk. Then, without warning, when they were crossing a slippery place he pushed his feet in opposite directions and knocked Sawed-Off's and Tug's feet out from under them. But inasmuch as all three of them fell in a heap, with him at the bottom, he decided that this was a poor policy. The Dozen were soon at Moore's restaurant; and there, at the door, they found waiting one of the Crows whom they had forgotten to take into account. He was the fat boy whom Tug and History had seen hazed just before their turn came, on the eventful night at Roden's Knoll. Having been hazed, and having been taxed, this boy who was known as "Fatty" Warner, was entitled to banquet with the Crows; but he had been invited out to a bigger supper than he could get at the "Slaughter-house," and so he did not receive his note, and escaped the fate of the Crows who had been put in cold storage in the gymnasium. B.J. and Bobbles, however, took him to one side and told him that they were afraid they would have to tie him up and put him in a corner with MacManus. But the tears came into his eyes at the thought of sitting and looking at a feast in which he could not take part, and he reminded the Lakerimmers that he had had no share in the attack on Tug and History, and had done nothing to interfere with their escape from Roden's Knoll, and besides, he had been compelled to pay out his last cent of spending-money to the Crows for this banquet: So the Lakerimmers decided to invite him to join them in eating the feast of the enemy. Mr. Moore, the proprietor of the village restaurant, had a very bad memory for faces, and when the Lakerimmers came into the room where the table was spread, and told him to hurry up with the banquet, it never occurred to him to ask for a certificate of character from the guests. He was surprised, however, that there were only twelve men where he had provided for eighteen or more; but Jumbo said, with a twinkle in his eye: "The rest of them couldn't come; so we'll eat their share." The Lakerimmers grinned at this. Mr. Moore suspected that there was some joke which he could not understand; but the ways of the Academy boys were always past his comprehension, so he and the waiters came bustling in with the first course of just such a banquet as would please a crowd of academicians, and would give an older person a stomach-ache for six weeks. Besides, the wise Mr. Moore knew the little habit students have of postponing the payment of their bills, and he had insisted upon being paid in advance. Poor MacManus suddenly remembered how he had doled out the funds of the Crows for this very spread, and he almost sobbed as he thought of the hard time he had spent in collecting the money and preparing the menu--and all for the enjoyment of the hated Lakerimmers, who had already spoiled the final hazing of the year, and were now giggling and gobbling the precious banquet provided at such expense! Mr. Moore wondered at the presence of such a sad-looking guest at the feast, and wondered why he insisted on abstaining from the monstrous delicacies that made the tables groan; but he reasoned that it was none of his affair, and asked no questions. Before they had eaten much the Lakerimmers grew as uncomfortable over the torment they were inflicting on poor MacManus as the poor MacManus was himself. And Tug explained to him in a low voice that if he would promise on his solemn honor not to make any disturbance they would be glad to have him as a guest instead of a prisoner. MacManus objected bitterly for a long time, but the enticing odor drove him almost crazy, and the sight of the renegade fat boy, who was fairly making a cupboard of himself, finally convinced the president that it was better to take his ill fortune with a good grace. So he nodded assent to the promises Tug exacted of him, his muffler and overcoat were removed, and he was invited to make himself at home; and his misery was promptly forgotten in the rattle of dishes and the clatter of laughter and song with which the Dozen reveled in the feast of its ancient enemies. The delight of the Lakerimmers in the banquet was no greater than the misery of the Crows whose wings had been clipped, and who had been left to flop about in the dark nooks of the chapel. The feast of the Dozen had just begun when two of the Crows in the cupola and two others in the cellar bethought themselves to roll close to each other, back to back, and untie the knots around each other's wrists. They were soon free, and quickly had their fellows liberated and the gags all removed. But the liberty of hands and feet and tongues, though it left them free to express their rage, still left them as far as ever from the banquet which, as they soon suspected, was disappearing rapidly under the teeth of the Lakerimmers. They groped around in the pitch-black darkness, and finally one of the men in the cupola found a little round window through which he could put his head and yell for help. His cry was soon answered by another that seemed to come faintly from the depths of the earth. XI The far-off cry which the six Crows in the cupola heard coming from the depths of the earth was raised by the eleven Crows in the cellar. By dint of much yelling the two flocks made their misery known to each other. The trouble with the cellar party was that it could not get up. The trouble with the cupola crowd was that it could not get down. And they seemed to be too far apart to be of much help to each other, for the cupola Crows had lost little time in lifting the trap-door of the belfry and finding that the ladder was gone, and none of them was hardy--or foolhardy--enough to risk the drop into the uncertain dark. So there they waited in mid-air. The cellar Crows, when they had released each other's bonds, and groped around the jagged walls, and stumbled foolishly over each other and all the other tripping things in their dungeons, had succeeded in forcing apart the wooden doors between their three cells and joining forces--or joining weaknesses, rather, because, when they finally found the cellar stairs, they also found that, for all the strength they could throw into their backs and shoulders, they could not lift the door, with all the heavy weights put on it by the Dozen. There were a few matches in the crowd, and they sufficed to reveal the little cellar windows. These they reached by forming a human ladder, as the Gauls scaled the walls of Rome (only to find that a flock of silly geese had foiled their plans). But there were no geese to disturb the Crows, and the first of their number managed to worm through to the outer air and help up his fellows in misery. It seemed for a time, though, as if even this escape were to be cut off; for a very fat Crow got himself stuck in a little window, and the Crows outside could not pull him through, tug as they would. Then the Crows inside began to pull at his feet and to hang their whole weight on his legs. But still he stuck. Then they all grew excited, and both the outsiders and the insiders pulled at once, until the luckless fat boy thought they were trying to make twins of him, and howled for mercy. He might have been there to this day had he not managed, by some mysterious and painful wriggle, to crawl through unaided. Before long, then, the whole crowd of cellar Crows was standing out in the cold air and asking the cupola Crows why they didn't come down. One of the Crows (Irish by descent) suddenly started off on the run; the others called him back and asked what he was going for. "For a clothes-line," he said. "What are you going to do with it?" they asked. And he answered: "Going to throw 'em a rope and pull 'em down." Then he wondered why they all groaned. The word "rope," however, suggested an idea to the cupola prisoners, and after much groping they found the bell-rope, and one of them cut off a good length of it. They fastened it securely then, and slid down to the next floor, whence they made their way without much difficulty down the stairs to the ground. There they found the outer door firmly locked. Then they felt sadder than over. But by this time the hubbub they had raised had brought on the scene several of the instructors, one of whom had a duplicate key of the gymnasium. And they suffered the terrible humiliation of being released by one of the Faculty! On being questioned as to the cause of such a breach of the peace of the Academy, all the seventeen Crows attempted to explain the high-handed and inexcusable conduct of the wicked Dozen which had picked on eighteen defenseless men and made them prisoners. The instructor had been a boy himself once, and he could not entirely conceal a little smile at the thought of the cruelty of the Lakerim Twelve. Just then MacManus came by, and with one accord the Crows exclaimed: "Where did they tie you up?" "Down at Moore's restaurant," said MacManus, sheepishly. "Well, what has happened to the banquet?" they exclaimed. "It's all eaten!" groaned MacManus. "Who ate it?" cawed the Crows. "The Dozen!" moaned MacManus. And that was the last straw that broke the Crows' backs. They threatened all sorts of revenge, and some of the smaller-minded of them went to the Faculty and suggested that the best thing that could be done was to expel the Lakerim men in a body. But, by a little questioning, the Faculty learned of the attempted hazing that had been at the bottom of the whole matter, and decided that the best thing to do was to reprimand and warn both the Crows and the Dozen, and make them solemnly promise to bury the hatchet. Which they did. And thus ended one of the bitterest feuds of modern times. XII Now, Heady, who had set the whole kidnapping scheme on foot as soon as he joined the Dozen at Kingston, had brought to the Academy no particular love for study; but he had brought a great enthusiasm for basket-ball. And this enthusiasm was catching, and he soon had many of the Kingstonians working hard in the gymnasium, and organizing scrub teams to play this most bewilderingly rapid of games. Most of the Lakerimmers went in for pure love of excitement; but when Heady said that it was especially good as an indoor winter exercise to keep men in trim for football and baseball, Tug and Punk immediately went at it with great enthusiasm. But Tug was so mixed up in the slight differences between this game and his beloved football, and so insisted upon running (which is against the rules of basket-ball), and upon tackling (which is against the rules), and upon kicking (which is against the rules), that he finally gave up in despair, and said that if he became a good basket-ball player he would be a poor football-player. And football was his earlier love. Sleepy, however, who was the great baseball sharp, made this complaint, in his drawling fashion: "The rules say you can only hold the ball five seconds, and it takes me at least ten seconds to decide what to do with it; so I guess the blamed game isn't for me." Out of the many candidates for the team the following regular five were chosen: For center, Sawed-Off, who was tall enough to do the "face-off" in excellent style, and who could, by spreading out his great arms, present in front of an ambitious enemy a surface as big as a windmill--almost. The right-forward was Heady, and of course the left-forward had to be his other half, Reddy. Pretty managed by his skill in lawn-tennis to make the position of right-guard, and the left-guard was the chief of the Crows, MacManus. The Dozen treated him, if not as an equal, at least as one who had a right to be alive and move about upon the same earth with them. The Kingston basket-ball team played many games, and grew in speed and team-play till they were looked upon as a terror by the rest of the Interscholastic League. Finally, indeed, they landed the championship of the various basket-ball teams of the academies. But just before they played their last triumphant game in the League, and when they were feeling their oats and acting as rambunctious and as bumptious as a crowd of almost undefeated boys sometimes chooses to be, they received a challenge that caused them to laugh long and loud. At first it looked like a huge joke for the high-and-mighty Kingston basket-ball team to be challenged by a team from the Palatine Deaf-and-Dumb Institute; then it began to look like an insult, and they were angry at such treatment of such great men as they admitted themselves to be. It occurred to Sawed-Off, however, that before they sent back an indignant refusal to play, they might as well look up the record of the deaf-and-dumb basket-ball men. After a little investigation, to their surprise, they found that these men were astoundingly clever players, and had won game after game from the best teams. So they accepted the challenge in lordly manner, and in due time the Palatiners appeared upon the floor of the Kingston gymnasium. A large audience had gathered and was seated in the gallery where the running-track ran. Among the spectators was that girl to whom both Reddy and Heady were devoted, the girl who could not decide between them, she liked both of them so immensely, especially as she herself was the champion basket-ball player among the girls at her seminary. Each of the Twins resolved that he would not only outdo all the rest of the players upon the gymnasium floor, but also his bitter rival, his brother. There was something uncanny, at first, in the playing of the Palatines, all of whom were deaf-mutes, except the captain, who was neither deaf nor dumb, but understood and talked the sign language. The game opened with the usual face-off. The referee called the two centers to the middle of the floor, and then tossed the ball high in the air between them. They leaped as far as they could; but Sawed-Off's enormous height carried him far beyond the other man, and, giving the ball a smart slap, he sent it directly into the clutch of Reddy, who had run on and was waiting to receive it half over his shoulder. Finding himself "covered" by the opposing forward, he passed the ball quickly under the other man's arm across to Heady, who had run down the other side of the floor. Heady received the ball without obstruction, and by a quick overhead fling landed it in the high basket, and scored the first point, while applause and wonderment were loud in the gallery. The Kingstonians played like one man--if you can imagine one man with twenty arms and legs. Sawed-Off made such high leaps, and covered so well, and sent the ball so well through the forwards, and supported them so well; the twin forwards dodged and ran and passed and dribbled the ball with such dash; and the guards were so alert in the protection of their goal and in obstructing the throwing of the other forwards, that three goals and the score of six were rolled up in an amazingly short time. Sawed-Off was in so many places at once, and kept all four limbs going so violently, that the spectators began to cheer him on as "Granddaddy Longlegs." A loud laugh was raised on one occasion, when the Palatine captain got the ball, and, holding it high in the air to make a try for goal from the field, found himself covered by the towering Sawed-Off; he curved the ball downward, where one of the Twins leaped for it in front; then he wriggled and writhed with it till it was between his legs. But there the other Twin was, and with a quick, wringing clutch that nearly tied the opposing captain into a bow-knot, he had the ball away from him. At the end of the three goals the Kingstonians began to whisper to themselves that they had what they were pleased to call a "cinch"; they alluded to the Palatines as "easy fruit," and began to make a number of fresh and grand-stand plays. The inevitable and proper result of this funny business was that they began to grow careless. The deaf-mutes, unusually alert in other ways on account of the loss of hearing and speech, were quick to see the opportunity, and to play with unexpected carefulness and dash. The swelled heads of the Kingstonians were reduced to normal size when the Palatines quickly scored two goals. It began to look as if they would add a third score when the desperate Reddy, seeing one of the Palatine forwards about to make a try for goal, made a leaping tackle that destroyed the man's aim and almost upset him. Reddy was just secretly congratulating himself upon his breach of etiquette when the shrill whistle of the referee brought dismay to his heart. His act was declared a foul, and the Palatines were given a "free throw." Their left-forward was allowed to take his stand fifteen feet from the basket and have an unobstructed try at it. The throw was successful, and the score now stood 6 to 5 in favor of Kingston. The game went rapidly on, and at one stage the ball was declared "held" by the referee, and it was faced off well toward the Palatine goal. Sawed-Off made a particularly high leap in the air and an unusually fierce whack at the ball. To his chagrin, it went up into the gallery and struck the girl to whom the Twins were so devoted, smack upon her pretty snub nose. Though the blow was hard enough to bring tears to her bright eyes, she smiled, and with a laugh and a blush picked up the ball and dropped it over the rail. The Twins both made a dash to receive this gift from her pretty hands, and in consequence bumped into each other and fell apart. The ball which they had robbed each other of fell into the clutch of Pretty, who made the girl a graceful bow that quite won her heart. Pretty was, by the way, always cutting the other fellows out. This was the only grudge they ever had against him. The Twins were now more rattled than ever; and Heady determined to do or die. He saw one of the Palatines running forward and looking backward to receive the ball on a long pass, and he gave him a vicious body-check. He knew it was a foul at the time, but he thought the referee was not looking. His punishment was fittingly double, for not only did the referee see and declare the foul, but the big Palatine came with such impetus that he knocked Heady galley-west. Heady went scraping along a row of single sticks and wooden dumb-bells, making a noise like the rattle of a board along a picket fence. Then he tumbled in a heap, with the Palatine man on top of him. As the Palatine man got up, he dislodged a number of Indian clubs, which fairly pelted the prostrate Heady. This foul gave the Palatines another free throw, and made the score a tie. XIII The Twins were now so angry and ashamed of themselves that they played worse than ever. Everything seemed to go wrong with them. Their passes were blocked; their tries for goal failed; the Palatines would not even help them out with a foul. In their general disorder of plan, they could do nothing to prevent the Palatines from making goal after goal till, when the referee's whistle announced that the first twenty-minute half was over, the score stood 12 to 6 against Kingston. The Twins were feeling sore enough as it was, but when they went to the dressing-room dripping with sweat and gasping for breath from their hard exertions, Tug appeared to rub salt into their wounds by a little lecture upon their shortcomings and fargoings. "Heady," he said, "I guess you have been away from us a little too long. The Lakerim Athletic Club never approved of foul playing on the part of itself or any one else, and you got just what you deserved for forgetting your dignity. I suppose Reddy got the disease from you. But I want to say right here that you have got to play like Lakerim men or there is going to be trouble." The Twins realized the depths of their disgrace before Tug spoke, and they were too much humiliated in their own hearts to resent his lofty tone. They determined to wipe the disgrace out in the only way it could be effaced: by brilliant, clean playing in the second half of the game. When the intermission was over, they went in with such vim that they broke up all the plans of the Palatines for gaining goal, and put them to a very fierce defensive game. Heady soon scored a goal by passing the ball back to Reddy and then running forward well into Palatine territory, and receiving it on a long pass, and tossing it into the basket before he could be obstructed. But this ray of hope was immediately dimmed by the curious action of MacManus, who, forgetting that he was not on the football field, and receiving the ball unexpectedly, made a brilliant run down the field with it, carrying it firmly against his body. He was brought back with a hang-dog expression and the realization that he had unconsciously played foul and given the Palatines another free throw, which made their score 13 to 8. A little later Reddy, finding himself with his back to the Palatine goal, and all chance of passing the ball to his brother foiled by the large overshadowing form of the Palatine captain, determined to make a long shot at luck, and threw the ball backward over his head. A loud yell and a burst of applause announced that fortune had favored him: he had landed the ball exactly in the basket. But Heady went him one better, for he made a similarly marvelous goal with a smaller element of luck. Finding himself in a good position for a try, he was about to send the ball with the overhead throw that is usual, when he was confronted by a Palatine guard, who completely covered all the space in front of the diminutive Heady. Like a flash Heady dropped to the floor in a frog-like attitude, and gave the ball a quick upward throw between the man's outspread legs and up into the basket. And now the audience went wild indeed at seeing two such plays as have been seen only once or twice in the history of the game. With the score of 13 to 12 in their favor, the Palatines made a strong rally, and prevented the Kingstonians from scoring. They were tired, and evidently thought that their safety lay in sparring for time. And the referee seemed willing to aid them, for his watch was in his hand, and the game had only the life of a few seconds to live, when the ball fell into the hands of Heady. The desperate boy realized that now he had the final chance to retrieve the day and wrest victory from defeat. He was far, far from the basket, but he did not dare to risk the precious moment in dribbling or passing the ball. The only hope lay in one perfect throw. He held the ball in his hands high over his head, and bent far back. He straightened himself like a bow when the arrow of the Indian leaves its side. He gave a spring into the air, and launched the ball at the little basket. It soared on an arc as beautiful as a rainbow's. It landed full in the basket. But the force of the blow was so great that the ball choggled about and bounded out upon the rim. There it halted tantalizingly, rolled around the edge of the basket, trembled as if hesitating whether to give victory to the Palatines or the Kingstons. After what seemed an age of this dallying, it slowly dropped-- To the floor. A deep, deep sigh came from the lips of all, even the Palatines. And down into the hearts of the Twins there went a solemn pain. They had lost the game--that was bad enough; but they knew that they deserved to lose it, that their own misplays had brought their own punishment. But they bore their ordeal pluckily, and when, the next week, they met another team, they played a clean, swift game that won them stainless laurels. XIV Snow-time set Quiz to wondering what he could do to occupy his spare moments; for the drifts were too deep for him to continue his beloved pastime of bicycling, and he had to put his wheel out of commission. So he went nosing about, trying a little of everything, and being satisfied with nothing. The Academy hockey team, of which Jumbo was the leader, was working out a fine game and making its prowess felt among the rival teams of the Tri-State Interscholastic League. But hockey did not interest Quiz; for though he could almost sleep on a bicycle without falling over, when he put on a pair of skates you might have thought that he was trying to turn somersaults or describe interrogation-points in the air. It was a little cold for rowing,--though Quiz pulled a very decent oar,--and the shell would hardly go through the ice at an interesting speed. Indoor work in the gymnasium was also too slow for Quiz, and he was asking every one what pastime there was to interest a young man who required speed in anything that was to hold his attention. At length he bethought him of a sport he had seen practised during a visit he paid once to some relatives in Minnesota, where the many Norwegian immigrants practised the art of running upon the skies. At first sight this statement looks as if it might have come out of the adventures of that trustworthy historian, Baron Münchhäusen. But the skies you are thinking of are not the skies I mean. The Scandinavian skies are not blue, and they are not overhead, but underfoot. Of course you know all about the Norwegian ski, but perhaps your younger brother does not, so I will say for his benefit that the ski is a sort of Norwegian snow-shoe, only it is almost as swift as the seven-league boots. When you put it on you look as if you had a toboggan on each foot; for it is a strip of ash half an inch thick, half a dozen inches wide, and some ten feet long; the front end of it pointed and turned up like that of a toboggan. When you first get the things on, or, rather, get on them, you learn that, however pleasant they may grow to be as servants, they are certainly pretty bad masters; and you will find that the groove which is run in the bottom of the skies to prevent their spreading is of very little assistance, for they seem to have a will of their own, and also a bitter grudge against each other: they step on each other one moment, and make a wild bolt in opposite directions the next, and behave generally like a pair of unbroken colts. Quiz had once learned to walk on snow-shoes. He grew to be quite an adept, indeed, and could take a two-foot hurdle with little difficulty. But he soon found that so far from being a help, his familiarity with the snow-shoe was a great hindrance. The mode of walking on a Canadian snow-shoe, which he had learned with such difficulty, had to be completely unlearned before he could begin to make progress with the Scandinavian footgear. For in snow-shoe walking the feet must be lifted straight up and then carried forward before they are planted, and any attempt to slide them forward makes a woeful tangle; to try to lift the ski off the ground, however, is to invite ridiculous distress, and the whole art of scooting on the ski is in the long, sliding motion. It is a sort of skating on incredibly long skates that must not be lifted from the snow. Quiz had the skies made by a Kingston carpenter; and he was so proud of them that, when a crowd gathered to see what he was going to do with the mysterious slats, he proceeded to make his first attempt in an open space in the Academy campus. He put the skies down on the snow, slipped his toes into the straps, and, sweeping a proud glance around among the wondering Kingstonians, dashed forward in his old snow-shoe fashion. It took the Kingstonians some seconds to decide which was Quiz and which was ski. For the skittish skies skewed and skedaddled and skulked and skipped and scrubbed and screwed and screamed and scrawled and scooped and scrabbled and scrambled and scambled and scumbled and scraped and scrunched and scudded and scuttled and scuffled and skimped and scattered in such scandalous scampishness that the scornful scholars scoffed. Quiz quit. The poor boy was so laughed at for days by the whole Academy that his spunk was finally aroused. He got out again the skies he had hidden away in disgust, and practised upon them in the fields, at a distance from the campus, until he had finally broken the broncos and made a swift and delightful team of them. He soon grew strong enough to glide for hours at a high rate of speed without weariness, and the ski became a serious rival to the bicycle in his affections. He learned to shoot the hills at a breathless rate, climbing up swiftly to the top; then, with feet apart, but even, zipping like an express-train down the steep incline and far along the level below. He even risked his bones by attempting the rash deeds of old ski-runners. Reaching an embankment, he would retire a little distance, and then rush forward to the brink and leap over into the air, lighting on the ground below far out, steadying himself quickly, and shooting on at terrific pace. But this rashness brought its own punishment--as fool-hardiness usually does. [Illustration: "QUIZ LEARNED TO SHOOT THE HILLS AT A BREATHLESS RATE."] XV At dinner, one Saturday, Quiz had broken out in exclamations of delight over his pet skies, and had begun to complain about the time when spring should drive away the blessed winter. "I can't get enough of the snow," he exclaimed. "Oh, can't you?" said Jumbo, ominously. Quiz could hardly finish his dinner, so impatient was he to be up and off again, over the hills and far away. When he had gone, Jumbo asked the other Lakerimmers if they had not noticed how exclusive Quiz was becoming, and how little they saw of him. He said, also, that he did not approve of Quiz' rushing all over the country alone and taking foolish risks for the sake of a little solitary fun. The Lakerimmers agreed that something should be done; and Jumbo reminded them of Quiz' remark that he could not get enough snow, and suggested a plan that, he thought, might work as a good medicine on him. That afternoon Quiz seemed to have quite lost his head over his ski-running. He felt that there were signs of a thaw in the air, and he proposed that this snow should not fade away before he had indulged in one grand, farewell voyage. He struck off into the country by a new road, and at such a speed that he was soon among unfamiliar surroundings. As the day began to droop toward twilight he decided that it was high time to be turning back toward Kingston. He looked about for one last embankment to shoot before he retraced his course. Far in the distance he thought he saw a fine, high bluff, and he hurried toward it with delicious expectation. When he had reached the brink he looked down and saw that the bluff ended in a little body of water hardly big enough to be called a lake. After measuring the drop with his eye, and deciding that while it was higher than anything he had ever shot before, it was just risky enough to be exciting, he went back several steps, came forward with a good impetus, and launched himself fearlessly into the air like the aëronaughty Darius Green. He launched himself fearlessly enough, but he was no sooner in mid-air than he began to regret his rashness. It was rather late now, though, to be thinking of that, and he realized that nothing could save him from having a sudden meeting with the bottom of the hill. He lost his nerve in his excitement, and crossed his skies, so that when he struck, instead of sailing forward like the wind, he stuck and went headforemost. Fortunately, one of his skies broke--instead of most of his bones; and a very kind-hearted snow-bank appeared like a feather-bed, and somewhat checked the force of his fall. But, for all that, he was soon rolling over and over down the hill, and he landed finally on a thin spot in the ice of the lake, and crashed through into the water up to his waist. Now he was so panic-stricken that he scrambled frantically out. He cast one sorry glance up the hill, and saw there the pieces into which his ski had cracked, as well as the pathway he himself had cleared in the snow as he came tumbling down. Then he looked for the other ski, and realised that it was far away under the ice. He was now so cold, that, dripping as he was, he would not have waded into the lake again to grope around for the other ski if that ski had been solid gold studded with diamonds. Plainly, the only thing to do was to make for home, and that right quickly, before night came on and he lost his way, and the pneumonia got him. It was a very different story, trudging back through the snow-drifts in the twilight, from flitting like a butterfly on the ski. He realized now that his legs were tired from the long run he had enjoyed so much. He lost his way, too, time and again; and when he came to a cross-roads and had to guess for himself which path to take, somehow or other he seemed always to take the wrong one, and to plod along it until he met some farmer to put him on the right path to Kingston. But though he met many a farmer, he seemed to find never a wagon going his way, or even a hospitable-looking farm-house. He was still miles away from Kingston when lamp-lighting time came. A little gleam came cheerfully toward him out of the dark. He hurried to it, thinking of the fine supper the kind-hearted farmers would doubtless give him, when, just as he reached the gate of the door-yard, there was a most blood-curdling uproar, and two or three furious dogs came bounding shadowily toward him. He lost no time in deciding that supper, after all, was a rather useless invention, and Kingston much preferable. Previously to this, Quiz had always understood that the dog was the most kind-hearted of animals, but it was months after that night before he could hear the mere name of a canine without shuddering. Well, a boy can cover any distance imaginable,--even the path to the moon,--if he only has the strength and the time. So Quiz finally reached the outskirts of Kingston. His long walk had dried and warmed him somewhat; but he was miserably tired, and he felt that his stomach was as empty as the Desert of Sahara. At last, though, he reached the campus, and dragged heavily along the path to his dormitory. He stopped at Tug's to see if Tug had any remains left of the latest box of good things from home; but no answer came to his knock, and he went sadly up to the next Lakerim room. But that was empty too, and all of the others of the Dozen were away. For they had become alarmed at Quiz' absence, and started out in search of him, as they had once before set forth on the trail of Tug and History. [Illustration: "Jumbo saw a pair of flashing eyes glaring at him over the coverlet."] By the time Quiz reached his room he was too tired to be very hungry, and he decided that his bed would be Paradise enough. So, all cold and weary as he was, he hastily peeled off his clothes, and blew out the light. He shivered at the very thought of the coldness of the sheets, but he fairly flung himself between them. Just one-tenth of a second he spent in his downy couch, and then leaped out on the floor with a howl. He remembered suddenly the look Jumbo had given him at dinner when he had said he could not get snow enough. Jumbo and the other fiends from Lakerim had filled the lower half of his bed with it! * * * * * Late that night, when the eleven Lakerimmers came back, weary from their long search, and frightened at not finding Quiz, Jumbo went to his room with a sad heart. When he lighted his lamp and looked longingly toward his downy bed, he saw a pair of flashing eyes glaring at him over the coverlet. They were the eyes of Quiz; and within easy reach lay a baseball bat and several large lumps of coal. But all Quiz said was: "Excuse me for getting into your bed, Jumbo. You are perfectly welcome to mine." XVI But, speaking of cold, you ought to hear about the great fire company that was organized at the Academy. The town of Kingston was not large enough or rich enough to support a full-fledged fire department with paid firemen and trained horses. It had nothing but an old-fashioned engine, a hose-cart, and a ladder-truck, all of which had to be drawn by two-footed steeds, the volunteer firemen of the village. The Lakerimmers had not been in Kingston many weeks before they heard the fire-bell lift its voice. It was not more than twenty minutes before the Kingston fire department appeared galloping along the rough road in front of the campus at a fearsome speed of about six miles an hour. Several of the horses wore long white beards, and others of them were so fat that they added more weight than power to the team. Such of the academicians as had no classes at that hour followed these champing chargers to the scene of the fire. It turned out to be a woodshed, which was as black and useless as a burnt biscuit by the time the fire department arrived. But the Volunteers had the pleasure of dropping a hose down the well of the owner of the late lamented woodshed, and pumping the well dry. The Volunteers thus bravely extinguished three fence-posts that had caught fire from the woodshed, and then turned for home, proud in the consciousness of duty performed. They felt sure that they had saved the village from a second Chicago fire. Jumbo said that the department ought not to be called the Volunteers, but the Crawfishes. B.J., who had a scientific turn of mind, said that he had an idea for a great invention. "The world revolves from west to east at the rate of a thousand miles an hour," he said. "I've heard so," broke in Jumbo, "but you can't believe everything you see in print." B.J. brushed him aside, and went on: "Now, all you've got to do is to invent a scheme for raising your fire-engine and your firemen up in the air a few feet, and holding them still while the earth revolves under them. Then you turn a kind of a wheel, or something, when the place you want to get to comes around, and there you are in a jiffy. It would beat the Empire State Express all hollow. Why, it would be faster even than an ice-boat!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I guess I'll have to get that idea patented." "But say, B.J.," said Bobbles, in a puzzled manner, "suppose your fire was in the other direction? You'd have to go clear around the world to get to the place." "I didn't think of that," said B.J., dejectedly. And thus one of the greatest inventions of the age was left uninvented. * * * * * But Tug had also been set to thinking by the snail-like Kingston firemen. "What this place really needs," he said, "is some firemen that can run. They want more speed and less rheumatism. Now, if we fellows could only join the department we'd show 'em a few things." "Why can't we?" said Punk, always ready to carry out another's suggestion. "George Washington was a volunteer fireman," was History's ever-present reminder from the books. The scheme took like wild-fire with the Dozen, and after a conference in which the twelve heads got as close together as twenty-four large feet would permit, it was decided to ask permission of the Academy Faculty and of the town trustees. The Kingston Faculty was of the general opinion that it is ordinarily--though by no means always--the best plan to allow restless boys to carry out their own schemes. If the scheme is a bad one they will be more likely to be convinced of it by putting it into practice than by being told that it is bad, and forbidden to attempt it. So, after long deliberation, they consented to permit half a dozen of the larger Lakerim fellows to join the volunteer department. Fires were not frequent, and most of the buildings of the village were so small that little risk was to be feared. The trustees of the village saw little harm in allowing the academicians to drag their heavy trucks for them, and promised that they would not permit the boys to rush into any dangerous places. In a short while, then, the half-dozen were full-fledged firemen, with red flannel shirts, rubber boots, and regulation hats. The Lakerimmers were so proud of their new honor that they wanted to wear their gorgeous uniforms in the class-rooms. But the heartless Faculty put its foot down hard on this. The very minute the six--Tug, Punk, Sleepy, B.J., and the Twins--were safely installed as Volunteers, it seemed that the whole town had suddenly become fire-proof. The boys could neither study their lessons nor recite them with more than half a mind, for they had always one ear raised for the sound of the delightful fire-bell. They always hoped that when the fire would come it would be in the midst of a recitation; and Sleepy constantly failed to prepare himself at all, in the hope that at the critical moment he would be rescued from flunking by a call to higher duties. But fate was ironical, and after two or three weeks of this nerve-wearing existence the Volunteers began to lose hope. One Saturday afternoon, when the roads were frozen into ruts as hard and sharp as iron, and when the Dozen had just started forth to take a number of pretty girls to see a promising hockey game, the villainous old fire-bell began to call for help. The half-dozen regretted for a moment that they had ever volunteered to be Volunteers; but they would not shirk their duty, and instantly dashed toward the shed where the fire department was stored. They were there long before any of the older Volunteers, and had a long, impatient wait. Then there were all manner of delays; breakages had to be repaired and axles greased before a start could be properly made. But at last they were off, tearing down the rough roads at a speed that made the older firemen plead for mercy. The alarm had come from a man who had been painting a church steeple, and had seen a cloud of smoke in the direction of the "Mitchell place," a large farm-house some little distance out of the village limits. There was a fine exhilaration about the run until they reached the edge of the town, and began to drag the bouncing, jouncing cart over the miserable country road. Still they tugged on, going slower and slower, and the older Volunteers letting go of the rope and falling by the wayside like the wounded at the hill of San Juan. Finally even the half-dozen had to slacken speed, too, and walk, for fear of losing the whole fire department--the chief had already given out in exhaustion, and insisted upon climbing on one of the trucks and riding the rest of the way. But at length, somehow or other, the Kingston Volunteers reached the farm-house at a slow walk, their tongues almost hanging out of their mouths, and their breath coming in gasps. Strange to say, there were no signs of excitement at the Mitchell place, though a great cloud of black smoke poured from a huge hollow sycamore-tree that had been cut off about ten feet from the ground, and was used as a primitive smoke-house. The Volunteers looked at this tree, and then at one another, without a word. Then Mr. Mitchell came slowly toward his gate, and asked why he had been honored with such a visit. The only one that had breath enough to say a word was the fire chief, who had ridden the latter part of the way. He explained the alarm, and asked the cause of the smoke. Mr. Mitchell drawled: "Wawl, I'm jest a-curin' some hams." As they all pegged dismally homeward, the half-dozen thought that Mr. Mitchell had also just about cured six Volunteers. And when the half-dozen took off their red flannel shirts that day, they no longer looked upon them as red badges of courage, but rather as a sort of penitentiary uniform. The fire department of Kingston had such another long snooze that the half-dozen began now to rejoice in the hope that there would not be another fire before vacation-time. They had almost forgotten that they were Volunteers, and went about their studies and pastimes with the fine care-freedom of glorious boyhood. * * * * * Then came a cold wave suddenly out of the West--a tidal wave of bitter winds and blizzardy snow-storms, that sent the mercury down into the shoes of the thermometer. Things froze up with a snap that you could almost hear. It seemed that it would be impossible even to put a nose out of the warm rooms without hearing a sudden crackle, and seeing it drop to the ground, and the ears after it. The very stoves had to be coaxed and coddled to keep warm. Jumbo said: "Why, I have to button my overcoat around my stove, and feed it with coal in a teaspoon, to keep it from freezing to death!" The academicians went to and from their classes on the dead run, and even the staid professors scampered along the slippery paths with more thought of speed than of dignity. That night was the coldest that the oldest inhabitant of Kingston could remember. The very winds seemed to be tearing madly about, trying to keep warm, and screaming with pain, they were so cold! Ugh! my ears tingle to think of it. The Lakerimmers piled the coal high in their stoves, and piled their overcoats, and even the rugs from the floor, over their beds. Sleepy, whose blood was so slow that he was never warm enough in winter and never very warm in summer, even spread all the newspapers he could find inside his bed, and crawled in between them, having heard that paper is one of the warmest of coverings. The journals crackled like, popcorn every time he moved; but he moved very little and it would have been a loud noise indeed that could have kept him awake. At a very early hour, then, the Volunteers and the rest of the Dozen were as snug as bugs in rugs. And then,--oh, merciless fate!--at the coldest and dismalest hour of the whole twenty-four, when the night is about over and the day is not begun, at about 3 A.M., what, oh, what! should sound, even above the howls of the wind and the rattlings of the windows and doors, but that fiend of a fire-bell! It clanged and banged and clamored and boomed and pounded its way even through the harveyized armor-plate of the Lakerim ship of sleep. Tug was the first to wake, and his heart almost stopped with horror of the time the old bell had chosen for making itself heard. Tug was a brave boy, and he had a high sense of responsibility; but he had also a high sense of the comfort of a good warm bed on a bitter cold night, and he lay there, his heart torn up like a battle-field, where the two angels of duty and evil fought bitterly. And he was perfectly willing to give them plenty of time to fight it out to a finish. * * * * * In another room of the dormitory there was another struggle going on, though it would be rather flattering to say that they were angels who were struggling. The Twins had wakened at the same moment, and each had pretended to be asleep at first. Then each had remembered that misery loves company, and each had jabbed the other in the ribs, at the same time. "What bell is that?" Reddy had asked Heady, and Heady had asked Reddy, at the same instant. "It's that all-fired fire-bell!" both exclaimed, each answering the other's question and his own. "Jee-minetly! but this is a pretty time for that old thing to break out!" wailed Reddy. "It ought to be ashamed of itself," moaned Heady. "It's too bad," said Reddy; "but a fireman mustn't mind the wind or the weather." "That's so," sighed Heady, "but I'm sorry for you." "What!" cried Reddy, "you're sorry for _me_! What's the matter with yourself?" "Why, I couldn't possibly think of going out such a night as this," explained Heady; "you know I haven't been at all well for the last few days." "Oh, haven't you!" complained Reddy. "Well, you're twice as well as I am, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself to shirk your duty this way." "Duty! Humph! There's nothing the matter with you! It would be criminal for me, though, to go out a night like this, feeling as I do. Mother would never forgive me. But you had better hurry, or you'll be late," urged Heady. "Hurry nothing!" said Reddy. "I'm surprised, though, to see you trying to pretend that you're sick, and trying to send me out on a terrible night like this when you _know_ I'm really sick." Then the quarrel waxed fiercer and fiercer, until they quit using words and began to apply hands and feet. It was not many minutes before each had kicked the other out of bed, and each had carried half of the bedclothing with him. Neither of them remained any longer than was necessary on the cold floor, but each grabbed up his half of the bedding, and rolled himself up in it, and lay down with great dignity as far away from the other as he could get, even though he hung far over the edge. But the covers had been none too warm all together, and now, divided into half, the Twins were soon shivering in misery. They stood it as long as they could, and then, as if by a silent agreement, they decided to declare a peace, and each remarked: "I guess we're both too sick to go out such a night as this." And they were soon asleep again. * * * * * When Punk heard the fire-bell, his heart grew bitter at the thought of the still bitterer night. He did not think it proper for one of his conservative nature to violate all the rules of health and self-respect by going out in such rowdy weather. He peeked over the edge of his coverlet, and saw that his stove was still glowing, and that his own room was not on fire. Then he reached out one quick arm and pulled his slippers into bed with him, and when they were warm enough put them on his feet, wrapped himself up well, and, running to the window, raised it quickly, thrust his head out, and looked up and down the campus. This quick glance satisfied him of two things: first, that none of the beloved Academy buildings were on fire; and second, that he was never much interested in the old village, anyway. So he toddled back to his cozy bed. B.J. was sleeping so soundly that the fire-bell could not wake him; it simply rang in his ears and mingled with his dreams. In the land of dreams he went to all sorts of fires, and saved thirty or forty lives, mainly of beautiful maidens in top stories of blazing palaces. His dreamland rescues were as heroic as any one could desire, but that was as near as he came to answering the call of the Kingston alarm. * * * * * As for Sleepy, it is doubtful if the bell would have awakened him if it had been suspended from his bed-post; but from where it was it never reached even to his dreams, if, indeed, even dreams could have wormed their way into his solid slumbers. * * * * * Tug's conscience, however, was giving him a sharper pain than he suffered at the thought of the night outside. At length he could stand the thought of being found wanting in his duty, no longer. He flung himself out of bed and into his clothes, his teeth beating a tattoo, his knees fighting a boxing-match, and his hands all thumbs with the cold. Then he put on two pairs of trousers, three coats, and an overcoat, two caps, several mufflers, and a pair of heavy mittens over a pair of gloves, and flew down the stairs and dived out into the storm like a Russian taking a plunge-bath in an icy stream. Fairly plowing through the freezing winds, along the cinder paths he hurried, and down the clattering board walks of the village to the building of the fire department. He met never a soul upon the arctic streets, and he found never a soul at the meeting-place of the all-faithful Volunteers. What amazed him most was that he found not even a man there to ring the bell. The rope, however, was flouncing about in the wind, and the bell itself was still thundering alarums over the town. Tug's first thought at this discovery was--spooks! As is usual with people who do not believe in ghosts, they were the first things he thought of as an explanation of a mysterious performance. His second thought was the right one. The hurricane had ripped off the boarding about the bell, and the wind itself was the bell-ringer. With a sigh of the utmost tragedy, Tug turned back toward his room. He was colder now than ever, and by the time he reached the dormitory he was too nearly frozen to stop and upbraid Punk and the other derelicts who had proved false at a crisis that also proved false. The next morning, however, he gathered them all in his room and read them a severe lecture. They had been a disgrace to the Lakerim ideal, he insisted, and they had only luck, and not themselves, to credit for the fact that they were not made the laughing-stock of the town and the Academy. And that day the half-dozen sent in its resignation from the volunteer fire department of the village of Kingston. XVII It was not long after this that the Christmas vacation hove in sight, and the Dozen forgot the blot upon its escutcheon in the thought of the delight that awaited it in renewing acquaintance with its mothers and other best girls at Lakerim, not to mention the cronies in the club-house. Each had his plans for making fourteen red-letter days out of the two weeks they were to spend at home. Peaceful thoughts filled the hearts of most of them, but B.J. dreamed chiefly of the furious conflicts that awaited him on the lake, which had been the scene of many an adventure in his mettlesome ice-boat. The last days crawled painfully by for all of them, and the Dozen grew more and more meek as they became more and more homesick for their mothers. They were boys indeed now, and until they reached the old town; but there there was such a cordial reception for them from the whole village--fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, best girls, cronies, and even dogs--that by the time they had reached the club-house which had been built by their own efforts, and in which they were recorded on a beautiful panel as the charter members, they felt that they were aged, white-haired veterans returning to some battle-field where they were indeed famous. A reception was given in their honor at the club-house, and Tug made a speech, and the others gave various more or less ridiculous and impressive exhibitions of their grandeur. After a day or two of this glory, however, they became fellow-citizens with the rest of the villagers, and were content to sit around the club-room and tell stories of the grand old days when the Lakerim Athletic Club had no club-house to cover its head--the days when they fought so hard for admission to the Tri-State Interscholastic League of Academies. They were, to tell the truth, though, just a little disappointed, in the inside of their hearts, that the successors left behind to carry on the club were doing prosperously, winning athletic victories, and paying off the debt in fine style--quite as well as if they themselves had been there. The most popular of the story-tellers was B.J., whose favorite and most successful yarn was the account of the great ice-boat adventure, when the hockey team was wrecked upon Buzzard's Rock, and spent the night in the snow-drifts, with the blizzard howling outside. The memory of that terrible escape made the blood run cold in the veins of the other members of the club; but it aroused in B.J. only a new and irresistible desire to be off again upon the same adventure-hunt. Now, B.J.'s father was an enthusiastic sailor--fortunately, not so rash a sailor as his son, but quite as great a lover of a "flowing sail." Wind-lover as he was, he could not spend a winter idly, and turned his attention to ice-boating. He owned a beautiful modern vessel made of basswood, butternut, and pine, with rigging all of steel, and a runner-plank as springy as an umbrella frame. She carried no more than four hundred square feet of sail; but when he gave her the whip, and let her take to her heels, she outran the fleetest wind that ever swept the lake. And she skipped and sported along near the railroad track, where the express-train raced in vain with her; for she could make her sixty miles an hour or more without gasping for breath. She was named _Greased Lightning_. Now, B.J.'s father had ample cause to be suspicious of that young man's discretion, and he never permitted him to take the boat out alone, good sailor as he knew his son to be; so B.J. had to content himself with parties of boys and girls hilarious with the cold and speed, and wrapped up tamely in great blankets, under the charge of his father, who was a more than cautious sailor, being as wise as he was old, and seeing the foolishness of those pleasures which depend only on risking bone and body. But B.J. was wretched, and chafed under the restraint of such respectable amusement--with girls, too! And when, in the midst of the holidays, his father was called out of town, B.J. went to bed, and could hardly fall asleep under the conspiracies he began to form for eloping on one last escapade with the ice-boat. He woke soon after daybreak, the next morning, and hurried to his window. There he found a gale of wind blowing and lashing the earth with a furious rain. The wind he received with welcoming heart, but the rain sent terror there; for it told him that the ice would soon disappear, and he would be sent back to Kingston Academy, with never a chance to let loose the _Greased Lightning_. "It is now or never!" mumbled B.J., clenching his teeth after the manner of all well-regulated desperados. XVIII He sneaked into his clothes, and descended the cold, creaking staircase in his stocking-feet. Then he put on his rubber boots, and stole out of the house like a burglar. The wind would have wrecked any umbrella alive; but he cared naught for the rain, and hurried down the street where the Twins were sleeping the sleep of the righteous. He threw pebbles at their windows till they were awakened; and after a proper amount of deliberation in which each requested the other to go to the window, both went hand in hand on their shivering toes. When they had leaned out and learned what B.J. invited them to, they reminded him that he was either crazy or walking in his sleep. But B.J. answered back that they were either talking in their sleep or were "cowardy calves." The worst of all fools is the one that is afraid to take a dare; and the Twins were--well, let us say they were not yet wide enough awake to know what they were doing. At any rate, they could not stand the banter of B.J., and had soon joined him in the soaking storm outside. When the lake was reached the Twins were more than ever convinced that B.J. was more than ever out of his head; for, instead of the smooth mirror they had been accustomed to gliding over in the boat, they found that the ice was covered with an inch of slush and water. The sky above was not promising and blue, nor did the wind have a merry whizz; but it laughed like a maniac, and shrieked and threatened them, warning them to go back home or take most dreadful consequences. B.J., however, would not listen to the advice they tendered him, but went busily about getting the sails up and preparing the boat for the voyage. The Twins were still pleading with B.J. to have some regard for the dictates of common sense, when he began to haul in the sheet-rope and put the helm down; and they had barely time to leap aboard before the boat was away. They felt, indeed, that they were sailing in a regular sloop, and that, too, going "with lee rail awash"; for instead of the soft crooning sound the runners made usually, there was a slash and a swish of ripples cloven apart; and instead of the little fountains of ice-dust which rise from the heels of the sharp shoes when the boat is skimming the frozen surface, there rose long spurting sprays of water. The Twins reproached each other bitterly for coming on such a wild venture. But they did not know how really sorry they were till they got well out on the lake, where the wind caught them with full force and proved to be a very gale of fury. The mast writhed and squealed, and the sails groaned and wrenched, as if they would fairly rip the boat apart. The world seemed one vast vortex of hurricane; and yet, for all the wind that was frightening them to death, the Twins seemed to find it impossible to get enough to breathe. It was bitter, bitter cold, too, and Reddy's hands and feet reminded him only of the bags of cracked ice they put on his forehead once when he had a severe fever. B.J., however, was as happy as the Twins were miserable, and he yelled and shouted in ecstatic glee. Now he was a gang of cow-boys at a round-up; now he was a band of Apache Indians circling fiendishly around a crew of those inland sailors who used to steer their prairie-schooners across the West. Before the Twins could imagine it, the boat had reached the opposite side of the lake, and it was necessary to come about. Suddenly the skipper had thrown her head into, the wind, the jib and mainsail were clattering thunderously, and the boom went slashing over like a club in the hands of a giant. Before the Twins had dared to lift their heads again, there was a silence, and the sails began to fill and the boat to resume her speed quickly in a new direction. In a moment the _Greased Lightning_ was well under way along a new leg, and sailing as close as B.J. could hold her. And now, as the Twins glared with icy eyeballs into the mist ahead, suddenly they both made out a thin black line drawn as if by a great pencil across the lake in front of them. "Watch out, B.J.," they cried; "we are coming to an enormous crack." "Hooray for the crack!" was all the answer they got from the intrepid B.J. And now, instead of their rushing toward the crack, it seemed to be flying at them, widening like the jaws of a terrible dragon. But the ice-boat was as fearless and as gaily jaunty as Siegfried. Straight at the black maw with bits of floating ice like the crunching white teeth of a monster, the boat held its way. Neatly as the boy Pretty ever skimmed a hurdle in a hurdle-race, the boat skimmed the gulf of water. The ice bent and cracked treacherously, and the water flew up in little jets where it broke; but _Greased Lightning_ was off and away before there was ever a chance to engulf her. And then the heart of the Twins could beat again. The boat was just well over the crack when she struck a patch of rough ice and yawed suddenly. There was a severe wrench. B.J. and Reddy were prepared for it; but Heady, before he knew what was the matter, had slid off the boat on to the ice and on a long tangent into the crack they had just passed. He let out a yell, I can tell you, and clung to the edge of the brittle ice with desperate hands. He thought he had been cold before; but as he clung there now in the bitter water, and watched B.J. trying to bring the obstinate boat about and come alongside, he thought that the passengers on the ice-boat were warm as in any Turkish bath. After what seemed to him at least a century of foolish zigzagging, B.J. finally got the boat somewhere near the miserable Heady, brought the _Greased Lightning_ to a standstill, and threw the dripping Twin the sheet-rope. Then he hauled him out upon the strong ice. B.J. begged Heady to get aboard and resume the journey, or at least ride back home; but Heady vowed he would never even look at an ice-boat again, and could not be dissuaded from starting off at a dog-trot across the lake toward home. Reddy wanted to get out and follow him; but B.J. insisted that he could not sail the boat without some ballast, and before Reddy could step out upon the ice B.J. had flung the sail into the wind again, and was off with his kidnapped prisoner. Reddy looked disconsolately after the wretched Heady plowing through the slush homeward until his twin brother disappeared in the distance. Then he began to implore B.J. to put back to Lakerim. Finally he began to threaten him with physical force if he did not. B.J. fairly giggled at the thought of at last seeing one of those mutinies he had read so much about. But he contented himself with having a great deal to say about tacking on this leg and on that, and about how many points he could sail into the wind, and a lot of other gibberish that kept Reddy guessing, until the boat had gone far up the lake. At last, to Reddy's infinite delight, B.J. announced that he was going to turn round and tack home. As they came about they gave the wind full sweep. The sail filled with a roar, and the boat leaped away like an athlete at a pistol-shot. And now their speed was so bird-like that Reddy would have been reminded of the boy Ganymede, whom Jupiter's eagle stole and flew off to heaven with; but he had never heard of that unfortunate youth. He had the sense of flight plainly enough, though, and it terrified him beyond all the previous terrors of the morning. As I have said before, different persons have their different specialties in courage, as in everything else; and while Reddy and Heady were brave as lads could well be in some ways, their courage lay in other lines than in running dead before the wind in a madcap ice-boat on uncertain ice. The wind had increased, too, since they first started out, and now it was a young and hilarious gale. It began to wrench the windward runner clear of the ice and bang it down again with a stomach-turning thud. In fact, the wind began to batter the boat about so much that B.J. decided he must have some weight upon the windward runner, or it would be unmanageable. He told Reddy that he must make his way out to the end of the see-saw. Reddy gave B.J. one suspicious look, and then yelled at the top of his voice: "No, thank you!" The calm and joyful B.J. now proceeded to grow very much excited, and to insist. He told Reddy that he must go out upon the end of the runner, or the boat would be wrecked, and both of them possibly killed. After many blood-curdling warnings of this sort, the disgusted Reddy set forth upon his most unpleasant voyage. He crept tremblingly along the narrow backbone until he reached the crossing-point of the runner; there he grasped a hand-rope, and made his way, step by step, along the jouncing plank to the end, where he wrapped his legs around the wire stay, and held on for dear life. Reddy's weight gave the runner steadiness enough to reassure B.J., though poor Reddy thought it was the most unstable platform he had stood upon, as it flung and bucked and shook him hither and yon with a violence that knew no rest or regularity. But, uncomfortable as he was, and much as he felt like a seasick balloonist, he did not know in what a lucky position he was, nor how happy he should have been that it was not even riskier. There is some comfort, or there ought to be, in the fact that a situation is never so bad that it might not be worse. B.J. was now so well satisfied with his live ballast that he began once more to sing and make a mad hullabaloo of pure enjoyment. He finally grew careless, and forgot himself and the eternal alertness that is necessary for a good skipper. Just one moment he let his mind wander, and that moment was enough. The boat, without warning to either B.J. or Reddy, jibed! Reddy, now more than ever astounded, suddenly found himself pitching forward in the air and slamming on the ice. He slid along it for a hundred feet or more on his stomach, like a rocket with a wake of spray and slush for a tail. Reddy was soaked as completely as if he had fallen into a bath-tub, and his face and hands were cut and bruised in the bargain. But his feelings, his mental feelings, were hurt even worse than his flesh. As for the reckless B.J., though he was not so badly bruised as his unfortunate and unwilling guest, he was to suffer a still greater torment. He, too, was thrown from the boat into the slush; and by the time he had recovered himself the yacht was well away from the hope of capture. But that wilful boat, the _Greased Lightning_, seemed unwilling to let off her tormentor so easily. For the astounded B.J., glaring at her as she ran on riderless, saw her come upon some rough ice, and jolt and ditch her runner, and veer until she had actually made a half-circle, and was heading straight for him! All this remarkable change took place in a very short space of time; but a large part of that small time was spent by B.J. in absolute amazement at the curious and vicious action of his boat. Then, as the yacht began to bear down on him with increasing speed, he made a dash to get out of its path; but his feet slipped on the wet ice, and he could make no headway. B.J. saw immediately that one of two things was very sure to happen; and he could not see how either of them would result in anything but terrible disaster to him. For if he should stand still the runner-plank would strike him below the knee and break both his legs like straws; besides, when he was knocked over he was likely to be struck by the tiller-runner, which would finish him completely. If, on the other hand, he tried to jump into the air and escape the runner, he stood a fine chance of being hit on the head by the boom, which would deal a blow like the guard of an express-engine. Before these two sickening probabilities the boy paused motionless, helpless. It was the choice of frying-pan or fire. XIX B.J. decided to take the chances of a battered skull rather than let both the windward runner and the tiller-runner have a slash at him. He gathered himself for a dive into the air. But, just as he was about to leap, a sudden gust of wind lifted the windward runner off the ice at least two feet. Like lightning B.J. dropped face down on the ice, and the boat passed harmlessly over him, the runner just grazing his coat-sleeve. Having inflicted what seemed to it to be punishment enough, the _Greased Lightning_ sailed coquettishly on down the lake, and finally banged into a dock at home, and stopped. B.J. and Reddy made off after it as fast as they could on the slippery ice with the help of the wind at their backs; but they never overtook it, and the run served them only the good turn of warming them somewhat, and thus saving them from all the dire consequences they deserved for their foolhardiness. When Reddy reached home, he found that Heady had preceded him. Both were put to bed and dosed with such bitter medicine that they almost forgot the miseries they had had upon the lake. But it was many a day before they would consent to speak to B.J. When they saw him coming they crossed the street with great dignity, and if he spoke to them they seemed stricken with a sudden deafness. B.J.'s troubles did not end with his return home; for, somehow or other, the escapade with the ice-boat reached his father's ears. And it is reported that B.J.'s father forgot for a few minutes the fact that his son was now a dignified academician. At any rate, B.J. took his meals standing for a day or two, and he could not explain this strange whim to the satisfaction of his friends. * * * * * Every member of the Dozen realized the necessity of keeping the body clean if he would be a successful athlete, and of keeping his linen and clothes comely if he would be a successful gentleman. Taken altogether, the Twelve were exactly what could be called "neat but not gaudy." But presentable as all of them were, there was none that took so much pains and pride in the elegances of dress as the boy Pretty, who won his title from his fondness for being what the others sometimes called a dude. But he was such a whole-hearted, vigorous, athletic young fellow, with so little foolishness about his make-up, that the name did not carry with it the insult it usually conveys. The chief offense Pretty gave to the less careful of the Dozen was his fondness for carrying a cane, a practice which the rest of the boys, being boys, did not affect. But Pretty was not to be dissuaded from this, nor from any of his other foibles, by ridicule, and the others finally gave him up in despair. When he went to Kingston there was a new audience for his devotion to matters of dress. But at the Academy it was considered a breach of respect to the upper-classmen for the lower-classmen to carry canes. Pretty, however, simply sniffed at the tradition, and said it didn't interest him at all. Finally a large Senior vowed he would crack the cane in pieces over Pretty's head, if necessary. Pretty heard these threats, and was prepared for the man. When the fatal moment of their meeting arrived, though the Senior was much bigger than Pretty, the Lakerim youth did not run--at least, he ran no farther than was necessary to clear a good space for the use of a little single-stick exercise. Pretty was no boxer, but he was a firm believer in the value of a good stout cane. Imagine his humiliation, then, when he found, in the first place, that the crook of his stick had caught in his coat-pocket and spoiled one good blow, and, in the second place, that the fine strong slash he meant to deliver overhead like a broad-sword stroke merely landed upon the upraised arm of the Senior, and had its whole force broken. Pretty then had the bitter misery of seeing his good sword wrenched from his hand and broken across the knee of the Senior, who very magnificently told him that he must never appear on the campus again with a walking-stick. Pretty was overcome with embarrassment at the outcome of his innocent foppery, and of his short, vain battle, and he was the laughing-stock of the Seniors for a whole day. But, being of Lakerim mettle and metal, he did not mean to let one defeat mean a final overthrow. He told the rest of the Lakerimmers that he would carry a cane anyway, and carry it anywhere he pleased, and that the next man who attempted to take it from him would be likely to get "mussed up." About this time he found a magazine article that told the proper sort of cane to carry, and the proper way to use it in case of attack; and he proceeded to read and profit. Now, inasmuch as Sawed-Off was working his way through the Academy, and paying his own expenses, without assistance except from what small earnings he could make himself, it was only natural that he should always be the one who always had a little money to lend to the other fellows, though they had their funds from home. It was now Pretty who came to him for the advance of cash enough to buy a walking-stick of the following superb description: a thoroughly even, straight-grained bit of hickory-wood, tapered like a billiard-cue, an inch and a half thick at the butt and three fourths of an inch thick at the point, the butt carrying a knob of silver, and the point heavily ferruled. Pretty had managed to find such a stick in the small stores of Lakerim. He bought it with Sawed-Off's money, and he practised his exercises with it so vigorously and so secretly that when he next appeared upon the campus and carried it, the Senior who had attacked him before, let him go by without any hindrance. He was fairly stupefied at the impudence of this Lakerimmer whom he thought he had thrashed so soundly. He did not know that the main characteristic of the Lakerimmer is this: he does not know when he is whipped, or, if he does know it, he will not stay whipped. But once he had recovered his senses, the haughty Senior did not lose much time in making another onslaught on Pretty. When some of his friends were pouring cold water on this Senior's bruised head a few minutes later, he poured cold water on their scheme to attempt to carry out what he had failed in, for he said: "Don't you ever go up against that Lakerim fellow; his cane works like a Gatling gun." So Pretty was permitted to carry his cane; and though he swaggered a little, perhaps, no further attempt was made by the Seniors to take the stick away from him. They had to content themselves with trying to throw water on him from upper windows; but their aim was bad. XX Pretty had not been home long on his Christmas vacation before he called at the home of the beautiful girl Enid, who had helped him win so many tennis games, and who was the best of all the best girls he devoted himself to, either in Kingston, Lakerim, or any other of the towns he blessed with his smiling presence. Enid and Pretty, being great lovers of fresh air, took many a long walk on the country roads about Lakerim. One day, when the air was as exhilarating and as electric as the bubbles in a glass of ice-cream soda, they took a much longer stroll than usual. Then they made a sudden decision to turn homeward; for, rounding a sharp bend in the road, they saw coming toward them three burly tramps. At the sight of these Three Graces both Pretty and Enid stopped short in some little uneasiness. The tramps also stopped short, and seemed to engage in a conversation about the two young people ahead of them on the road. Pretty, on account of the extreme neatness of his costume, often got credit for being a much richer lad than he was. And Enid also was as careful and as successful in her costumery as Pretty. So the three tramps probably thought they had before them two children of wealth, who would be amply provided with pocket-money. But if they had only known how little the two really had in their possession, the adventure you are about to hear would never have happened. But while Pretty was flicking the dirt at the end of his toe with his walking-stick, and wondering if he really cared to go any farther, the tramps moved toward him quickly. Enid, being a girl, was frightened, and did not try to conceal it, but said: "Oh, Pretty, let's go home at once!" Pretty, being a boy, thought he must make a display of courage, even if he didn't feel it; so, while his heart clattered away in his breast, and he could hardly find breath to speak, he said with some show of composure: "Yes, Enid; I think we have walked far enough for to-day." Then they whirled about and started for home at a good gait. They had not gone far when Enid, glancing back over her shoulder, noticed that the tramps were coming up at a still more rapid walk. One of them, indeed, called out in a suspiciously friendly tone: "Hey, young feller, hold up a minute and tell us what time it is, will ye?" Enid gasped: "Let's run, Pretty; come on." But Pretty answered with much dignity: "Run? What for?" And he turned and called back to the tramp: "I don't know what time it is." Then the tramps insisted again that Pretty wait for them to come up. But when he continued to walk without answering them, they began to hurl oaths and rocks, and to run toward him. Now Pretty thought that discretion was the better half of valor, and he seized Enid's wrist and started off on a run, an act in which she was willing enough to follow his lead. But he had to explain, just to preserve his dignity: "They're three to one, you know." But while Enid understood well enough the necessity for speed, she had no breath to expend expressing her appreciation of Pretty's delicate position. She was too frightened to run even as well as she knew how, and she was going at a gait that was neither very fast nor very economical of muscle and breath. Pretty, however, ran scientifically: on the balls of his feet, with his head erect, his chest out, and his lips tightly locked. But before long he was doing all the work for two, and laboring like a ship that drags its anchor in a storm. They came to a hill now, and here Enid leaned her whole weight upon him. He barely managed, with the most tremendous determination and exertion, to get her to the top of this long incline. As they labored up he decided in his own mind, and told her, that she must leave him and run on for help. Just one tenth of a second his terrified mind had been occupied with the thought that he might run on alone and leave her. The tempting idea of self-preservation had whispered to him that if he stayed behind, it would only result in disaster to two, while if he ran on alone, at least one would be saved. But this cowardly selfishness he put away after the tenth of a second of thought, and now he was insisting, even against Enid's gasping objection, that she must run on alone and leave him to take care of the footpads. He did not know how he was going to do this, but he felt that upon him devolved the duty of being the zealous rear-guard to cover the retreat of a vanquished army. Enid, however, was stubborn, and proposed to stay and fight with him, even drawing out a very sharp and very dangerous hat-pin to emphasize her courage. But Pretty, while he blessed her for her bravery and her full-heartedness, still commanded her to run on and bring help, promising her that he would keep out of harm's way till help could come. With this assurance, the poor girl staggered on, gaining strength from the necessity of speed to save her beloved Pretty. At the brow of the hill Pretty found himself alone, and turned and looked at the on-coming trio with defiant sternness. After a moment, which gave him some much-needed rest and a chance to gain new breath, he realized that one half a battle is with the warrior that is wise enough to make the first onslaught. So, after a tremor of very natural hesitation, the boy dashed full at the three hulkish tramps. XXI The overgrown brutes were so much taken aback at the change of front on the part of the young fellow whom they had hoped to run down like a scared rabbit, that they stopped short in sheer surprise. But this was only for a moment. Then the leader of the three rushed forward, with a large club. He carried it high in the air in the same indiscreet manner in which Pretty had once attacked the Senior. Just before the tramp and the boy came to close quarters Pretty made a diving sidelong dodge, and as the tramp's club whisked idly through the air past him, he dealt the fellow a furious blow across the left shin. Now, as any one who was ever struck there knows, a man's shin is as tender as a bear's nose; and the surprised tramp was soon dancing about in the air, hugging his bruised leg and yowling like a wildcat. But Pretty had run on past, leaving him to his misery. Now he came up to the other two, who moved in single file toward him. The first man Pretty received right upon the point of his cane, driving the hard metal ferrule straight at the man's solar plexus. The combination of the man's rush and Pretty's powerful thrust was enough to lay the wretch upon the ground, writhing and almost unconscious. For the last thug Pretty had prepared a beautiful back-handed slash across the face; but the villain, seeing what was in store for him, dropped down, and rushed at the boy low enough to evade the stick. Pretty, however, had a check for this move also, and a quick step to one side saved him from the man's clutch. Now he recovered himself quickly enough to deliver a vicious whack straight at the back of the man's head--a blow that would have settled the tramp's mind for some time to come, but the fellow was running so fast that Pretty missed his aim, and his stout weapon only dealt a stinging blow upon the man's left shoulder. The thug ran on far enough to gain a good vantage-ground, and then, whirling, came at Pretty again. Now his uplifted hand held an ugly knife. The look of this was not pleasant to Pretty's eyes; but the excitement of the situation was much increased when a glance out of the side of his eye showed him that the first thug had regained enough nerve to come limping forward in the endeavor to throttle him. The men were not coming at him in such a way that he could use the "point-and-butt thrust" that he had learned for such occasions, so he decided instantly to repeat upon the first thug the shin-shattering blow that had been so successful before. As the man came on, then, Pretty gave a terrific backward slash that caught the tramp's uninjured shin. It was a beauteous shot, and sent the fellow to his hunkers, actually boohooing with agony. And now, with another fine long sweep, this time upward, Pretty sent a smashing blow at the third tramp's upraised arm. The force of the stroke was alone strong enough to send the knife flying; but, by the addition of a bit of good luck, Pretty caught the wretch on his crazy bone, and set him to such a caterwauling as cats sing of midnights on a back-yard fence. Leaving the battered Three Graces to their different dances, Pretty picked up the knife he had knocked from the hand of the third, and sauntered homeward, adjusting his somewhat ruffled collar and tie as he went, with magnificent self-possession. On his way he met the party of rescuers sent to him by Enid, who had managed to reach town in rapid time. Pretty calmly sent them back to pick up the three tramps he had left; and these gentlemen were stowed away in the Lakerim jail, where they cracked rock and thought of their cracked bones till long after Pretty's Christmas vacation was over. As for Enid, I will leave you to guess whether or no she thought Pretty the greatest hero of his age,--or any age,--and whether or no she gossiped his bravery all around Lakerim long after the Dozen were away again in Kingston. XXII The night before the Lakerim contingent went back to the Kingston Academy, another grand reception was given in their honor at the club-house; and the Dozen made more speeches and assumed an air of greater magnificence than ever. But, nevertheless, they were just a trifle sorry that they had to leave their old happy hunting-ground. But there was some consolation in the thought that the life at the Academy would not be one glittering revel of studies and classes. For the Dozen believed, as it believed nothing else, that all play and no work makes Jack a dull boy. The general average of the Dozen in the matter of studies was satisfactory enough; for, while Sleepy was always at the bottom of his classes, and probably the laziest and stupidest of all the students at Kingston, History was certainly at the head of his classes, and probably the most brilliant of all the students at Kingston. With these two at the opposite poles, the rest of the Dozen worked more or less hard and faithfully, and kept a very decent pace. But the average attainment of the Dozen in the field of athletics was far more than satisfactory. It was brilliant. For, while there was one man (History) who was not quite the all-round athlete of the universe, and was not good at anything more muscular than chess and golf, the eleven others had each his specialty and his numerous interests. They believed, athletically, in knowing everything about something, and something about everything. * * * * * The winter went blustering along, piling up snows and melting them again, only to pile up more again. And the wind raved in very uncertain humors. But, snow or thaw, the Dozen was never at a loss to know what to do. Finally January was gone, and February, that sawed-off month, was dawdling along its way toward that great occasion which gives it its chief excuse for being on the calendar--Washington's Birthday. From time immemorial it had been the custom at Kingston to celebrate the natal anniversary of the Father of his Country with all sorts of disgraceful rioting and un-Washingtonian cavorting. The Lakerim Twelve were not the ones to throw the weight of their influence against any traditions that might add dignity to the excitements of school-book life. Of the part they took in raising the flag on the tower of the chapel, and in defending that flag, and in tearing down a dummy raised in their colors by the Crows in the public square of the village--of this and many other delightfully improper pranks there is no room to tell here; and you must rest content with hearing of the important athletic affair--the affair which more truly and fittingly celebrated the anniversary of the birth of this great man, who was himself one of the finest specimens of manhood and one of the best athletes our country has ever known. The athletic association from a neighboring school, known as the Brownsville School for Boys, had sent the Kingstonians an offer to bring along a team of cross-country runners to scour the regions around Kingston in competition with any team Kingston would put forth. The challenge was cordially accepted at once, and the Brownsville people sent over John Orton, the best of their cross-country runners, to look over a course two days in advance, and decide upon the path along which he should lead his team. It was agreed that the course should be between six and eight miles long. The runners should start from the Kingston gymnasium, and report successively at the Macomb farm-house, which was some distance out of Kingston, and was cut off by numerous ditches and gullies; then at the railway junction two miles out of Kingston; then at a certain little red school-house, and then at the finish in front of the campus. It was agreed that the two teams should start in different directions and touch at these points in the reverse order. Each captain was allowed to choose his own course, and take such short cuts as he would, the three points being especially chosen with a view to keeping the men off the road and giving them plenty of fence-jumping, ditch-taking, and obstacle-leaping of all sorts. The race was to have been run off in the afternoon; but the train was late, and the Brownsvillers did not arrive until just before supper. It was decided, after a solemn conference, that the race should be run in spite of the delay, and as soon as the supper had had a ghost of a chance to digest. The rising of a full and resplendent moon was a promise that the runners should not be entirely in the dark. Tug and the Brownsville chief, Orton, had made careful surveys of the course they were to run over. It was as new to Tug as to the Brownsville man. Each of the two had planned his own short cuts, and even if they had been running over the course in the same direction they would have separated almost immediately. But when the signal-shot that sent them off in different directions rang out, they were standing back to back, and did not know anything of each other's whereabouts until they met again, face to face, at the end of the course. The teams consisted of five men each. The only Lakerim men on the Kingston team were Tug, the chief, who had been a great runner of 440-yard races, and Sawed-Off, who had won the half-mile event on various field-days. The other three were Stage, Bloss, and MacManus. All of them were stocky runners and inured to hardship. They had come out of the gymnasium in their bathrobes; and when the signal to start was given, the spectators in their warm overcoats felt chills scampering up and down their ribs as they noticed that all the men of both teams, when they had thrown off their bath-robes, stood clad only in running-shoes, short gymnasium-trunks, and jerseys. But their heat was to come from within, and once they were started, cold was the least of their trials. The two teams broke away from each other at the gymnasium, and bolted at a wide angle straight across the campus. They all took the first fence in perfect form, as if they were thoroughbred hunters racing after a fox. Quiz and one or two other of the bicycle enthusiasts attempted to follow one or the other of the two packs; but they avoided the road so completely that the bicyclists soon lost them from sight, and returned to watch the finish. The method of awarding the victory was this: the different runners were to be checked off as they passed the different stages of the course, and crossed off as they came across the finish-line. Each man was thus given the number of his place in the finish, and the total of the numbers earned by each team decided the match, the team having the smaller number winning. Thus the first man in added the number 1 to the total score of his side, while the last man in added 10 to his. Tug had explained to his runners, before they started out, that team-work was what would count--that he wished his men to keep together, and that they were to take their orders all from him. After the first enthusiasm of a good brisk start to get steam and interest up, Tug slowed his pace down to such a gait as he thought could be comfortably maintained through the course. The Brownsville leader, Orton, however, being a brilliant cross-country runner himself, set his men too fierce a pace, and soon had upon his hands a pack of breathless stragglers. Tug vigorously silenced any attempt at conversation among his men, and advised them to save their breath for a time soon to come when they would need it badly. His path led into a heavy woods, very gloomy under the dim moonlight; and he had many an occasion to yell with pain and surprise as a low branch stung him across the head. But all he permitted himself to exclaim was a warning cry to the others: "Low bridge!" The grove was so blind (save for the little clearing at Roden's Knoll, which Tug and Sawed-Off recognized with a groan of pride) that the men's shins were barked and their ankles turned at almost every other step, it seemed. But Tug would not permit any of them the luxury of complaint. In time they were out of the wood and into the open. But here it seemed that their troubles only increased; for, where the main difficulty in the forest was to avoid obstacles, the chief trouble in the plain was to conquer them. There were many barbed-wire fences to crawl through, the points clutching the bare skin and tearing it painfully at various spots. The huge Sawed-Off suffered most from these barbs, but he only gasped: "I'm punctured." There were long, steep hills to scramble up and to jolt down. There were little gullies to leap over, and brooks to cross on watery stepping-stones that frequently betrayed the feet into icy water. After vaulting gaily over one rail fence, and scooting jauntily along across a wide pasture, the Kingstonians were surprised to hear the sound of other footsteps than theirs, and they turned and found a large and enthusiastic bull endeavoring to join their select circle. Perhaps this bovine gentleman was, after all, their very best friend, for nowhere along the whole course did they attain such a burst of speed as then. Indeed, none of the five could remember a time in his life when he made such a spurt. They reached and scaled a stone wall, however, in time to shake off the company of this inhospitable host. In the next field there were two or three skittish colts, which they scared into all manner of hysterical behavior as they sped across. Down a country lane they turned for a short distance; and a farmer and his wife, returning home from a church sociable, on seeing these five white figures flit past in a minimum of clothing, thereafter always vowed that they had seen ghosts. As the runners trailed past a farm-house with never a light to show upon its front, there was a ferocious hullabaloo, something between the angry snorting of a buffalo and the puffing of a railroad engine going up a steep grade. It was the wolfish welcome of three canine brigands, the bloodthirsty watch-dogs that surrounded and guarded this lonely and poverty-stricken little farm-house from the approach of any one evil- or well-intentioned. Those dogs must have been very sorry they spoke; for when they came rushing forward cordially to take a few souvenir bites out of the Lakerim team, Tug and the others stopped short and turned toward them. "Load!" cried Tug. And every mother's son of the five picked up three or four large rocks from the road. "Aim!" cried Tug. And every father's son of the five drew back a strong and willing arm. "Fire!" cried Tug. And every grandfather's and grandmother's grandson of the five let fly with a will the rocks his hands had found upon the road. Those dogs must have felt that they were caught out in the heaviest hail-storm of their whole experience. Their blustering mood disappeared in an instant, and they turned for home, yelping like frightened puppies; nor did they forget, like Bo-peep's sheep, to take their tails with them, neatly tucked between their legs. Past as the cross-country dogs ran in one direction, the cross-country humans ran in the opposite. Now that they were on a good pike road, some of them were disposed to sprint, particularly the fleet-footed Stage, who could far outrun Tug or any of the team. But Tug thought that wisdom lay in keeping his team well in hand, and he did not approve of running on in advance any more than he approved of straggling. Thus the enthusiastic Stage, rejoicing in his airy heels, suddenly found himself deserted, Tug having seen fit to leave the road for a short cut across the fields; and Stage had to run back fifty yards or more and spend most of his surplus energy in catching up with the team. It was a merry chase Tug led his weary crew: through one rough ravine where the hillside flowed out from under their feet and followed them down, and where they must climb the other side on slippery earth, grasping at a rock here and a root there; then through one little strip of forest that offered him an advantageous-short cut. Here again he silenced the protests of his men at the thick underbrush and the frequent brambles they encountered. Just at the edge of this little grove Tug put on an extra burst of speed, and was running like the wind. The others, following to the best of their ability, saw him about to pass between two harmless posts. Suddenly they also saw him throw up his hands and fall over backward. When they reached him they saw that he had run into a barbed-wire fence in the dark. XXIII They were doubly dismayed now, because they not only had lost their leader, but were themselves lost in some part of the country where they knew neither the landmarks nor the points of the compass. They helped Tug cautiously to his feet, and, for lack of a better medicine, rubbed snow upon the ugly slashes in his breast and legs. "This ends the race, as far as we are concerned," moaned Bloss. But Tug had recovered enough from his dizziness to shake his head and mane lion-like, and cry: "Not much! Come on, boys!" And before the restraining hand of Sawed-Off could stop him, Tug had somehow wormed himself through the barbed-wire fence and was off across the open; and they were sore put to it to catch up with him again. Suddenly, as the devoted four followed their leader, the first station, the farm-house at which they were to report, loomed unexpectedly upon the horizon, approached in some unknown way by Tug, who was threading his way through the wilderness with more regard for straight lines than for progress. They were named off, as they flew past, by a watcher stationed there, and without pause they made off toward the railroad junction. Once they thought they saw a few fleeting forms in the distance, and they guessed that they must be Orton and his Brownsville team; but they could not feel sure, and no closer sight of their rivals was vouchsafed to them. When the last station, the little red school-house, had been passed, they began to feel that there was some hope of their reaching home. They began also to feel the effect of their long, hard journey. Their sides hurt them sorely, their legs ached, and their breath came faster than they wished. MacManus now showed more serious signs of weakening than any of the rest. He straggled along the way with feet that seemed to get into each other's path, and with a head that wabbled uncertainly on his drooping shoulders. Tug fell back and ran alongside him, trying to console and encourage him to better speed. MacManus responded to this plea with a spurt, and suddenly broke away from the four and ran wildly ahead with the speed of desperation. He came upon a little brook frozen across with a thin sheet of ice. Here he found a log that seemed to have been placed, either providentially or by some human being, to serve as a foot-bridge. MacManus leaped gaily on it to cross the stream ahead of the rest. To his breathless dismay, the log turned under his foot; and wildly as he tried to get a good grip on the atmosphere, nothing could save him, and he went ker-smash and ker-splash through the thin ice into the water. Now he was indeed willing to run without any more coaxing than the bitter air upon his wet skin. His only hope of getting warm was in his heels. And he ran like a maniac till Tug and the rest must put on extra force also, or leave him completely. Almost before they knew it, now, they were on the outskirts of Kingston village. Their arrival at the beginning of the home stretch was signaled in a very startling manner; for Tug, who had regained the lead, saw ahead of him a bright, shining strip that looked for all the world like a little frozen stream under the moonlight. He did not care to risk stepping on any more thin ice, so he gave the quick command: "Jump!" And he jumped, followed almost immediately by his devoted attendants. The next thing they all knew, they were in half-frozen mud up to their knees. The bright patch they had supposed to be a brook was a frost-covered sidewalk! And they had carefully jumped over the sidewalk into the mire beyond! Tug was disgusted but not disheartened, and he had his crew under way again instantly. He kept up his system of short cuts even now that they were in town. He led them over back fences, through orchards and kitchen-gardens, scattering a noisy flock of low-roosting hens in one place, and stirring up a half-dozen more dogs in another. The true home stretch was a long downhill run straight to the goal. By the time they reached this MacManus was once more in bad shape, and going very unsteadily. As they cleared the brow of the hill, Tug's anxious heart was pierced with the fear that he had lost the long, racking race, after all; for, just crossing the stake at the finish, he caught a sight of Orton. The rest of the team saw the same disheartening spectacle. And MacManus, eager for any excuse to stop running, gasped: "They've beaten us. There's no use running any farther." But Tug, having Lakerim ideals in mind, would never say die. He squandered just breath enough to exclaim: "We're not beaten till the last man crosses the line!" And he added: "Stage, run for your life." And Stage ran. Oh, but it was fine to see that lad run! He fled forward like a stag with the hounds in full cry after him. He wasted not an ounce of energy, but ran cleanly and straightly and splendidly. He had the high-stepping knee-action of a thoroughbred trotter, and his running was as beautiful as it was swift. "Run, all of you, for your lives!" cried Tug; and at that the weary little band sprang forward with a new lease on strength and determination. Tug had no ambition, like Orton, to leave his men to find their own way. Rather, he herded them up and urged them on, as a Scotch collie drives home the sheep at a canter. Orton's runners were "tailed out" for more than half a mile behind him. He himself was easily the first man home; but Stage beat his second man in, and Bloss was a good third. Orton ran back frantically, now, to coax his last three men. He hurried in his third runner at a fairly good gait, but before he could get him to the line, Tug had brought forward his last three men, Sawed-Off well up, MacManus going doggedly and leaning mentally, if not physically, on Tug, who ran at his side. By thus hurling in three men at once, Tug made an enormous inroad upon the score of the single-man Brownsvillers. Besides, though Orton got his next-to-the-last man in soon after Tug, the last Brownsviller did not come along for a minute afterward. He had been left to make his way along unaided and unguided, and he hardly deserved the laughter that greeted him as he came over the line. Thus Orton, too ambitious, had brought his team in with this score: 1, 3, 8, 9, 10--total, 31; while Tug's men, well bunched at the finish, came in with this score: 2,4, 5, 6, 7-total, 24. Tug richly deserved the cheers and enthusiasm that greeted his management; for, in spite of a team of individual inferiority to the crack Brownsvillers; he had won by strict discipline and clever generalship. XXIV The victorious outcome of the cross-country run, as well as many other victories and defeats, had pretty well instilled it in the Lakerim minds that team-play is an all-important factor of success. But the time came when there was no opportunity to use the hard-learned, easily forgot lesson of team-work, and it was each man for himself, and all for Lakerim and Kingston. When the ground was soggy and mushy with the first footsteps of spring, and it was not yet possible to practise to any extent out of doors, the Kingston Athletic Association received from the athletic association of the Troy Latin School a letter that was a curious combination of blood-warming hospitality and blood-curdling challenge. The Latin School, in other words, opened its heart and its gymnasium, and warmly invited the Kingston athletes to come over and be eaten up in a grand indoor carnival. Troy was not so far away that only a small delegation could go. Almost every one from Kingston, particularly those athletically inclined, took the train to Troy. Most surprising of all it was to see the diminutive and bespectacled History proudly joining the ranks of the strong ones. He was going to Troy to display his microscopical muscles in that most wearing and violent of all exercises--chess. The Tri-State Interscholastic League, which encouraged the practice of all imaginable digressions from school-books, had arranged for a series of chess games between teams selected from the different academies. The winners of these preliminary heats, if one can use so calm a word for so exciting a game, were to meet at Troy and play for the championship of the League. If I should describe the hair-raising excitement of that chess tournament, I am afraid that this book would be put down as entirely too lively for young readers. So I will simply say once for all that, owing to History's ability to look wiser than any one could possibly be, and to spend so much time thinking of each move that his deliberation affected his opponents' nerves, and owing to the fact that he could so thoroughly map out future moves on the inside of his large skull, and that there was something awe-inspiring about his general look of being a wizard in boys' clothes, he won the tournament--almost more by his looks than by his skill as a tactician. The whole Academy, and especially the Lakerimmers, overwhelmed this second Paul Morphy with congratulations, and felt proud of him; but when he attempted to explain how he had won his magnificent battle, and started off with such words as these: "You will observe that I used the Zukertort opening"; and when he began to tell of his moves from VX to QZ, or some such place, even his best friends took to tall timber. The Kingston visitors found that the Troy Latin School was in possession of a finer and much larger gymnasium than their own. But, much as they envied their luckier neighbors, they determined that they would prove that fine feathers do not make fine birds, nor a fine gymnasium fine athletes. A large crowd had gathered, and was put in a good humor with a beautiful exhibition of team-work by the Troy men on the triple and horizontal bars and the double trapeze. The Trojans also gave a kaleidoscopic exhibition of tumbling and pyramid-building, none of which sports had been practised much by the Kingstonians. After this the regular athletic contests of the evening began. In almost every event at least one of the Lakerim men represented Kingston. Some of the Dozen made a poor showing; but the majority, owing to their long devotion to the theory and the practice of athletics, stood out strongly, and were recognized by the strange audience, in their Lakerim sweaters, as distinguished heroes of the occasion. The first event was a contest in horse-vaulting, in which no Lakerim men were entered. Kingston suffered a defeat. "Ill begun is half done up," sighed Jumbo. But in the next event the old reliable Tug was entered, among others; and in the Rope-Climb he ran up the cord like a monkey on a stick, and touched the tambourine that hung twenty-five feet in the air before any of his rivals reached their goal, and in better form than any of them. The third event was the Standing High Jump; and B.J. and the other Kingstonians were badly outclassed here. Their efforts to clear the bar compared with that of the Trojans as the soaring of an elephant compares with the flight of a butterfly. Punk was the only Lakerimmer on the team that attempted to win glory on the flying-rings, but he and his brother Kingstonians suffered a like humiliation with the standing high-jumpers. The clerk of the course and the referees were now seen to be running hither and yon in great excitement. A long delay and much putting of heads together ensued, to the great mystification of the audience. At length, just as a number of small boys in the gallery had begun to stamp their feet in military time and whistle their indignation, the official announcer officially announced that there had been a slight hitch in the proceedings. "I have to explain," he yelled in his gentlest manner, "that two of the boxers have failed to turn up. Both have excellent excuses and doctors' certificates to account for their absence, but we have unfortunately to confess that the Kingston heavy-weight and the Troy feather-weight are incapacitated for the present. The feather-weight from Kingston, however, is a good enough sport to express a willingness to box, for points, with the heavy-weight from Troy. While this match will look a little unusual owing to the difference in size of the two opponents, it will be scientific enough, we have no doubt, to make it interesting as well as picturesque." As usual, the audience, not knowing what else to say, applauded very cordially. And now the heavy-weight from Troy, one Jaynes, appeared upon the scene with his second. There was no roped-off space, but only an imaginary "ring," which was, as usual, a square--of about twenty-four feet each way. Jaynes was just barely qualified as a heavy-weight, being only a trifle over one hundred and fifty-eight pounds. But he overshadowed little Bobbles as the giants overshadowed Jack the Giant-killer. Bobbles, while he was diminutive compared with Jaynes, was yet rather tall and wiry for his light weight, and had an unusually long reach for one of his size. He regretted now the great pains he had taken to train down to feather-weight weight. For when he had stepped on the scales in the gymnasium, the day before he had started for Troy, he found that he was three pounds over the necessary hundred and fifteen. So he had put on three sweaters, two pairs of trousers, and his football knickers, and run around the track for fully four miles, until he was in doubt as to whether he was a liquid or a solid body. Then he had fallen into a hot bath, and jumped from that into a cold shower, and had then been rubbed down by some of his faithful Lakerim friends with a pail of rock-salt to harden his muscles. At Troy, too, he had continued these tactics, and found, to his delight, when he weighed in, that he just tipped the scales at one hundred and fifteen. And now he was matched to fight with a heavy-weight, and every pound he had sweat off would have been an advantage to him! Yet, at any rate, it was not a fight to a finish, but only for points, and he counted upon his agility to save him from the rushes and the major tactics of the larger man. In order to make the scoring of points more vivid and visible to the audience, it was decided, after some hesitation, that the gloves should be coated with shoe-blacking. Bobbles realized that his salvation lay in quick attack and the seizure of every possible opportunity, as well as in his ability to escape the onslaughts of the heavy-weight. He did not purpose turning it into a sprinting-match, but he felt that he was justified in making as much use of the art of evasion as possible. He began the series by what was almost sharp practice, but was justified by the rules. The referee sang out: "Gentlemen, shake hands." Then the long and the short of it quickly clasped boxing-gloves in the middle of the ring. "Time!" cried the referee. [Illustration: THE BOXING MATCH.] Immediately on the break-away, before Jaynes had got his hands into position, Bobbles had landed on him with a fine left upper cut that put a black mark on Jaynes' jaw. Jaynes looked surprised, and the audience laughed. Bobbles also laughed, for he knew he would have few chances to place black spots on the upper works of the tall Jaynes, and that he must make his scores mainly upon the zone just above Jaynes' belt. Jaynes was as much angered as surprised at receiving the first blow, and sailed in with a vengeance to pepper Bobbles; but he began to think that he was boxing with a grasshopper before long, for, wherever he struck, there Bobbles was not. In fact, most of his straight-arm blows were not only dodged by Bobbles with the smallest necessary effort, but were effectively countered. Bobbles proved himself an adept at that best of boxing tactics, the ability to dodge. He rarely moved more than would take him sufficiently out of harm's way. A little bending of the head from one side to the other, a quick side-step or an adroit duck, saved him from being the bull's-eye of most of Jaynes' attacks. There were to be three rounds of three minutes each, with one minute's intermission between rounds. The first round was over before either of the men was much more than well warmed up to the work, and before either had scored any impressive amount of points. Jaynes, however, realized that Bobbles had landed oftener than he, and that the sympathy of the audience was with the little fellow. When time was called for the next round, therefore, he decided to rush things; and he charged on Bobbles with such fury that side-stepping and back-stepping were of little avail, and there was nothing for Bobbles to do but go into the mix-up and try to give as much as he received. Before they knew just how, they were clinched, and the referee was cutting them apart like a cheese-knife. And now the big man realized that on the swift interchange of blows Bobbles was quicker than he, and that he must keep him at a little distance. Relying, then, on his greater reach, he went at Bobbles in a most exasperating manner, holding one long arm out straight, and fanning Bobbles with the other. Bobbles ran into the outstretched fist with great enthusiasm at first, but after a moment's daze he dodged round and under that arm and devoted himself to playing a tattoo on Jaynes' solar plexus. Since his glove left a black mark wherever it struck, it was tattooing in two senses. Both men welcomed the gong that announced a chance to breathe. The grateful rubbing down, fanning, and sponging of the lightning-like seconds between the rounds restored both men somewhat to their enthusiasm, though the furious rate at which they had taken the two previous rounds left them bodily weak. Jaynes' second told him, during the pause, that Bobbles had decidedly the best of it thus far on form, and Jaynes' temper was aroused. Bobbles, having been told by his second that he had the better of it, had grown a trifle rash and impudent, and dared to take the aggressive. He went straight into Jaynes' zone of fire, and managed to plant several good hooks and upper cuts. While Bobbles was playing in the upper regions for Jaynes, Jaynes made a reach for Bobbles' body, several times; but Bobbles was not there. When Jaynes made a careless lead, Bobbles countered and dodged with remarkable skill. All these things, while they increased Bobbles' score and standing with the judges, increased Jaynes' temper; and finally he gave a vicious right swing, which Bobbles avoided unintentionally by slipping and falling. So he found himself on the floor, with Jaynes standing over him in expectant anticipation of landing him another ebonizing blow. He heard, also, the referee beginning to count slowly the seconds. His first impulse was to rise to his feet and assail Jaynes with all his might; then he realized that he had nine seconds for refreshment, and there he waited on one hand and one knee, while the seconds were slowly intoned, until the referee sang out: "Nine!" Then he made a sidelong scramble to his feet, and succeeded in dodging the blow with which Jaynes welcomed him back. Jaynes charged now after Bobbles like a Spanish bull; but the wiry Lakerimmer dodged him, and smote back at him while he dodged; while Jaynes, losing his head completely, wasted his strength in futile rushes and wild blows that bruised nothing except the atmosphere. Before the end of the round both men were decidedly tired, because the pace had been very rapid. The blows they dealt at each other were now hardly more than velvety shoves, and the air seemed to be the chief obstacle in their way. When by some chance they clinched, they leaned lovingly upon each other till the referee had to pry them apart. There was a little revival of interest just before the gong sounded to end the third and last round; for Bobbles, having regained some of his wind, began to pommel Jaynes with surprising rapidity and accuracy. The end of the bout found them in a happy-go-lucky mix-up, each striking blindly. The judges now met to discuss the verdict they were to render; and, there being some dispute as to the number of blows landed by each, the two men were brought forward for inspection. Bobbles' face and neck were as black as a piccaninny's, but there were few dark spots upon his chest. Jaynes, however, was like a leopard, for the blacking on Bobbles' gloves had mottled him all up and down and around. As Jumbo remarked to Sawed-Off: "Bobbles certainly had designs on that big fellow!" The judges had been agreed that on the points of defense, guarding, ducking, getting away, and counter-hitting, Bobbles, considering his size, was plainly the more brainy and speedy of the two. They were also inclined to grant him the greater number of points on his form in general, and especially on account of the disparity in size and reach; and when they counted the tattoo-marks on each, they found that here also Bobbles had made the highest score, and they did not hesitate to award him the prize. The next event was the High Kick, which was won by a Kingston hitch-and-kicker, who was a rank outsider from the Dozen. Quiz managed to be third and add one point to the Academy's score. Then came an exhibition of Indian-club swinging. Jumbo had formerly been the great Indian-club swinger of the Dozen, but he had recently gone in so enthusiastically for wrestling that he had given up his other interest. Sleepy had taken up this discarded amusement with as much enthusiasm as was possible to him. There was something about it that appealed to Sleepy. It was different from weight-lifting and dumb bell exercising in that when you once got the clubs started they seemed to do all the work themselves. But Sleepy was too lazy to learn many of the new wrinkles, and the Troy club-swingers set him some tasks that he could not repeat. In form, too, he was not their equal; and this event went to the Kingston opponents. A novelty was introduced here in place of the usual parallel-bar exhibition. From the horizontal bar a light gate was hung, and the various contestants gave exhibitions of Vaulting. The gate prevented the use of the kippie swing. There was no method of twisting and writhing up to the bar; it had to be clean vaulting; and Kingston gradually raised the mark till the Troy men could not go over it. At its last notch only one man made it, and that was a Kingston athlete--but unfortunately not a Lakerimmer, as Punk remained behind with the others, and divided second place with a rival. A Sack Race was introduced to furnish a little diversion for the audience, which, in view of the length of the program, was beginning to believe that, after all, it is possible to have too much of a good thing. The Kingstonians had put their hope in this event upon the Twins. None but the Dozen could tell them apart, but the Kingstonians felt confident that one of the red-headed brotherhood would win out. And so it looked to the audience when the long row of men were tied up like dummies in sacks that reached to their necks; for, after the first muddle at the start, two small brick-top figures went bouncing along in the lead, like hot-water bags with red stoppers in them. The Kingstonians, not knowing which of the Twins was in the lead, if indeed either of them actually led, yelled violently: "The Twins! The Twins!" It was Reddy that had got the first start and cleared the multitude, but Heady, by a careful system of jumping, was soon alongside his brother. He made a kind-hearted effort to cut Reddy off, with the result that they wabbled together and fell in a heap. They did not mind the fact that two or three other sack-runners were falling all over them; nor did they care what became of the race: the desire of each was to tear off that sack and get at the wretched brother that had caused the fall. Not being able to work their hands loose, they rolled toward each other, and began violently to bunt heads. Finding that this banner of battle hurt the giver of the blow as much as it did the receiver of it, they rolled apart again, and began to kick at each other in a most ludicrous and undignified manner. The Lakerimmers were finally compelled to rush in on the track and separate the loving brothers. Strange to say, the Twins got no consolation for the loss of the race from the fact that the audience had laughed till the tears ran down its face. [Illustration: "TIED UP LIKE DUMMIES IN SACKS."] When the Running High Jump went to Troy on account of the inability of B.J. to reach even his own record, the Kingstonians began to feel anxious of results. Troy had won six events, and they had won only four. The points, too, had fallen in such a way that there was a bad discrepancy. Sawed-Off appeared upon the horizon as a temporary rescuer; and while he could not put the sixteen-pound bag of shot so far as he had in better days sent the sixteen-pound solid shot, still he threw it farther than any of the Trojans could, and brought the Kingston score up to within one of the events gone to Troy. Pretty added one more by a display of grace and skill in the fencing-match with foils, that surprised even his best friends from Lakerim, and won the unanimous vote of the three judges, themselves skilful fencers. A wet blanket was thrown on the encouragement of the Kingstonians by their inferiority at weight-lifting. Sawed-Off was many pounds from the power of a certain powerful Trojan, who was a smaller man with bigger muscles. Then all the members of the Dozen had a special parlay with Jumbo, imploring him to save the day and the honor of both Kingston and Lakerim by winning the wrestling-match. XXV When Jumbo glanced across the floor and saw the man that was to be his opponent striding toward the mat in the center of the floor, he wished that some one else had been placed as the keystone in the Kingston arch of success. For Jumbo knew well the man's record as a wrestler. But Jumbo himself, while small, was well put together; and though built, as he said, "close to the ground," he was built for business. Since he had gone in for wrestling he had made it the specialty of all his athletic exercises. He had practised everything that had any bearing on the strengthening of particular muscles or general agility. He had practised cart-wheels, hand-springs, back and front flips. He had worked with his neck at the chest-weight machine. He would walk on his hands to strengthen his throat, and his collars had grown in a few weeks from thirteen and a half to fifteen, and he could no longer wear his old shirts without splitting them. He made the mats in the Kingston gymnasium almost his home. His special studies were bridging and spinning. He spent hours on his back, rising to his two feet and his head and then rolling from one shoulder to the other and spinning to his front. When he had his bridge-building abilities fairly well started, he compelled his heavy chum Sawed-Off to act as a living meal-bag, and rolled around upon the top of his head and bridged, with Sawed-Off laying all his weight across his chest. When he went to bed he bridged there until the best of wrestlers, sleep, had downed him. When he woke in the morning, he fell out of bed to the floor, turning his head under him and rolling so as not to break his neck or any bones, and bridging rigidly upon his head and bare feet. Jumbo knew that, whatever might be the ability of his rival, the Trojan Ware, at least he, Jumbo, could have his conscience easy with the thought that he had made the most profitable use of the short time he had spent on wrestling, and that he would put up as good a fight as was in him. More than that no athlete can do. Jumbo and Ware met upon the mattress with their close-shaven heads looking like bulldogs' jowls; and they shook hands--if one can imagine bulldogs shaking hands. Jumbo had two cardinal principles, but he could put neither of them into practice in the first maneuvers: the first was always to try to get out of one difficulty by dumping the opponent into another; the second was always to try for straight-arm leverages. Ware being the larger of the two, Jumbo was content to play a waiting game and find out something of the methods of his burly opponent. He dodged here and there, avoiding the reaching lobster-claws of Ware by quick wriggles or by slapping his hands away as they thrust. Suddenly Ware made a quick rush, and, breaking through Jumbo's interference, seized him around the body to bend him backward. But while the man was straining his hardest, Jumbo brought his hands around and placed them together in front of the pit of his stomach, so that the harder Ware squeezed the harder he pressed Jumbo's fists into his abdomen. Ware looked foolish at being foiled so neatly, and broke away, only to come at Jumbo again, and clasp him so close that there was no room for his fists to press against Ware's diaphragm. But now Jumbo suddenly clasped his left arm back of Ware's neck, and with his right hand bent the man's forehead back until he was glad enough to let go and spring away. Ware continued to run around Jumbo as a dog runs around a treed cat. But Jumbo always evaded his quick rushes till Ware, after many false moves, finally made a sudden and unforeseen dash, seized Jumbo's right hand with both of his, whirled in close, and, with his back against Jumbo's chest, carried the Lakerimmer's right arm straight and stiff across his shoulder. Bearing down with all his weight on this lever, and at the same time dropping to his knees, he shot Jumbo over his shoulders, heels over head. "That Flying Mere was certainly a bird!" said Bobbles. Ware went down with Jumbo, to land on his chest and break any bridge the boy might form. And the Flying Mere had been such a surprise, and the fall was so far and the floor so hard, that, while Jumbo instinctively tried to bridge, his effort collapsed. His two shoulders touched. The bout was over. The first fall had been so quickly accomplished, and Jumbo had offered so feeble a resistance, that the Troy faction at once accepted the wrestling-match as theirs, and the Kingstonians gave up the evening as hopelessly lost. Jumbo was especially covered with chagrin, since he had practised so long, and had builded so many hopes on this victory; worst of all, the whole success of the contest between the two academies depended on his victory. When, then, after a rest, the referee called "Time!" Ware came stalking up jauntily and confidently; but Jumbo, instead of skulking, was up, and at, and on him like a wildcat. Ware had expected that the Lakerim youngster would pursue the same elusive tactics as before, and he was all amaze while Jumbo was seizing his left hand with his own left hand, and, darting round behind him, was bending Ware's arm backward and upward into the Hammerlock. The pain of this twist sent Ware's body forward, so that Jumbo could reach up under his right armpit and, placing the palm of his right hand on the back of Ware's head, make use of that crowbar known as the right Half-Nelson. This pressure was gradually forcing Ware forward on the top of his head; but he knew the proper break for the Hammerlock, and simply threw himself face forward on the mat. As he rose to his knees again Jumbo pounced on him like a hawk, and while Ware waited patiently the little Lakerimmer was reaching under Ware's armpit again for another Half-Nelson; but Ware simply dodged the grasping of Jumbo's right hand, or, bringing his right arm vigorously back and down, so checked Jumbo's arm that the boy could not reach his neck. Jumbo now tried, by leaning his left forearm and all his weight upon Ware's head, to bring it into reach; but Ware's neck was too strong, and when he stiffened it Jumbo could not force it down. Ware waited in amused patience to learn just how much Jumbo knew about wrestling. Jumbo wandered around on his knees, feinting for another Half-Nelson, and making many false plays to throw Ware off his guard. Suddenly, while Ware seemed to be all neck against a Half-Nelson, Jumbo dropped to his knees near Ware's right arm, and, shooting his left arm under Ware's body and his right arm across beneath Ware's chin, laid violent hold on the man's left arm near the shoulder with what is known as the Farther-Arm Hold. Jumbo's movement was so quick and unexpected that Ware could not parry it by throwing his left leg out and forward for a brake. He realized at once that he would have to go, and when Jumbo gave a quick yank he rolled over and bridged. But Jumbo followed him quickly over, and clasping Ware's left arm between his legs, he forced the right arm out straight also with both his hands so that Ware could not roll. Then he simply pressed with all his force upon Ware's chest. And waited. Also weighted. Ware squirmed and wriggled and grunted and writhed, but there was no escape for him, and while he stuck it out manfully, with Jumbo heavy upon him, he knew that he was a goner. And finally, with a sickly groan, London Bridge came a-falling down. The bout was Jumbo's, and he retired to his corner with a heart much lighter. The applause of the audience, the rip-roaring enthusiasm of the Kingston Academy yell, followed by the beloved club cry of Lakerim, rejoiced him mightily. He had put down a man far heavier than he; and he felt that possibly, perchance, maybe, there was a probability of a contingency in which he might be able to have a chance of downing him once more--perhaps. It was a very cool and cautious young man that came forward to represent Kingston when the referee exclaimed: "Shake hands for the third and last bout!" Jumbo, as soon as he had released Ware's fingers, dropped to his hands and knees on the mat, squatting far back on his haunches, and manifested a cheerful willingness to go almost anywhere except on the back of his two shoulders. It was Ware's turn to be aggressive now, for he had been laughed at not a little for being downed by so small an opponent. He spent some time and more strength in picking Jumbo up bodily from the mat and dropping him all over the place. Jumbo's practice at bridging stood him in excellent stead now, and he got out of many a tight corner by a quick, firm bridge or a sudden spin. Ware time after time forced one of the boy's shoulders to the mat, and strove with all his vim to force the other shoulder down. And he generally succeeded; but the first always came up. Jumbo went willingly from one shoulder to the other, but never from one to both. He frequently showed a most obliging disposition, and did what Ware wanted him to, or, rather, he did just that and a little more--he always went too far; and Ware was becoming convinced that he never could get those two obstinate shoulder-blades to the mat at the same time. After much puttering, he reached the goal of his ambition, and got the deadly Full-Nelson on Jumbo's head, and forced it slowly and irresistibly down. Just as he was congratulating himself that he had his fish landed, Jumbo suddenly whirled his legs forward and assumed a sitting position. The whole problem was reversed. Ware rose wearily to his feet, and Jumbo returned to his hands and knees. Once more Ware strove for the Nelson. He was jabbing Jumbo's head and trying to shove it down within reach of his right hand. Suddenly, with a surprising abruptness, Jumbo's head was not there,--he had jerked it quickly to one side,--and Ware's hand slipped down and almost touched the floor. But the watchful Jumbo had seized Ware's wrist with both hands, and returned to the big fellow the compliment of the Straight-Ann Leverage and the Flying Mere which had been so fatal to himself in the first bout. Ware's fall was not nearly so far as Jumbo's had been, and he managed to bridge and save himself. Before Jumbo could settle on his chest, Ware was out of danger. But he went to his hands and knees in a defensive attitude that showed he was nearly worn out. Jumbo did not see just what right Ware had to imitate his own position, and the two of them sprawled like frogs, eying each other jealously. Jumbo soon saw that he was expected to take the aggressive or go to sleep; so, with a lazy sigh, he began snooping around for those nuggets of wrestling, the Nelsons. After foiling many efforts, the Trojan noted all at once that Jumbo's head was not above Ware's shoulders, but back of the right armpit. In a flash a thought of pity went through Ware's brain. "Poor fool!" he almost groaned aloud; and reaching back, he gathered Jumbo's head into chancery. A sigh went up from all Kingston, and Sawed-Off gasped: "Poor Jumbo 's gone!" But just as Ware, chuckling with glee, started to roll Jumbo over, the boy swung at right angles across Ware's back, and brought the Trojan's arm helplessly to the Hammerlock. This was a new trick to Ware, one he had never heard of, but one that he understood and respected immediately. He yielded to it judiciously, and managed to spin on his head before Jumbo could land on his chest. Ware had more respect now for Jumbo, and decided to keep him on the defensive, especially as a bystander announced that the time was almost up. Ware rushed the contest, and, after many failures, managed to secure a perfect Full-Nelson. Jumbo's position was such that there was no way for him to squirm out. He resisted until it seemed that his neck would break. In vain. His head was slowly forced under. And now his shoulders began to follow, and he was rolling over on his back. One shoulder is down. The referee is on all fours, his cheek almost to the ground. He is watching for the meeting of those two shoulders upon the mat. The Kingstonians have given up, and the Trojans have their cheers all ready. And now the despairing Jumbo feels that his last minute has come. But just for the fraction of a second he sees that the cautious Ware is slightly changing his hold. With a sudden, a terrific effort, he throws all his soul into his muscles--closes his arms like a vise on Ware's arms. The Nelson is broken, or weakened into uselessness. He draws his head into his shoulders as a turtle's head is drawn into its shell, whirls like lightning on the top of his head to his other shoulder, and on over, carrying the horrified Ware with him, plouncing the Trojan flat on his back, and plumping down on top of him. And the excited referee went over on his back also, and kicked his heels foolishly in the air as he cried: "Down!" Jumbo had won the match. This brought the score of contests back to a tie, and the result of these Olympic games now rested entirely on the victors of the Tug of War. XXVI Curiously enough, the Trojans and the Kingstonians had each won a series of firsts, seconds, and thirds that totaled up the same. So the Tug of War, which had been intended only for an exhibition, became in a sense the deciding event of the whole contest. The captain of the Kingston four was the large Sawed-Off, who was also the anchor of his team. He came out upon the floor, wearing around his waist a belt that was almost as graceful as a horse-collar, and quite as heavy, made, as it was, of padded leather. It was suspended from his shoulders like a life-belt, and carried a deep groove around the middle of it. The Troy captain had a similar contrivance about him, and he looked somewhat contemptuously upon the Kingstonians, who had not the beefy, brawny look of his own big four. The eight took their places on the long board, each man with his feet against a cleat. The rope was marked in its exact center with a white cord, and held there by a lever, which the umpire pressed down with his foot. The Troy tuggers took a stout hold on the rope and faced the Kingstonians gloweringly. The Kingston men, however, faced to the rear and straddled the rope--all except Sawed-Off, who had wrapped it round his belt, and taken a hitch in it for security. He faced the Trojans, and hoped that science would defeat beef once more in the history of athletics. When all were ready the umpire shouted "Go!" and at the same instant released the lever and the cable. The Trojans threw all their muscle into one terrific jerk; but each of Sawed-Off's men, gripping the cable in front of him at arm's-length, fell forward, face down. By the impact of their full weight, and by relying not merely upon their arms, but on the whole pull of back and legs, the Kingstonians gave the rope a yank that would have annoyed an oak-tree, and certainly left the Trojans no chance. After this first assault the teams found themselves thus: The Kingstonians were stretched prone upon the board with their legs straight against the cleats; Sawed-Off was braced against his cleat and seated, facing Troy. The rival team was seated, but with knees bent; and their captain glared amazed at Sawed-Off, who was busily taking in over a foot of captured cable. The Trojan captain, Winthrop by name, gave a signal grunt, to which his men responded with a fury, regaining about two of the lost inches. This lifted Sawed-Off slightly off the board, and in response to three or four bitter wrenches from Troy, he was forced to let them have six inches more cable, lest they cut him in two like a cake of soap. But Kingston had learned, by painful experience, the signals of the Troy captain; and just as the Trojans were reaching confidently forward for a new hold, the alert Sawed-Off murmured a quick hint, and his men gave a sudden hunch that took the enemy unawares, and brought back home three inches of beautiful rope. The same watchfulness won another three; and there they held the white string, a foot to their side, when the time was up and the lever was clamped down. After a short rest, the men resined their hands anew and prepared for the second pull. The Trojan captain had been wise enough to see the advantage of the Kingston forward fall, and he was not too modest to adopt it. When the lever was supped the second time both teams fell face downward. But now Troy's greater bulk told to her advantage, and she carried the white cord six inches to her side. The Kingstons lay with their knees bent. Now Sawed-Off tried a preconcerted trick signal. With ominous tone he cried: "Now, boys--all together--heave!" At the word "heave" the Trojans braced like oxen against the expected jerk; but none came, and they relaxed a little, feeling that they had been fooled. But Sawed-Off's men were slowly and silently counting five, and then, with a mighty heave, they yearned forward, and catching the Winthrop team unprepared, got back four inches. They tried it again, and made only about an inch. A third time Sawed-Off gave the signal, and the Trojans, recognizing it, waited a bit before bracing for the shock. But for the third time Sawed-Off had arranged that the pull should immediately follow the command. Again the Trojans were fooled, and the white went two inches into Kingston territory. The Trojans now grew angry and panicky, and began to wrench and twist without regard for one another. The result of this was that Kingston gradually gained three inches more before Winthrop could coax his men back to reason and team-work. The time was almost gone now, and he got his men into a series of well-concerted, steady, deadly efforts, that threatened to bring the whole Kingston four over with the snail-like white cord. But Sawed-Off pleaded with his men, and they buried their faces in the board and worked like mad. To the spectators they seemed hardly to move, but under their skins their muscles were crowding and shoving like a gang of slaves, and fairly squeezing streams of sweat out of them as if their gleaming hides were sponges. And then, after what seemed a whole night of agony, the white cord budged no more, though the Trojans pulled themselves almost inside out; and suddenly the lever nipped the rope, and the contest was over. The Trojans were all faint, and the head of Winthrop fell forward limply. Even Sawed-Off was so dizzy that he had to be helped across the floor by his friends. But they were glad enough to pay him this aid. All Kingston had learned to love the sturdy giant, and the Lakerimmers were prouder of him than ever, for it was through him that the fatal balance had been pulled down to Kingston's side, so that the team could take another victory home with them to the Academy. XXVII As the school year rolled on toward its finish in June, times became busier and busier for the students, especially for the Lakerimmers, who felt a great responsibility upon their shoulders, the responsibility of keeping the Lakerim Athletic Club pennant flying to the fore in all the different businesses of academic life--in the classroom, at the prize speaking, in the debating society, and, most of all, in the different athletic affairs. It was no longer necessary, as it had been at home in Lakerim, for the same twelve men to play all the games known to humanity--to make a specialty of everything, so to speak. At Kingston, while they were still one body and soul, and kept up their union with constant powwows in one another's rooms, but most often in Tug's, they were divided variously among the athletic teams, where each one felt that his own honor was Lakerim's. Their motto was the motto of the Three Musketeers: "All for one, and one for all." The springtime athletics found the best of them choosing between the boat crew and the ball team. It was a hard choice for some of them who loved to be Jacks-at-all-trades, but a choice was necessary. The Kingston Academy possessed so many good fellows that not all of the Dozen found a place on the eight or the nine; still, there were enough of them successful to keep Lakerim material still strongly in evidence. Of the men that tried for the crew, all were sifted out, gradually, except B.J., Quiz, and Punk. The training was a severe one, under a coach who had graduated some years before from Kingston, and had come back to bring his beloved Academy first across the line, as it had gone the year he had captained the crew. As the training went on, the man who had been elected captain of the eight worked so faithfully--or overworked so faithfully--that he was trained up to the finest point some two or three weeks before the great regatta of academies. Every day after that he lost in form, in spite of himself, and the coach had finally to make him abdicate the throne; and Punk, who had worked in his usual slow and conservative fashion, seemed the fittest man to succeed him. So Punk became captain of the crew, and found himself at the old post of stroke-oar. On the day of the great Henley of the Interscholastic League, when all the crews had got away in their best style, after two vexatious false starts, Punk slowly, and without any impatience, urged his crew past all the others, till Kingston led them all. From this place he could study his rivals well, and after some shifting of positions, he saw the Troy Latin School eight coming cleanly out of the parade and making swiftly after him. Suddenly a great nervousness seized him, because he remembered the time, the year before, when the Lakerim crew rowed Troy, and when his oar had broken just before the finish, so that he had been compelled to jump out into the water, and had missed the joy of riding over the line with his winning Lakerimmers. He wondered now if this oar would also play him false. But he had selected it with experienced care, and hard as he strained it, and pathetically as it groaned, it stood him in good stead, and carried him, and the seven who rowed with him, safely into the paradise of victory. XXVIII Of the Lakerimmers who tried for the baseball team, four men were elevated to the glory of positions on the regular nine. Sleepy had somehow proved that left-field was safer when he was seeming to take a nap there than it was under the guard of any of the more restless players. Tug was a second baseman, whose cool head made him a good man at that pivot of the field; he was an able assistant to the right-field, a ready back-stop to the short-stop, and a perfect spider for taking into his web all the wild throws that came slashing from the home plate to cut off those who dared to try to steal his base. Sawed-Off was the nearest of all the Kingstonians to resembling a telegraph-pole, so he had no real competitors for first base. He declined to play, however, unless Jumbo were given the position of short-stop; and Jumbo soon proved that he had some other rights to the position besides a powerful pull. Reddy and Heady had worked like beavers to be accepted as the battery, but the pitcher and catcher of the year before were so satisfactory that the Twins could get no nearer to their ambitions than the substitute-list, and there it seemed they were pretty sure to remain upon the shelf, in spite of all the practice they had kept up, even through the winter. The Kingston ball-team had found its only rival to the championship of the Interscholastic League in the nine from the Charleston Preparatory School. The Kingstonians all plucked up hope, however, when they found themselves at the end of the season one game ahead of Charleston; or, at least, they called it one game ahead, for Charleston had played off its schedule, and Kingston had only one more nine to defeat, and that was the Brownsville School for Boys, the poorest team in the whole League, a pack of good-for-nothings with butter on their fingers and holes in their bats. So Kingston counted the pennant as good as won. Down the team went to Brownsville, then, just to see how big a score they could roll up. Back they came from Brownsville so dazed they almost rode past the Kingston station. For when they had reached the ballground, one of those curious moods that attacks a team as it attacks a single person seized them and took away the whole knack that had won them so many games. The Brownsvillers, on the other hand, seemed to have been inspired by something in the air. They simply could not muff the ball or strike out. They found and pounded the curves of the Kingston pitcher so badly that the substitute battery would have been put in had they not been left behind because it was not thought worth while to pay their fare down to Brownsville. The upshot of the horrible afternoon was that Brownsville sent Kingston home with its feelings bruised black and blue, and its record done up in cotton. It was a good thing that Kingston had prepared no bonfire for the victory they had thought would be so easy, because if the defeated nine had been met with such a mockery they would surely have perished of mortification. The loss of this game--think of it, the score was 14 to 2!--tied the Kingstonians with the Charlestonians, and another game was necessary to decide the contest for the pennant. That game was immediately arranged for commencement week on the Kingston grounds. And now the Twins, who had resigned themselves to having never a chance on the nine, found themselves suddenly called upon to pitch and catch in _the_ game of the year; for the drubbing the regular pitcher had received had destroyed the confidence of the team in his ability to pitch a second time successfully against the Charlestonians. To make matters worse, the game was to come almost in the very midst of the final examinations of the year, and the Twins became so mixed up in their efforts to cram into their heads all the knowledge in the world, and to pull out of their fingers all of the curves known to science, that one day Reddy said to Heady: "I half believe that when I get up for oral examination I'll be so rattled that, instead of answering the question, I'll try to throw the ink-bottle on an upshoot at the professor's head." And Heady answered, even more glumly: "I wouldn't mind that so much; what I'm afraid of is that when you really need to use that out-curve you'll throw only a few dates at the batter. I will signal for an out-curve, and you'll stand in the box and tie yourself in a bow-knot, and throw at me something about Columbus discovering America in 1776; or you'll reel off some problem about plastering the inside of a room, leaving room for four doors and six windows." When the day of the game arrived, however, Reddy and Heady took their positions with the proud satisfaction of knowing that they had passed all their school-book examinations. Now they wondered what percentage they would make in their baseball examination. Sleepy, however, went out to left-field not knowing where he stood. He knew so little about his books, indeed, that even after the examination was over he could tell none of the fellows what answers he had made to what questions, and so they could not tell him whether or no he had failed ignominiously or passed accidentally. This worry, however, sat very lightly on Sleepy's nerves. The largest crowd of the year was gathered to witness the greatest game of the year, and Charleston and Kingston were tuned up to the highest pitch they could reach without breaking. The day was perfect, and in the preliminary practice the Kingstonians showed that they were determined to wipe out the disgrace of the Brownsville game, or at least to cover it up with the scalps of the Charlestonians. At length the Charlestonians were called in by their captain, for they were first at bat. The Kingstonians dispread themselves over the field in their various positions. The umpire tossed to the nervous Reddy what seemed to be a snowball, whose whiteness he immediately covered with dust from the box. The Charlestonian batter came to the plate and tapped it smartly three or four times. The umpire sang out: "Play-ball!" Reddy cast a nervous look around the field, then went into a spasm in which he seemed to be trying to "skin the cat" on an invisible turning-pole. Out of the mix-up he suddenly straightened himself. The first baseman saw a dusty white cannon-ball shoot past him, and heard the umpire's dulcet voice growl: "Strike!" Which pleased the Kingston audience so mightily that they broke forth into cheers and applause that upset Reddy so completely that the next ball slipped from his hand and came toward the first baseman so gently that he could hardly have missed it had he tried. The Kingstonian cheer disappeared in a groan as everybody heard that unmistakable whack that resounds whenever the bat and the ball meet face to face. But the very sureness of the hit was its ruination, for it went soaring like a carrier-pigeon straight home to the hands of Sleepy, who, without moving from his place, reached up and took it in. The Kingston groan was now changed back again to a cheer, and the first batter of the first half of the first inning had scored the first "out." The Charleston third baseman now came to the bat. Three times in succession Reddy failed to get the ball over the plate, and the man evidently had made up his mind that he was to get his base on balls, for at the fourth pitch he dropped his bat and started for first base, only to be called back by the umpire's voice declaring a strike. To his immense disgust, two other strikes followed it, and he went to the bench instead of to the base. The third Charlestonian caught the first ball pitched by Reddy, and sent it bounding toward Jumbo, who ripped it off the ground and had it in the hands of his chum Sawed-Off before the Charlestonian was half-way to first base. This retired the side, and the Kingstonians came in to bat amid a pleasant April shower of applause. Sawed-Off was the first Kingston man to take a club to the Charlestonians. He waved his bat violently up and down, and stared fiercely at the Charleston pitcher. His ferocity disappeared, however, when he saw the ball coming at a frightful speed straight at him, and threatening to take a large scoop out of his stomach. He stretched up and back and away from it with a ridiculous wiggle, that was the more ridiculous when he saw the ball curve harmlessly over the plate and heard the umpire cry: "Strike--one!" He upbraided himself for his fear, and when the next ball was pitched, though he felt sure that it was going to strike him on the shoulder, he did not budge. But here he made mistake number two; for the ball did not curve as the pitcher had intended, but gave the batter a sharp nip just where it said it would. The only apology the pitcher made was the rueful look with which he watched Sawed-Off going down to first base. The Kingston center-fielder was the next at the bat, and he sent a little Roman candle of a fly that fell cozily into the third baseman's hands. Jumbo now came to the plate, and swinged at the ball so violently that one might have thought he was trying to lift Sawed-Off bodily from first base to second. But he managed only to send a slow coach of a liner, that raced him to first base and beat him there. Sawed-Off, however, had managed to make second before the Charleston first baseman could throw him out, and there he pined away, for the Kingston third baseman struck out, possibly in compliment to the Charleston third baseman, who had done the same thing. This complimentary spirit seemed to fill the short-stop also, for he sent down to his rival Jumbo a considerately easy little fly, which stuck to Jumbo's palms as firmly as if there had been fly-paper on them. The Charleston catcher now found Reddy for a clean base-hit between left and center field. He tried to stretch it into a two-base hit, and the Kingston center fielded the ball in so slowly that he succeeded in his grasping attempt. The Charlestonian second baseman made a sacrifice hit that advanced the catcher to third. And now the pitcher came to the bat, eager to bring home the wretch at whom he had hurled his swiftest curves. His anxiety led him into making two foolish jabs at curves that were out of his reach, and finally he caught one just on the tip of his bat, and it went neatly into Tug's hand, leaving the catcher to perish on third base. Sleepy now came to the bat for Kingston, and, without making any undue exertion, deftly placed a fly between the short-stop and the left-fielder, and reached first base on a canter. He made no rash attempts to steal second, but waited to be assisted there. The Kingston right-fielder, however, struck out and made way for Reddy. Reddy, though a pitcher, was, like most pitchers, unable to solve the mystery of a rival's curves for more than a little grounder, that lost him first base, and forced Sleepy to a most uncomfortable exertion to keep from being headed off at second. Tug now came to the bat; but, unfortunately, while the hit he knocked was a sturdy one, it went toward third base, and Sleepy did not dare venture off second, though he made a feint at third which engaged the baseman's attention until Tug reached first. Heady now came to the bat, and some of the Charlestonians insisted that he had batted before; but they were soon convinced of their error when the Twins were placed side by side. Heady puzzled them even more, however, by scratching off just such another measly bunt as his brother had failed with, and when he was put out at first Sleepy and Tug realized that their running had been in vain. Sleepy thought of the terrific inconvenience the struggle for the three bases had caused him, and was almost sorry that he had not struck out in the first place. The Charleston right-fielder opened the third inning with a graceful fly just this side the right-fielder's reach, in that field where base-hits seem to grow most plentifully. The Kingston center-fielder was presented with a base on balls, which forced the right-fielder to second base. Now Reddy recovered sufficiently to strike out the next Charleston batter, though the one after him sent into right field a long, low fly, which the Kingston right-fielder caught on the first bound, and hurled furiously to third base to head off the Charleston runner. The throw was wild, and a sickening sensation went through the hearts of all as they saw it hurtle past the third baseman. The Charleston runner rejoiced, and giving the bag a mere touch with his foot, started gaily for home. A warning cry from his coach, however, checked him in full speed, and he whirled about to see that Sleepy, foreseeing the throw from right-field as soon as the ball left the bat, had sauntered over behind the third baseman, had stopped the wild throw, and now stood waiting for the base-runner to declare his intention before he threw the ball. The Charlestonian made a quick dash to get back to third; but Sleepy had the ball in the third baseman's hands before him. Now the third baseman saw that the second Kingston runner had also been wavering uncertainly between second and third, ready to reach third if Sleepy threw for home, and to return to second if he threw to third. The third baseman started toward the runner, making many pretenses of throwing the ball, and keeping the poor base-runner on such a razor-edge of uncertainty that he actually allowed himself to be touched out with barely a wriggle. This double play retired the side. It was credited to the third baseman; but the real glory belonged to Sleepy, and the crowd gave him the applause. Once more Sawed-Off towered at the bat. He was willing to take another bruise if he could be assured of getting to first base; but the pitcher was so wary of striking him this time that he gave him his base on balls, and Sawed-Off lifted his hat to him in gratitude for this second gift. The center-fielder knocked a fly into the hands of the first baseman, who stood on the bag. Sawed-Off barely escaped falling victim to a double play by beating the fly to first. Again Jumbo labored mightily to advance Sawed-Off, and did indeed get him to second on a well-situated base-hit. The next Kingstonian, however, the third baseman, knocked to the second baseman a bee-liner that was so straight and hot that the second baseman could neither have dodged nor missed it had he tried; so he just held on to it, and set his foot on the bag, and caught Sawed-Off before he could get back to the base. The fourth inning was opened by a Charlestonian, who sent a singing fly right over Sawed-Off's head. He seemed to double his length like a jack-knife. When he shut up again, however, the ball was not in his hand, but down in the right-field. It was a master stroke, but, worth only one base to Charleston. The second man at the bat fell prey to Reddy's bewildering curves, and Reddy heard again that sweetest sound a pitcher can hear, the umpire's voice crying: "Striker--out!" The Charlestonian who had lined out the beautiful base-hit proved himself the possessor of a pair of heels as good as his pair of eyes, and just as Reddy had declared by his motions such a readiness to pitch the ball that he could not have changed his mind without being declared guilty of a balk--just at that instant the Charlestonian dashed madly for second base. Heady snatched off his mask and threw the ball to second with all the speed and correctness he was master of; but the throw went just so far to the right that Tug, leaning far out, could not recover himself in time to touch the runner. [Illustration: "'STRIKER--OUT!'"] These two now began to play a game of hide-and-seek about second base, much to Reddy's discomfort. There is nothing so annoying to a pitcher as the presence of a courageous and speedy base-runner on the second base; for the pitcher has always the threefold terror that in whirling suddenly he may be found guilty of balking, or in facing about quickly he may make a wild throw; and yet if he does not keep a sharp eye in the back of his head, the base-runner can play off far enough to stand a good chance of stealing third safely. Reddy engaged in this three-cornered duel so ardently that before he knew it he had given the man at the bat a base on balls. This added to his confusion, and seeing at the bat the Charleston catcher who had in the second inning knocked out a perfect base-hit and made two bases on it, Reddy left the wily fox at second base to his own devices, and paid no heed to Tug's efforts to beat the man back to second. Suddenly the fellow made a dart for third; though Heady's throw was straight and swift, the fellow dived for the base, and slid into safety under the ball. In the shadow of this dash the other Charleston base-runner took second base without protest. The Charleston catcher was evidently determined to bring in at least one run, or die trying. He smashed at every ball that Reddy pitched. He only succeeded, however, in making a number of fouls. But Reddy shuddered for the score when he realized how well the Charleston catcher was studying his best curves. Suddenly the man struck up a sky-scraping foul. Everybody yelled at once: "Over your head!" And Heady, ripping away his mask again, whirled round and round, trying to find the little globule in the dazzling sky. He gimleted all over the space back of the plate before he finally made out the ball coming to earth many feet in front of him. He made a desperate lunge for it and caught it. And Reddy's groan of relief could be heard clear from the pitcher's box. The Charleston catcher, in a great huff, threw his bat to the ground with such violence that it broke, and he gave way to the second baseman, who had made a sacrifice hit in the second inning--which advanced the catcher one base. The man realized, however, that a sacrifice in this inning, with two men already out, would not be so advantageous as before. He made an heroic attempt, resulting in a clean drive that hummed past Reddy like a Mauser bullet, and chose a path exactly between Jumbo and Tug. It was evident that no Kingston man could stop it in time to throw either to first base or home ahead of a Charleston man; but since Kingston could not put the side out before a run was scored, the Charlestonians cheerfully consented to put themselves out; that is, the base-runner on second, making a furious dash for third, ran ker-plunk into the ball, which recorded itself on his funny-bone. When he fell to the ground yelping with torment, I am afraid that the Kingstonians showed little of the Good Samaritan spirit, for the ball-nine and the Kingston sympathizers in the crowd indulged in a jubilation such as a Roman throng gave vent to when a favorite gladiator had floored some new savage. The Kingston men came in from the field arm in arm, but it was not long before they were once more sauntering out into the field, for not one of them reached first base. A game without runs is not usually half so interesting to the crowd as one in which there is free batting and a generous sprinkling of runs. The average spectator is not sport enough to feel sorry for the pitcher when a home run has been knocked over the fence, or to feel sorry for a fielder who lets a ball through his fingers and sends the base-runners on their way rejoicing. To your thorough sport, though, a scientific, well-balanced game is the most interesting. He likes to see runs earned, if scored at all, and has sympathy but no interest for a pitcher who permits himself to be knocked out of the box. A more nicely balanced game than this between Kingston and Charleston could hardly be imagined, and there was something in the air or in the game that made the young teams play like veterans. Each worked together like a clock of nine cog-wheels. Though the next four innings were altogether different from one another in batting and fielding, they were exactly alike in that they were all totaled at the bottom of the column, with a large blank goose-egg. At the opening of the ninth inning even the uncultured members of the crowd--those unscientific ingoramuses that had voted the game a dull one because no one had made the circuit of the bases--even these sat up and breathed fast, and wondered what was going to happen. They had not drawn many breaths before the Kingston catcher rapped on the plate and threw back his bat to knock the stuffing out of any ball that Reddy might hurl at him; and, indeed, his intentions were nearly realized, for the very first throw that Reddy made hit the bull's-eye on the Charleston bat, and then leaped away with a thwack. Reddy leaped for it first, but it went far from his fingers. Next after him Tug went up into the air and fell back beautifully. And after him--just as if they had been jumping-jacks--the center-fielder bounded high and clutched at the ball, but past his finger-tips, too, it went, and he turned ignominiously after it. If he was running the Charlestonian was flying. He shot across first base, and on, just grazing second base--unseen by Tug, who had turned his back and was yelling vainly to the center-fielder to throw him the ball he had not yet caught up with. On the Charlestonian sped in a blind hurry. He very much resembled a young man decidedly anxious to get home as soon as possible. He flew past third base and on down like an antelope to the plate. This he spurned with his toe as he ran on, unable to check his furious impetus, until he fell in the arms of the other Charleston players on the bench. And then the Charleston faction in the crowd raised crawled in at the back door and been ousted unceremoniously! The Kingstonians had certainly played a beautiful game, but the Charlestonians had played one quite as good. All that the Kingston-lovers could do when they saw their nine come to the bat for the ninth time was to look uncomfortable, mop their brows, and remark: "Whew!" The Kingstonian center-fielder was the first to the bat, and he struck out. Then Jumbo appeared, and played a waiting game he was very fond of: while pretending to be willing to hit anything that was pitched, he almost always let the ball go by him; and since he was so short and stocky,--"built so close to the ground," as he expressed it,--the pitcher usually threw too high, and Jumbo got his base on balls a dozen times where he earned it with a base-hit or lost it on a strike-out. And now he reached first base in his old pet way, and made ardent preparations to steal second; but his enterprise was short-lived, for the Kingston third baseman knocked an easy grounder to the short-stop, who picked it from the ground and tossed it into the second baseman's hands almost with one motion; and the second baseman, just touching the base with his toe to put Jumbo out on a forced run, made a clean throw to first that put out the batsman also, and with him the side. The scientists marked down upon the calendars of their memory the fact that they had seen two preparatory school teams play a nine-inning game without scoring a run. The others in the crowd only felt sick with hope deferred, and wondered if that home plate were going to be as difficult to reach as the north pole. The Charleston third baseman came to the bat first for his side in the tenth inning, and he struck out. The left-fielder followed him, and by knocking a little bunt that buzzed like a top just in front of the plate, managed to agonize his way to first base before Reddy and Heady could field the ball, both of them having jumped for it and reached it at the same time. But this man, making a rash and foolish effort to steal second, was given the eighteenth-century punishment of death for theft, Heady having made a perfect throw from the plate. The Charleston short-stop reached second on a fly muffed by the Kingston right-fielder--the first error made by this excellent player. And now once more the redoubtable Charleston catcher appeared at the bat. Once more he showed his understanding of Reddy's science. This time he was evidently determined to wipe out the mistake he had made of too great haste on his previous home runs. After warming up with two strikes, and letting three balls pass, he found the ball where he wanted it, and drove out into left-field a magnificent fly. Pretty saw it coming, and turning, ran to the best of his ability for the uttermost edge of his field, hoping only to delay the course of the ball. At length it overtook him, and even as he ran he sprang into the air and clutched upward for it, and struck it as if he would bat it back to the home plate. It did not stick to his fingers, but none of the scorers counted it as an error on the clean square beside his name under the letter E. He had not achieved the impossible of catching it, but he had done the next best thing: he had knocked it to the ground and run it down in two or three steps, and turned, and drawing backward till the ball almost touched the ground behind him, had strained every muscle with a furious lunge, and sent the ball flying for home in a desperate race with the Charleston short-stop, who had passed third base and was sprinting for dear life homeward. At the plate stood Heady, beckoning the carrier-pigeon home with frantic hope, Sawed-Off and Reddy both rushing to get behind him and back him up, so that at least not more than one run should be scored. With a gasp of resolve the Charleston runner, seeing by Heady's eyes that the ball was just at hand, flung himself to the ground, hoping to lay at least a finger-tip on the plate; but there was a quick thwack as the ball struck Heady's gloves, there was a stinging blow at the Charlestonian's right shoulder-blade, and the shrill cry of the umpire: "Out!" Once more the spectators shifted in their seats and knit their brows, and observed: "Whew!" And now Sleepy opened the second half of the tenth inning. He had a little splutter of applause for his magnificent throw when he came to the plate; but he either was dreaming of base-hits and did not hear it, or was too lazy to lift his cap, for he made no sign of recognition. He made a sign of recognition of the Charleston's pitcher's first upshoot, however, for he sent it spinning leisurely down into right-field--so leisurely that even he beat it to first base. The Kingston right-fielder now atoned for his previous error by a ringing hit that took Sleepy on a comfortable jog to second base and placed himself safely on first. Then Reddy came to the bat. He was saved the chagrin of striking out to his deadly rival, but the hit he knocked was only a little fly that the pitcher caught. The two base-runners, however, had not had great expectations of Reddy's batting prowess, so they did not stray far from their bases, and were not caught napping. Now Tug came to the bat; and while he was gathering his strength for a death-dealing blow at the ball, the two base-runners made ready to take advantage of anything he should hit. The right-fielder played off too far, and, to Tug's despair, was caught by a quick throw from the pitcher to the first baseman. Tug's heart turned sick within him, for there were two men out, and the only man on base was Sleepy, who could never be counted on to make a two-base run on a one-base hit. As Tug stood bewailing his fate, the ball shot past him, and the umpire cried: "Strike--one!" Tug shook himself together with a jolt, and struck furiously at the next ball. "Strike--two!" sang the umpire. And now the umpire had upon his lips the fatal words: "Strike--three!" For as he looked down the line traced in the air by the ball, he saw that Tug had misjudged it. But for once science meant suicide; for though Tug struck wildly, the ball condescendingly curved down and fell full and fair upon the bat, and danced off again over the first baseman's head and toward the feet of the right-fielder. This worthy player ran swiftly for it and bent forward, but he could not reach it. It struck him a smarting whack on the instep, and bounded off outside the foul-line; and while he limped painfully after it, there was time even for the sleepy Sleepy to reach the plate and score a run. And then the right-fielder, half blinded with pain, threw the ball at nobody in particular, and it went into the crowd back of third base, and Tug came in unopposed. And since the game was now Kingston's, no one waited to see whether Heady would have knocked a home run or struck out. He was not given a chance to bat. CONCLUSION There was great rejoicing in Kingston that night, much croaking of tin horns, and much building of bonfires. The athletic year had been remarkably successful, and every one realized the vital part played in that success by the men from Lakerim--the Dozen, who had made some enemies, as all active people must, and had made many more friends, as all active people may. The rejoicing of the Lakerimmers themselves had a faint tang of regret, for while they were all to go back to the same town together for their vacation, yet they knew that this would be the last year of school life they could ever spend together. Next year History, Punk, Sawed-Off, and Jumbo were to go to college. The others had at least one more year of preparatory work. And they thought, too, that this first separation into two parts was only the beginning of many separations that should finally scatter them perhaps over the four quarters of the globe. There was Bobbles, for instance, who had an uncle that was a great sugar magnate in the Hawaiian Islands, and had offered him a position there whenever he was ready for it. B.J. had been promised an appointment to Annapolis, for he would be a sailor and an officer of Uncle Sam's navy. And Tug had been offered a chance to try for West Point, and there were no dangers for him in either the rigid mental or the physical examinations. Pretty, who had shown a wonderful gift for modeling in clay, was going some day to Paris to study sculpture. And Quiz looked forward to being a lawyer. The Twins would go into business, since their father's busy sawmill property would descend to both of them, and, as they thought it out, could not very well be divided. Plainly they must make the best of life together. It promised to be a lively existence, but a pleasant one withal. History hoped to be a great writer some day, and Punk would be a professor of something staid and quiet, Latin most probably. Sawed-Off and Jumbo had not made up their minds as to just what the future was to hold for them, but they agreed, that it must be something in partnership. Sleepy had never a fancy of what coming years should bring him to do; he preferred to postpone the unpleasant task of making up his mind, and only took the trouble to hope that the future would give him something that offered plenty of time for sleeping and eating. Late into the night the Twelve sat around a waving bonfire, their eyes twinkling at the memory of old victories and defeats, of struggles that were pleasant, whatever their outcome, just because they were struggles. At length Sleepy got himself to his feet with much difficulty. "Going to bed?" Jumbo sang out. "Nope," drawled Sleepy, and disappeared into the darkness. They all smiled at the thought of him, whom none of them respected and all of them loved. In a space of time quite short for him, Sleepy returned with an arm-load of books--the text-books that had given him so much trouble, and would have given him more had they had the chance offered them. "Fire's getting low," was all he said, and he dumped the school-books, every one, into the blaze. The other Lakerimmers knew that they had passed every examination, either brilliantly or, at the worst, well enough to scrape through. Sleepy did not even know whether he had failed or not; but the next morning he found out that he should sadly need next year those books that were charred ashes in a corner of the campus, and should have to replace them out of his spending-money. That night, however, he was blissful with ignorance, and having made a pyre of his bookish tormentors, he fell in with the jollity of the others. When it grew very late silence gradually fell on the gossipy Twelve. The beauty of the night and the union of souls seemed to be speech enough. Finally the fire fell asleep, and with one mind they all rose and, standing in a circle about glimmering ashes, clasped hands in eternal friendship, and said: "Good night!" THE HOME PLATE 
51232	----	PSYCHOTENNIS, ANYONE? By LLOYD WILLIAMS Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] If scientific advance changes our forms of courtship, can other sports be far behind? Not when telekinesis is finally perfected! Before them the ball took a savage turn toward the player in white. Around Grant the crowd stood up and roared, and he felt suddenly tense and doubting. Then the player ducked, the ball shot through above him to smash against the court wall, and he controlled the rebound to send the sphere once more into erratic, darting flight. "Again!" Grant felt his muscles suddenly relax with release of anxiety. He turned to the girl. "Bee, I'm worried. It's not like Tony--does he want to get killed? He should stop those shots, not dodge them. Are you sure he's all right?" "Now, Granny." The girl kept her eyes fixed on the court. "Remember, Tony took this match for charity. He wants the crowd to have a show, that's all. He is in splendid shape." "No sleep," Grant went on worriedly. "I'm sure it must be that. If his brain were alert, he'd control that ball until Slag went crazy. Without sleep, you can't focus prop--" "Please, Granny, _stop_!" In that instant her throbbing mind touched his, and he caught a glimpse of the alarm in her face. She, too, felt that something was wrong. But she tugged at his sleeve and pointed through the screen at the oval below. "Look!" Slag's feet were set wide apart, and his black-robed body stood square. But his head had begun a sort of slow wobble, from side to side, as the ball lanced in perihedral swings about the court. "Praise Allah!" whispered Grant. "A beautiful dance! Tony's thinking that gangster, into a coma." The white player was in concentration, using his eyes only rarely in shifting ever more complex movements to the sphere. Then the rhythmic pattern had become a wild _corondo_, with Slag as its center, and the dark figure stood hypnotized, with only spasmodic jerks of his brutal features to mark the fear in his mind. "Now," said Grant. His voice seemed loud in the awed silence of the spectators. "Now, Tony! Call it a day!" "Just touch him," whispered Bee. "Don't hurt him, Tony." It was as if they had signaled the player, even through the tele-proof screen. Gradually the wild swings of the ball slowed. It circled Slag gently, dropped closer, and poised above him. Tony's mind was clearly in full control of the sensitive sphere. In a seat behind Grant, an excited man suddenly yelled, "Thumbs down, hard!" Obviously the crowd was ready to sacrifice its erstwhile hero. Then--the ball moved, a small movement, and there was a roar. Uninfluenced, the ball dropped and rolled to the center court, and Tony stood in bewilderment as Slag shook himself awake. Grant leaped up and tried to push through to the box exit. Behind him, Bee clung. "Granny, what will you do? What can you...." He shook her off and answered her with his mind as he struggled on. "Stop them, that's what! End the match." "How? You know you cannot!" But he felt her mind cling at the hope, and sent back reassurance. "_I_ can. They may not like it, but _I_ can stop these matches. Don't worry, I'll get your brother safely out of there." She was relieved. Knowledge of his position--his relation to the sport--he felt her memory produce the reasons. _Sport_, thought Grant. _I invented a sport. Oh, Allah! What has my sport become?_ And then her mind shrieked at him, stabbed at his brain: "Tony--Tony darling!" Dazedly he heard the moan and fought a path to the transparent screen. Out on the court lay a white figure, outspread, and the ball rolled slowly past the dripping head. "Too late!" sobbed Bee. "Too late! Tony...." * * * * * Somehow she was down there before Grant. He saw her, huddled over Tony's body, as he finally reached an open gate in the domed screen. On the opposite edge of the court, Psycho-sport Commissioner Woods was in conversation with the referee, Harmon. A flash bulb glowed. Three reporters looked at the fallen player and spoke casually to each other. Towering above the group was Slag, staring down as if surprised. Grant went first to the Commissioner, who adopted a defensive attitude immediately, throwing up his hands. "Don't jump on _me_, now. It seems I am helpless. Ask Harmon yourself. There was nothing wrong that he could see." "That's nonsense," said Grant, "and you know it. No matter who it is, a ball will not smash into an awake player. It simply cannot be done. Even a novice can overcontrol his opponent at that range." "Right. It couldn't have happened." Sarcasm indicated the worry felt by Woods. "Damn it, Lane, that's the way it is. Harmon watched like a hawk in his bubble. The dome was sealed; not a single leak. Slag's second crouched behind the shield and never moved. I personally supervised Anthony's examination. He was in perfect condition. The only thing yet to check is the ball, but the ball...." "You have it? Never mind, no ball invented could do that alone. Tony could handle any ball, even without the new sensitive core. And in a hundred games every day, they don't ever have this sort of accident." "Just when Slag plays." The Commissioner touched Grant's arm helplessly. "The force of the man's mind must be terrible, Lane. He must be a superman. But what am I going to do? If I outlaw him without legal grounds...." He stopped, gulped nervously. "There may be no grounds from your point of view and theirs." Grant gestured at the crowd struggling through the exits. "But there are from mine. If I'm to remain Honorary President of the Association, Slag has got to go. That's final!" Woods said, "Lane, you could stop this another way. If you don't, and you put Slag out, they will think...." But Grant was already hurrying over to Bee Anthony. More people joined the group and talk died away as uniformed men bent down to the prone figure. Bee sobbed in Grant's arms. Her mind was withdrawn, grieving, and he patted her awkwardly while he thought of how much these young twins had come to mean to him in the years since he began his research in metaphysics. Just children, they had seemed at first. He had been young. Doctor Lane, graduate of '52 on fellowship, and they were the kids he had worked with, who had shown remarkable powers of the mind. Tony and himself--they had formulated the methods which still governed the cultivation of telekinesis. Grant had discovered--the principles, but it was the successful results of the Anthony boy's training which paved the way for others to learn. Yet Bee was different. No amount of tutoring could help her influence an object with her mind. Different, but not inferior, for Bee was a telepath. With intimates her conversation was most strange--much of it understood, yet left unspoken. Grant was one of the intimates. Her silent sorrow would have found him at any distance, but now he tried to evade it, because Tony was gone and Woods had come over to face the reporters--and Slag. "Mister Woods," began one of the men, but the Commissioner raised a hand and turned to the giant player. "You have had my personal warning, Slag. Do you think I will allow you to carry on your ugly career? Why, man, you're lucky the courts have not ruled you a murderer!" "It's not my fault," Slag said. "I didn't _try_ to smash him, honest. I don't know my own strength, I guess." Bee's reddened eyes stared at the man, and Grant whispered, "Darling, can you tell?" "You know their minds are closed to me. I just feel ... something _evil_. I must get out of here. Please, Grant, take me away." Behind Slag the little blond man Teagle, manager and second of the professional, spoke up. "Like Slag says, Commissioner, it isn't his fault. These fast-thinking players match him, get him all excited in the court, and then wonder why they get knocked down. They just don't have the stuff to match a champ." "Slag is the only man ever warned to pull his shots," agreed a reporter who was taking notes. "Gentlemen!" Woods turned to Grant. "All of us here respect the opinion of Dr. Lane, who brought this sport into being and who is, in my estimation, its greatest exponent. I have consulted with him. If he is to retain any connection whatever with the game, he informs me, Slag must get out." There was silence. The men stared first at the florid-faced Commissioner, then at Grant. "More than personal considerations are involved," added Woods. "Slag's brutal style of play, according to Dr. Lane, endangers the entire future of this grand sport." The black-robed player looked around for support. Little Teagle pushed in front of the Commissioner. "You mean that has-been," he pointed at Grant, "is trying to get rid of my boy? It ain't fair, I say. Even when he tries to take it easy, Slag has it tough. They're scared, and won't match us--even these amateurs. And yet look what we've done to pep the game up!" "You may be right, Mister Teagle. All things considered, however, I feel the merit of Dr. Lane's suggest--" "Who is this Lane?" The little man's face was fierce. "So he starts the game, and invents the ball, so what? They used to call him a champ, the _master_, but that's a long time ago. Now that he's out, he don't like Slag coming up so strong. It kills him that he ain't the best any more." "That will be all for tonight. In the morning I'll have an official release ready." The reporters were tense, anxious to miss nothing. "And, gentlemen, you have a good idea of the nature of that statement." "Wait! I'm telling you," said Teagle. "We've tried to get a match with this Lane. Here it is, boys, the real truth. The guy wants Slag out because he's scared to meet him. Right here and now we challenge him! And I bet he hasn't got the guts to take us up." "I feel," said Woods, "that a scientist like Dr. Lane should not be subjected to this ... this insolence." The reporters ran toward the exit, eager to call in this news break. Grant said nothing. Aware of Bee's feelings, he shot a look of contempt at Teagle and turned. Yet he knew, as they walked slowly away, that behind him were no feelings of good will. At best, the men awaited his next move--and until then suspended judgment. * * * * * In three days the city became for Grant Lane a savage jungle. The papers shrieked at him Teagle's endless insults, Slag's boastful challenge. Each statement by the Commissioner cleverly shifted more responsibility from Woods to himself, and the tragic end of yet another match was played down until it appeared that Slag, and not his opponent, was the injured party. After all, was his crowd-convincing argument, did they jail professional fighters in the old days when one was killed? Just a little accident in the heat of fair contest; it was no more than that. Yet there _was_ more, this time. People appeared unsatisfied, disapproving of Grant, as if he should offer himself as a sacrifice to their sympathy with Slag. The one time he went restlessly into the streets, they watched him sullenly, waiting.... He kept to his apartment after that, and studied furiously. No man _could_ overcontrol an awake opponent in a direct shot--if the ball was all right. As the ball closed in, the approached player's influence grew proportionately stronger, while his opponent's lessened in inverse ratio. That was the reason Grant had originally declared the sport to be safe. He interrupted his work only briefly for Tony's funeral, and felt an obscure shame in facing Bee Anthony. Then the cellular organism of the sphere used in the game absorbed his attention again. It was an artificially nurtured nerve-center, a growth devised by himself, and seemed to offer the only possible answer. _Perhaps this sub-life had acquired learning ability--the ability to act independently._ It seemed absurd, and yet how much was really known of this highly irritable stuff called living matter? Bee found him at his apartment the fourth morning. She seemed much more relaxed. "Tony hated useless grief," she said. "I had to come here, Granny. I had to know that we might see the end of all this." "Yes." Grant still felt a vague shame. "We'll have to stop Slag short, before he adds any more victims." "Oh, it's more than that! It's the people, too, and the knowledge that more Slags may appear. If all the matches suddenly...." She broke off, frowning, as if uncertain whether to continue. "You see, Granny, Tony decided to play because of that. It wasn't even the charities, really. The people distrust you. Not just because you were wrong, but because they are suspicious of any probing into the powers of mind. They prefer fantasy to scientific hypothesis, and now Slag's triumphs...." She faltered, and unhappily twisted her face away. "But Tony could have crushed Slag, too." "You know that was different. He had Slag hypnotized first. But Tony was awake when the ball struck!" "You're right, Bee. Frankly, I don't know what the answer could be. I'm working on the core of the ball. There is a chance--" "I'm sure it was something else! Granny, have you thought of the screen? There must have been a leak, or a failure. Think of that crowd, hoping for their hero. Suppose they subconsciously influenced the sphere, directed it at Tony." He thought of the mob's reaction when Slag was helpless, and kept silent. It would be cruel to blast her one hope with nothing to offer in exchange. "You think I'm wrong, but what else would it be? The ball couldn't kill Tony by itself." Then she was in tears. "I should have been there to stop it. He wouldn't take a second--I begged him to let me--and I would have _sensed_ any outside influence!" Grant recognized the guilt feelings she was suffering from. He tried to give comfort, but suddenly she was a woman, proud and independent, and would not stay. Only at the door for one moment did she turn appealingly to him. "Granny, you're not going to play Slag!" "Do you want me to? Should I obey the roar of the mob? And look!" He gestured at one of the papers, where a center-page box proclaimed, 'Commissioner Rules Out Lane-Slag Match.' "At thirty-seven they say I'm too old to play." "Don't do it, Grant." He felt her conflicting, torn emotions. "Yet, the funny thing is, I don't think I could live if they allow Slag to go on and on." * * * * * Grant's apartment was ill-equipped for working with micro-organisms. So, although preliminary study opened up no encouraging line of experimentation, next day he transferred his work to the university laboratories. He found his colleagues friendly--one had cheerfully handled Grant's lectures during his absence--but reserved, as if they suspected him to be guilty of some terrible sin, yet hoped he might prove himself innocent. Barker, the bio-chemist, listened to his theory of the probability of change in the nerve center of the ball. "I have not worked with these cultures," he said. "You claim they are artificially produced solely to provide a focal receptor for the controlling minds. Are the cells non-reproductive?" "Yes. You see, the structure must be stable. Any mind can provide the necessary power to move light objects short distances, but focusing that power is the difficulty. Hence the sensitive core. The operator can _sense_ where to direct his will." Barker reflected a moment. "So the culture is purely static--doesn't even amplify the influence. In that case, I can only visualize such changes as natural radiation might bring about. No hope there for a recurrent pattern of change." "Learning ability--acquisition of power to act voluntarily--I thought the answer might be in that." "We'll see. Might as well begin there, anyway. Get us a few of the balls, Lane, and I'm sure the staff will gladly try to help out." That evening Grant walked onto the court of the Colliseum and was made certain of the city's anger toward him. Bee's idea was worth testing, and he had brought with him some student telepaths, but the instant he appeared the crowd rose in a storm of fury. When the announcer requested spectators to direct the ball at Grant, their wrath gave way to cheers, and they concentrated hopefully on crushing him. But the screen held, the telepaths sensed no invading influence as Grant whirled the ball about the court, until in disgust he signaled for the screen to be deactivated. Instantly the will of the crowd took hold. The sphere jerked erratically until concerted influence steadied it opposite Grant. Then it flashed into motion, a heavy, deadly missile, with all the mind power of a mob driving it murderously across the court at him. He stopped it easily, six inches away. * * * * * Barker said, "No use seeking further. We may not know everything living organisms can do, but we can certainly tell what is beyond their power. The tests are conclusive." Lorms, the behaviorist, nodded his head. For just an instant Grant felt confused, helpless. His original arguments for psychosport were proved valid, but the killings became even more inexplicable--they were logically impossible! And, somehow, that made _him_ the criminal. That left him only one thing to do. It was humiliating to accept such a solution to his personal problem. He thought of Bee Anthony and nearly turned back. Only since the tragedy had he realized how changed was their relationship--and how important she was to him. Would she scorn his action, think him a slave to public pressure? Probably, but Grant forced his steps onward. In the lobby of the Page-Horton, Bee caught him by the arm. "Since when," she asked, "do you walk grimly past your friends?... No, Grant. Don't bother to think up a story. I know where you are going." He wanted to chase her away--and to pull her close to him. But she glanced up and laughed. "You look _so_ perplexed and silly. Professor Lorms called me, and of course I knew what you'd do." "Do you think," said Grant, "that I should, Bee? Is it right?" "Darling, fighting results from frustration and breeds even more frustration and anger. But somehow men get cornered until--well, they _have_ to. Not Tony. He was a gay fool, tilting at windmills. Oh, Grant! I know you're wrong, but you're right, too, and inside I'm so glad!" He wanted to erase the worry behind her gladness, to smother it with reassurance. They went up together to Slag's suite. Teagle was at the door. "Glad to see you, Mahomet," he said to Grant. "The contract's all ready to sign. I guess you'll want _your_ cut for charity, eh?" "You won't, I suppose." "Not on your life. Excuse the double meaning, Miss." He smirked at Bee. "I ask you, who's going to match us after we knock this one off?" Slag stared glumly from a chair, not even removing his hand from the glass beside him. "Practicing," he said. "Getting into shape for our tussle, Doc. Like Teagle said, you had to come across." Grant took the papers from the manager, filled in the blanks and signed. "Don't talk much, this Doc Lane," said Slag. "Should I show him, Teagle?" "Sure thing. Watch this practice, Doc." The big man concentrated on the amber bottle beside him. Slowly, jerkily, it lifted--one inch, then two. Slag relaxed, and watched it ring as it fell to the table. "My job when I retire," he said. "Got to pour it right into the glass. Pretty hot, eh?" Grant gave no warning. The man's trousers were deluged as the glass shattered in his hand. He leaped up cursing, and then moved quickly and with ugly purpose toward his visitors. "Careful, boy," warned Teagle. "There's a dame present." For fifteen seconds Grant's eyes were locked with Slag's. He looked into their red-rimmed hatred, fought to see the depths of the man. Then, just before the other turned away, an unreasoning, unexpected emotion surged in Grant. It swept over and left him shaken, all in that instant. The emotion was fear. * * * * * Out on the court it was anger he felt, anger at Slag, who stood opposite and bowed to the noisy throng, anger at Teagle, who chanted insults until ordered behind the second's shield, at the spectators, packing the Colliseum in hopes of seeing a player maimed or killed--and Bee Anthony, even at Bee. She had defied him, bribed her way in to act as his second, and had slipped behind the shield at his side of the court. In front of those jeering faces, it was out of the question to make her leave. There was a roar as the ball dropped from the referee's overhead bubble. Grant left it to Slag, let the man shoot crudely several times, and fought to calm himself. The shots were forceful, but easily stopped and returned. It was like Tony's match, almost too slow at first. Until the players became absorbed, it was hopeless to attempt any kind of hypnotic effects with the ball. Slag swung the sphere into rapid circles about the court. The crowd watched silently, as if impressed by the player's control. To Grant it was absurd--he knew that any trained child could execute the movements. And yet, Tony must have felt so, too. But that was before-- The ball dropped on him like a hawk, and he almost laughed. To give the gasping crowd a thrill, he barely deflected the shot, and feigned amazement. Slag retrieved control. Beneath the sudden amusement, Grant was uneasy. Slag had never won a _real_ victory--never dazed or hypnotized an opponent before striking. All his triumphs rested on single, smashing thrusts. How was it possible? With such clumsy control, the professional could never set up a victory--yet the record stood. Grant could not fathom the problem. If the match went on forever, he could see no way for Slag to drop him. And if he quickly whirled Slag into dazed defeat, the real mystery might never be solved. His opponent would merely have suffered defeat in a match not even recognized by the Commission. Now he could guess why Tony had played carelessly. It was not only victory that was sought. He had deluded himself in accepting such an irresponsible way out. The whole affair depressed him, knotted itself into mind-snaring tangles. The ball blurred again and he hardly cared, only ducking to let it splat against the shield behind him. A spurt of rage sent the sphere spinning back at Slag, but the other diverted it easily into a screen-hugging orbit. Tony, Slag, Woods and Teagle--they seemed to merge confusedly in his mind. They stood, each in turn, at the door of an iron-barred cell. For Grant, there was no way out. Win or lose, live or die, he was doomed. The light dimmed in the cell. Just for an instant Bee appeared, her hair throwing off sparks of brilliance. She, too, faded out. Neither Bee the child, whom he did not love, nor Bee the woman, who did not love him, could save him. Before him gaped the bottomless pit of shame and penance. He had unloosed a monster on the world. He had to pay for that. But first Grant had another debt to pay. He tried to throw off the depression, imagining as he did so a sob of joy in the disembodied Bee. He wrested the sweeping ball from Slag, even from the opposite end of the court. He spun it in wild orbits and compensated for the other's furious thrusts. Faster and faster he circled it. Slag's mind could not keep up the pace. The even swings acquired a jogging pattern, edged farther out--to within ten feet of Slag. A quick break lanced behind the man, out again, and then the sphere fell into helical loops, thrice differentiated by harmonic variations, and swept wide around the court. Somehow Slag's distress gave Grant no pleasure. Defeat seemed to face him everywhere; he read it in his opponent's twisted features, even in the futile effort to withdraw attention from the ball. _It's no good_, he thought. _I have failed all along._ Savagely he worked the sphere. He would do it quickly. There was no use expecting Tony's fate. The ball darted again for Slag and this time there could be no interference. It became pure mathematics, the motion, complicated far beyond Tony's simple _corondo_, a flashing three-dimensional blur of color. He could not keep it up. The concentration brought an invading blackness to his mind. Somewhere there was a dull roar, and he felt as if his own mind were cracking. His nerves quivered to put an end to it, to touch Slag with the ball. Slowly, cautiously, he brought the sphere down.... Slag was not there! He gaped. His eyes suddenly found the crumpled heap across the court, and relief swept ever him. The man was beaten, in a state of collapse, and there was nothing more Grant could do. "Grant!" Bee screamed. "Oh, no! Grant darling, look up!" Her radiance was almost blinding. He half-twisted to reach her, and then his eyes caught it--the ugly sheen of the fast-growing ball. Desperately he turned, and it shifted in unison. Then she shrieked once more, despairingly, and he threw himself flat, arms outstretched, toward her. The ball's speed was so great that it shattered to pieces against the shield behind him. From back of the barrier ran Bee. She crouched beside him, and her enveloping warmth lifted the evil spell from his mind. The loud confusion of the crowd burst upon him, he saw the referee's swiftly lowering bubble. He was in control of himself, thanks to Bee's interference, and could act on the knowledge so dangerously gained. "The murderer!" Grant pulled Bee up with him. "We've got him!" Opposite them, Slag still lay on the court. "I don't see how he did it," Grant said bewilderedly. "Not Slag--_him_!" She pointed out the small, running figure. Teagle battered vainly at a gate. The still-active screen held him back, and the man's face was a despairing white grimace. Then Grant was upon him, and took him by the throat. * * * * * Woods paced the dressing room, still confused. "I begin to see," he said, "but what can I do with the two of them?" "Stop worrying." Grant was curt. "You can do nothing. The law will take Teagle, and without him Slag is just another bum." "He never knew," marveled Bee. "Slag never knew how he won." "I am to blame." Grant thought of the surging fear Teagle had directed in him at Slag's hotel. "I should have known that telepsychical phenomena could be used as a weapon. The man is a freak. He couldn't influence the ball, but communicated overpowering emotion--without even seeing his subjects--from behind his shield. The victims committed suicide, just as I nearly did before Bee...." "What did you feel--a so-called called death wish?" asked Woods. "No matter. Not seeing Slag collapse, he overplayed his hand." "Slag's being unconscious merely provided an anti-climax," said Grant. "There was a more important factor added this time. And if you don't mind, Woods, I have an apology to make in private to my one and only second." "Not just the only one, darling," said Bee. "But your permanent, till-death-do-us-part second! Right?" "Right!" Grant said. "That's the only thing tonight," said Woods, "of which I officially approve." 
15801	----	WINNING HIS "W" A Story of Freshman Year at College by EVERETT T. TOMLINSON M.A. Donohue & Company Chicago New York 1904 PREFACE In this book I have endeavored to relate the story of a boy's early experiences in college life--a boy who was neither unnaturally good nor preternaturally bad, wholesome, earnest, impulsive, making just such mistakes as a normal boy would make, and yet earnest, sincere, and healthy. We all have known just such boys and are grateful that they are neither uncommon nor unknown. Perhaps it may add a little to the interest of this tale if it is stated that many of the events described in it actually occurred. I have not tagged a "moral" upon it, for if the story itself shall not bear its own moral, then the addition will not add to it. EVERETT T. TOMLINSON. Elizabeth, New Jersey. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE OPENING TERM II. PETER JOHN'S ARRIVAL III. NEW FRIENDS AND NEW EXPERIENCES IV. A CLOUD OF WITNESSES V. UNSOUGHT ATTENTIONS VI. A RACE IN THE DARKNESS VII. SPLINTER'S QUESTIONS VIII. THE PARADE IX. THE WALK WITH MOTT X. A VISITOR XI. THE PERPETUAL PROBLEM XII. THE MEET XIII. WAGNER'S ADVICE XIV. THE ADVICE FOLLOWED XV. A REVERSED DECISION XVI. TELEGRAMS XVII. PETER JOHN'S DOWNFALL XVIII. AN ALARMING REPORT XIX. A RARE INTERVIEW XX. A CRISIS XXI. THE EXAMINATION XXII. A FRESH EXCITEMENT XXIII. THE RUSH TO COVENTRY CENTER XXIV. THE MYSTERY OF THE CANES XXV. ON THE TRAIL XXVI. ST. PATRICK'S DAY XXVII. CONCLUSION CHAPTER I THE OPENING TERM "I've got a letter from Peter John." "What's the trouble with him? He ought to have been here yesterday or the day before." "I'm afraid Peter John never'll be on time. He doesn't seem to have taken that in his course. He'd never pass an 'exam' in punctuality." "What does he want?" "The poor chap begs us to meet him at the station." "What train?" "The two-seventeen." "Then we've no time to waste. Is he afraid he'll be lost?" "He's afraid, all right." "What's he afraid of?" "Everything and everybody, I guess. Poor chap." Will Phelps laughed good-naturedly as he spoke, and it was evident that his sympathy for "Peter John" was genuine. His friend and room-mate, Foster Bennett, was as sympathetic as he, though his manner was more quiet and his words were fewer; their fears for their friend were evidently based upon their own personal knowledge. For four years the three young men had been classmates in the Sterling High School, and in the preceding June had graduated from its course of study, and all three had decided to enter Winthrop College. The entrance examinations had been successfully passed, and at the time when this story opens all had been duly registered as students in the incoming class of the college. Foster Bennett and Will Phelps were to be room-mates, and for several days previous to the September day on which the conversation already recorded had taken place they had been in the little college town, arranging their various belongings in the room in Perry Hall, one of the best of all the dormitory buildings. The first assembling of the college students was to occur on the morrow, and then the real life upon which they were about to enter was to begin. The two boys had come to Winthrop together, the parents of both having decided that it was better to throw the young students at once upon their own resources rather than to accompany them, reserving their visits for a later time when the first novelty of the new life would be gone. And on this September day the novelty certainly was the most prominent element in the thoughts of both boys. The task of arranging their various belongings in their new rooms had kept both so busy that thoughts of the homes they had left were of necessity somewhat rare, and the vision of the family life in which they had been so vital a part had not as yet come to take the place in their minds which it soon would occupy. At the hotel where they had been staying there were many other boys who were in a predicament not unlike their own, but the very fact that all were alike new to the life and its surroundings had made every one somewhat diffident and the warm friendships and cordial relations that soon were to be formed were as yet not begun. Will Phelps and Foster Bennett, however, had been so completely taken up with their own immediate tasks that they had little thought for other things. At the time when this story opens their study room was ready for callers, as Will expressed it, and the adjoining sleeping rooms were in a fair way for occupancy. Indeed, the boys planned that very night to sleep in the dormitory, and the experience was looked forward to as one which they both would enjoy. Will Phelps, a sturdy young fellow of eighteen, of medium height, with strong body and a bright, keen expression in his dark eyes, had been the most popular of all the boys in the high school from which he had recently graduated. Not over-fond of study, he had somewhat neglected his tasks until his final year, and though he had then begun to work more seriously, his late effort had not entirely atoned for the neglect of the preceding years. An only son and not rigidly trained in his home, he had not formed the habits of study which his more serious-minded room-mate, Foster Bennett, possessed. But almost every one who met the young student was drawn to him by the fascination of his winning ways, and realized at once the latent possibilities for good or ill that were his. His success would depend much upon his surroundings, and though Will was sublimely confident in his ability to meet and master whatever opposed him, it nevertheless had been a source of deep satisfaction to his father and mother that he was to room with his classmate, Foster Bennett, for Foster was of a much more sedate disposition than his friend. Taller than Will by three inches, as fond as he of certain athletic sports, still Foster was one whom enthusiasm never carried away nor impulse controlled. When people spoke of him they often used the word "steady" to describe him. Not so quick nor so brilliant as Will, he was not able to arouse the response which his room-mate seldom failed to elicit, nor was his promise in certain ways so great. Will might do brilliant things, but of Foster it was said that 'one always knew where to find him.' Naturally, the two boys in a measure complemented each other, and their friendship was strong and lasting. Peter John Schenck--no one ever thought of referring to him by another term than "Peter John"--the third member of the high-school class to which reference has already been made, was a boy who every morning had driven into the little city of Sterling from his country home, and in his general appearance was decidedly unlike either of his classmates. The influences of his home had been of a different character from those which had surrounded his two friends. Not that the love for him had been less, but certain elements of refinement had been lacking and his familiarity with the ways of the world was much less. Besides, his father had been in humbler circumstances, and Peter John was to room in college in Leland Hall, one of the oldest of the dormitories, where the room rent was much less than in Perry Hall and more in accord with Peter John's pocket. In school he had been made the butt of many a joke, but his fund of good nature had never rebelled and his persistence was never broken. Tall, ungainly, his trousers seemed to be in a perpetual effort to withdraw as far as possible from his boots, while his hands and wrists apparently were continually striving to evade the extremities of his coat sleeves. His face was freckled, not the ordinary freckles produced by the heat of the sun, but huge splotches that in color almost matched his auburn-tinted hair--at least his sister was prone to declare that the color of his hair was "auburn," though his less reverent schoolmates were accustomed to refer to him as a "brick-top." But Peter John was undeterred by the guying of his mates, and when he had first declared his intention to go to college his words had been received as a joke. But it was soon discovered that in whatever light they might be received by others, to Peter John himself they were the expression of a fixed purpose; and so it came to pass that he too had passed the entrance examinations and was duly enrolled as a member of the freshman class in Winthrop College. When his determination had been accepted by his mates, some of them had made use of their opportunities to enlarge upon the perils that lay before him--perils for the most part from the terrible sophomores who were supposed to be going about seeking their prey with all the fierceness of a roaring lion. Peter John had listened to the marvelous tales that were poured into his ears, but so far as his expression of face was concerned, apparently they had been without effect. Nevertheless, deep in his heart Peter John had stored them all and his fear of the class above him had increased until at last just before he departed from home he had written to his friend Will Phelps informing him of his fears and begging that he and Foster would meet him at the station and protect him from the fierce onslaughts, which, he confessed, he expected would await him upon his arrival. This letter Will Phelps had found at the little post office when he made inquiries for his mail, and upon his return to his room it had provided the basis for the conversation already recorded. "We'd better go right down to the station, then, Will," Foster had said. "All right. Peter John will be in mortal terror if he shouldn't find us there. He probably believes the sophs will have a brass band and knives and guns and will be drawn up on the platform ready to grab him just the minute he steps off the car." "Not quite so bad as that," laughed Foster. "But we'll have to help the poor chap out." "Sure. Come on, then," called Will as he seized his cap and started toward the hallway. "Hold on a minute. Wait till I lock the door." "'Lock the door?' Not much! You mustn't do that." "Why not?" "It isn't polite." "What are you talking about?" demanded Foster. "Just what I'm telling you. Freshmen mustn't lock their doors, that's not the thing. The janitor told me not to, because the sophs will take it as a challenge to break it in. He said the college had to put sixty new locks this summer on the doors here in Perry." "Looks as if something had happened for a fact," said Foster slowly, as he glanced at some huge cracks that were plainly visible in the panels. "Sure 't'll be safe?" "It'll be all right. The janitor says so. Come on! Come on, or we'll be too late!" The two boys ran swiftly down the stairway (their room was on the third floor of the dormitory) and soon were on the street which was directly in front of the building. As they walked rapidly in the direction of the station, which was a half-mile or more distant from the college buildings, the sight which greeted their eyes was one that stirred the very depths of their hearts. The very buildings themselves were impressive, some old and antiquated, dating back a century or more and venerable with age, and others new and beautiful, the recent gifts of some loyal alumni. From the huge clock in the tower of the chapel rang out the chimes which announced that the hour of two was come and gone. The beautifully kept grounds, the stately buildings, the very leaves on the huge elms that grew about the grounds were all impressive at the time to the boys to whom the entire picture was new. In the wide street that led directly through the midst of the college buildings, were passing young men of their own age, some of whom would suddenly stop and grasp with fervor the hands of some students just returned from the long summer vacation. From the windows of the dormitories could be seen the faces of students who were leaning far out and shouting their words of greeting to friends on the street below. The September sun was warm and mellow, and as it found its way through the thick foliage it also cast fantastic shadows upon the grass that seemed to dance and leap in the very contagion of the young life that abounded on every side. The very air was almost electric and the high hills in the distance that shut in the valley and provided a framework for the handiwork of nature, lent an additional charm to which Will Phelps was unconsciously responding. "I tell you, Foster, this is great! I'm glad I'm here!" he exclaimed. "Are you?" replied Foster in his more subdued manner. "Well, I'm glad too." The scene upon the platform of the station was as animated and inspiring as that about the college grounds. Groups of students were here awaiting the coming of friends, and yet their impatience was hidden by the enthusiasm of the moment. One group, consisting of twenty or more young men, particularly interested Will, for their noise and exuberance seemed to know no bounds. At last a young man, evidently a student though slightly older than the most in the group, approached them and said: "Here, you sophs! You're making too much noise. Children should be seen, not heard." "All right, pop," responded one; and for a time the noise decreased. But it was not long before it broke forth afresh and became even more violent than before. Both Will and Foster were curiously watching the group; they almost instinctively looked upon them as natural enemies and yet were compelled to laugh at their antics. "Here you, taxi-driver," suddenly called out one of the sophomores advancing from the midst of his classmates and approaching one of the cabs, a line of which were drawn up near the platform. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Here you are! Here you are! This way!" responded a half-dozen of the taxi-drivers. "Be still!" replied the young man solemnly to the noisy men. "Can't you see I'm engaged with John? Now, John, tell me honestly, are you free?" "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Take you anywhere ye say," responded the driver glibly. "You're sure you're at liberty?" "Yes, sir. Yes, sir." "All right, then. I'm glad to hear it. I've a great respect for liberty. That's all I wanted to know; thank you," he added, politely bowing; then turning to his classmates he said: "I say, fellows, make it three for liberty!" The cheers were given with a will, and then the leader added solemnly, "Let's make it three for our class, the best class that ever entered old Winthrop! Now then!" These cheers also were loudly given, but they ceased abruptly when it was seen that the train, for whose coming they had been waiting, was now approaching. CHAPTER II PETER JOHN'S ARRIVAL Before the rumbling train halted at the station, there was a rush of students toward it, all eager to welcome the incoming crowd, and every one apparently being desirous of being the first to greet his friends. Upon the platforms of the cars also crowds of students were to be seen, waving their hats in the air or standing with their traveling bags in their hands, all as eager as the boys at the station to be foremost in the reunion scene. Will Phelps and his room-mate stood a little back from the assembly and watched the proceedings with an interest which neither could conceal. It was all so stimulating, this animation and bustle and manifest eagerness in renewing the college life, and to feel that they too were to have a share in the possessions of these young men, scarcely one of whom was known to them personally, was in itself sufficient to quicken their pulses and arouse all the dormant forces of their nature. The train was a long one and yet from every car came pouring forth the stream of students and the excitement continued for several minutes. Suddenly a shout went up from the crowd and there was a rush of students toward the rear car. "There's Baker! Good old Sam! Hurrah for the captain!" were among the cries that could be heard as the students surged toward the platform, from which a sturdy young man could be seen descending, apparently unmindful of the interest his coming had aroused and striving to be indifferent to the cheers that greeted his arrival. Will Phelps and Foster Bennett almost unconsciously moved with the throng though they were not fully aware of the cause of the sudden interest of the students. "It may be that he's the captain of the football team," said Will in a low voice to his companion. "At any rate the captain's name is Baker and probably this is the man." Foster nodded his head but made no other reply as he stood watching the young man as he stepped down from the platform. There could be no question as to who he was, for the conquering hero was writ large upon his powerful frame and the universal deference of the student body could be accounted for only by the fact that a leader in Winthrop had arrived. "Look there, Will," said Foster suddenly. "There's Peter John." "Where?" "Right behind Baker. Just coming out of the door. See him?" "Yes," responded Will as he obtained a glimpse of his classmate just as he was emerging from the doorway. Travel-stained, his hat pushed back on his head, his eyes wildly staring about at the crowd, a huge carpet-bag in his hand, his appearance certainly would have attracted the attention of the spectators had it not been that their interest was apparently centered in the mighty captain of the football team and they had no thought for any one else. Just as Baker stepped down, Peter John emerged from the car directly behind the captain, and a cheer louder than any that before had been given rose from the assembly. Poor Peter John! Nervous and excited, conscious only of himself and his strange surroundings, the startled freshman had no other thought than that the cheers were meant for him and doubtless were intended as a war cry from those enemies of whom he had heard such marvelous tales--the sophomores. Wild-eyed, for a moment he seemed to be well-nigh paralyzed. He stood motionless and gazed out at the surging mass of students almost as if he were minded to turn back into the car and escape from the threatening peril. But the pressure from behind was too strong to permit him to carry out his intention and he was compelled to move forward. As yet he had not seen his two waiting friends and his feeling of utter loneliness swept over him afresh. From the lowest step he was about to move when another mighty shout went up from the assembly and Peter John looked helplessly about him as if he were convinced that his doom was sealed and for him there was to be no escape. Suddenly he darted from the midst of the crowd, sending two or three young men who chanced to be in his way sprawling, and with his quaint carpet-bag still tightly grasped in his hand fled directly back over the railway ties. He had not gone far before his flight was perceived and a shout of laughter and derision arose. Even the mighty Baker was ignored in the fresh excitement and instantly a crowd of students started in pursuit of the fleeing freshman. "Hi, there! Stop, freshman! Wait a minute; we'll help carry your bag! Look at the sprinter! Going home? Good-bye! Good-bye!" were among the derisive cries that he heard. There could be no mistake, the attention of the entire student body was upon him, he was convinced, and his speed increased. His long legs, his flying coat tails, his flapping carpet-bag, indeed his entire appearance was such that shrieks of laughter arose from his pursuers, but Peter John never once glanced behind him. Every fresh call served to increase his terror. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness were about to be taken from him and his sole hope depended upon his own exertions. It was do or die, and Peter John preferred the former. In a brief time the good-natured crowd abandoned its pursuit, and Peter John Schenck was left to continue his lonely flight. Will Phelps and Foster Bennett had joined in the laughter at first, for the ridiculous flight of their classmate was well-nigh irresistible; but when it soon became apparent that Peter John's terror was real and that he firmly believed the entire college was in swift pursuit of him, their attitude changed. "It's too bad, Will," said Foster. "The poor chap is scared almost to death." "We can't help it. He'll have to learn some things, if not others," laughed Will. "They're coming back," suggested Foster, as the pursuit was abandoned and the students laughing boisterously returned to the station. Peter John, however, was still fleeing and his long strides and his wildly flapping carpet-bag could be distinctly seen as the frightened freshman sped up the track. The body of students, however, had now turned into the street that led back to the college grounds, and apparently Peter John's wild flight was already forgotten. "We must go after him," said Foster thoughtfully. "Oh, leave him alone," replied Will. "He'll come back all right." "You go up to the room and I'll go and look him up." "Not much! If you go, then I go too! I may be the next victim and I don't intend to be offered up alone. Come on, or he'll be clear back in Sterling before we find him." Will laughed as he spoke, and at once the two boys started up the track in the direction in which their classmate had fled. He could not be seen now for a bend in the road had concealed him from sight, and for a time his two friends did not dare to run, being fearful that they too might attract an undue amount of attention and bring upon themselves the many ills from which they were striving to save their friend. Apparently their departure from the station had not drawn the attention of any one, and, as they became convinced that they were not being followed, their own speed increased until they too had passed the bend in the road, when they began to run swiftly. Nothing could be seen of Peter John, and when they had gone a considerable distance Will Phelps stopped and whistled. At first there was no response, but when the signal had been thrice repeated both boys heard the voice of their friend apparently coming from behind the bushes growing on the bank directly beside them. "All alone, Will?" called Peter John timidly. "Yes. Yes. Where are you, Peter John?" responded Will, peering about him, but as yet unable to determine where his friend was hiding. "Here I am." "Where's that?" "Right here." "Come out here where we are. Stand up like a little man and be counted." "Sure nobody's with you?" "Foster's here, that's all." Slowly Peter John arose from his hiding-place and peered anxiously about him. "It's all right. Come on!" called Will encouragingly. Thus bidden, Peter John stepped forth, still holding tightly in his grasp his precious carpet-bag. Will Phelps did not even laugh nor did he have any inclination to do so as he perceived how genuine was the suffering of the terrified boy. "You needn't be afraid now, Peter John," he said soothingly. "You're all right." "That was a close call." "Call for what?" demanded Foster sharply. Will turned and looked in surprise at his room-mate, for the tone of his voice was very unlike that which he had used when he had insisted that they should go to the aid of their classmate. "I tell you they were after me!" said Peter John, wiping his brow with a huge handkerchief as he spoke. "Who were after you?" demanded Foster still more sharply. "The sophomores." "Don't you believe it!" "Why, they'd have got me if I hadn't put in my prettiest." "Nobody would have paid any attention to you if you hadn't run. You drew it all on yourself and have no one else to blame." "Guess you weren't there when I landed! They gave such a yell when I started from the cars as I never heard before in all my born days." "Did you think they were yelling for you?" "Of course I did. I knew they'd be waiting for me." "Peter John, you've made a fool of yourself. There wasn't a soul there except Will and me that knew there was such a fellow in all the world as Peter John Schenck. Everybody in college will know it now, though." "What made 'em yell so, then?" demanded Peter John. "They weren't yelling for you at all. They were cheering for Baker, the captain of the football team. He was just ahead of you." "They were?" "That's what I said." Foster smiled slightly as he spoke, for the expression upon the face of Peter John was a study. Consternation, incredulity, and partial unbelief in what Foster had said were all expressed there, and his entire attitude was so indescribably ludicrous as almost to be pathetic. "Swan! I didn't know that," he said at last slowly. "Well, you know it now." "What shall I do?" "'Do'? Do nothing. Just attend to your own business and let everything else go." "I thought I was attending to my own business," said Peter John woefully. "Oh, well, never mind, Peter John," broke in Will with a laugh. "It's all over now and no bones broken." "I wish it _was_ all over," said Foster in a low voice to Will. "I wish it was too. He'll be the center of interest by to-morrow. And really, Foster, it did beat anything I ever saw." Foster Bennett smiled but made no reply, and together the three boys began to retrace their way to the station. Peter John evidently was somewhat crestfallen and seldom spoke. At the station no students were seen, and the trio at once started up the street toward the college. "I suppose my things are in my room," Peter John ventured to suggest. "Yes, they're there all right. I went over this morning to see about them." "Thank you. I'll be pretty busy for the rest of the days I take it." "That won't do you any harm. You can come over and sleep on the couch in our room to-night if you would like to," suggested Foster. "Are you all settled?" "Pretty much. Enough so that we can make room for you. There's always room for one more, you know." Foster spoke pleasantly and Peter John was quick to respond. They were now near the college grounds, however, and the interest of Peter John was quickly taken up in his surroundings. Both Will and Foster were familiar with the name of every building by this time, and their residence of three days in the college town had already given to them a sense of part possession, and they glibly explained to their classmate the name and use of each building as they passed it until at last they halted before Leland Hall, where Peter John was to have his room. "I'd like to know who's to be my room-mate," he said as all three turned into the low entry and began to mount the worn stairway. "Probably he's thinking of the same thing too," laughed Will. "Here you are," he added as he stopped before the door of a room on the third floor. "Yours is twenty-six, isn't it?" "Yes." "Well, here it is." "Come on in, fellows," urged Peter John, opening the door as he spoke, and all three found themselves in the presence of a young man of their own age, who glanced quickly up from the box which he was unpacking as they entered. CHAPTER III NEW FRIENDS AND NEW EXPERIENCES "One of you, I fancy, is Schenck, who is to room here with me. I haven't the remotest idea which one of you is the man, but whichever it is I'm glad to see him." The young man laughed heartily as he spoke, and all three of the freshmen laughed in response so contagious was his good nature. But his appearance was even more striking than his words, for he stood before them like a young giant. He was at least six feet and three inches in height, his shoulders were so broad that they made the very doorway appear narrow, and as he stood before them without his coat and with his shirt sleeves rolled back over his arms, the great knots of muscles could be plainly seen. Altogether he presented a most impressive sight, and his young classmates were duly impressed by his huge size and evident physical strength. "I'm Schenck," said Peter John, after a momentary hesitation. "Glad to see you," exclaimed the young giant, stepping forward and grasping his room-mate's hand in such a manner as to make Peter John wince. "You know what my name is, I suppose. I'm Hawley. 'Cupe' Hawley they called me in school because I was such a dainty and delicate little specimen." And again his laughter broke forth. "Friends of yours, Schenck?" he added, as he glanced inquiringly at the two companions of his room-mate. Will Phelps and Foster Bennett were at once introduced, and warmly greeted their classmate. "Sorry I can't offer you any seats, fellows," said Hawley, still laughing, though there was no apparent cause for his enjoyment. "Haven't got everything unpacked yet; but if you'll just wait a minute we'll find something for you to sit on." "We'll help you," said Will Phelps, at once laying aside his coat. In their room he and Foster had done but little of the labor required in unpacking their belongings, for neither had been accustomed to such tasks in the homes from which they had come. Their fathers both were well-to-do and it had not occurred to either of the boys that the manual labor in settling their room was something to be expected of them. For a moment Foster glanced quizzically at his friend as if he was puzzled to account for his unexpected proffer, but knowing Will's impulsiveness as he did he was quick to respond, and in a brief time the few belongings of Peter John and his room-mate were unpacked and the beds were set up, the shades at the windows, and the few scanty belongings all arranged. "I didn't bring a carpet. Did you?" inquired Hawley of Schenck. "No," replied Peter John. "We can get along without one. I haven't any money to spare, and carpets are luxuries anyway. If we feel like it we can buy one afterwards. They're dangerous things though," and Hawley laughed as he spoke. "My doctor says they're the worst sources of contagion in the world, and whatever else I do I must be careful of my health." Again the laugh of the young giant rang out, and in its contagion all three of his classmates joined. And yet as Will Phelps glanced about the room its appearance was pitifully bare. The furniture was of the plainest, the walls were bare of pictures, there were none of the numerous pillows and other tokens of the warm regard of friends that had accompanied himself and his room-mate into the new life upon which they had entered. Apparently, however, Hawley was as delighted over his surroundings as he and Foster over theirs, perhaps even more, and Will was thoughtful for a moment as he silently watched his newly made friend. "How did you happen to come to Winthrop?" he inquired at last when the task of settling the room was measurably complete and all four had seated themselves on the rude wooden chairs which made up most of the furnishings of the room. "I didn't 'happen' to come." Somehow everything appeared to be a source of enjoyment to Hawley, and questions or remarks were alike greeted with a laugh. "What made you, then?" "Isn't Winthrop the best college in the United States?" demanded Hawley. "Yes, or at least that's what my father thinks. He graduated here and it may be that his opinion is a little prejudiced. Is that why you came?" "Partly." Again Hawley laughed and closed one eye as he spoke. "I can give a guess what the other reason was," said Foster. "What was it?" "Football." Hawley laughed loudly this time as he replied, "You're 'a very Daniel come to judgment.' That's from the 'Merchant of Venice,' isn't it? Well, if it is, it's about all I remember of my English course. Well, I'll be honest with you. I did see Baker this summer, and he set before me the advantages of coming to Winthrop in such a way that I couldn't very well say no. And I didn't, so here I am." "Did he offer to pay you?" demanded Peter John. "Did he offer _what?_" demanded Hawley. Somewhat abashed Peter John did not repeat his question, and his room-mate at once turned the conversation into other lines. "We had a pretty good football team in the academy where I fitted for college, and there were several colleges, or at least the football men of the college, who seemed to be quite willing that some of our fellows should go to them. We had a half-back who was a dandy! His name was Patrick O'Hara, and he passed better in football than he did in any other subject in the course." And Hawley stopped to laugh at the recollection of his former fellow-student. "Pat wasn't very much of a hand to study, and when one of the men from White College suggested to him that he should come there, why Pat was delighted. 'What studies will you take?' asked the fellow, for you see he knew without being told that Pat wouldn't be valedictorian of his class whatever other honor he might take, and he was trying to make it easy for him. 'Well,' said Pat, ''bedad, an' if it's all th' same t' yez, I'm thinkin' I'll just be afther takin' a bit o' the spellin' an' perhaps a bit o' figurin'. How do thot be afther suitin' yez'?" All the boys joined in the laugh with which Hawley related the story, and Will Phelps said, "Where did Pat go?" "Well," said Hawley slowly, "he has gone to White College." "Do you mean to say he has _entered_ there?" demanded Will. "That's what they tell me, though I've a notion he'll come out the same door he went in, and he won't tarry long either. Probably soon after the season ends." "But we play White College. It's one of our nearest rivals," suggested Will. "But then," he added, "that's just like them. They never do a thing on the square anyway!" Hawley pursed his lips as if he was about to whistle, but he did not speak though his eyes twinkled with merriment as if Will's statement somehow was hugely enjoyed by him. Foster Bennett noticing the expression on Hawley's face, also laughed, but he did not reply to his room-mate's very positive declaration. There were some things which Will could not understand, for with his intense and impulsive disposition the one thing which impressed him at the time was capable of only one interpretation. His confidence in Winthrop and his dislike of its rival college were therefore only what were to be expected of his friend. "Obliged to you, fellows," said Hawley, as Will Phelps and Foster Bennett rose to depart. "Come in and see us often." "You'll see enough of us from now on," responded Will as he and his room-mate departed. As the two passed out into the street and returned to their own room Foster said, "It's pretty bare there in Leland, isn't it, Will?" "Yes. They both seem to be happy though." "Not much like our room." "No. But then, Foster, you see they don't know the difference." Foster smiled but made no response, and Will continued. "You see everything in this world is relative. A man doesn't miss what he never had, does he?" "Perhaps not." "Now look here, Foster. Do you think a blind man suffers because he can't see? I mean a man who was born blind, of course." "What then?" "Why, the man I'm sorry for is the one that could see once and has lost his sight. He knows, let me tell you, what he's lost. But the other man doesn't appreciate it. He never could see, so he couldn't lose his sight, could he? Tell me that." "So you wouldn't do anything to help him?" "I didn't say that. I didn't say that at all. All I say is that the fellow I'm sorry for is the one who has had and lost, not the one who never had. Now look at Peter John, and Hawley. Their room isn't so good as ours, but it probably is just as good as they expected, or have been used to, so they don't suffer any." "And if you and I had to put up with their room--" "Why, we'd feel it." "It's a mighty comfortable way of looking at things, that's all I have to say." "But it's the true way," said Will glibly. "There's one thing I'm mighty glad of for Peter John's sake." "What is it?" "That he rooms with Hawley. I don't believe the sophs will bother him very much." "Not when Hawley's on hand." "You think they will when he's not?" "Yes, sir, I do. Peter John just invites them. It stands right out on his face." "Sort of a standing invitation, so to speak?" laughed Will Phelps. "Well, for my part, I hope he won't be too fresh. There's everything in that, you know." "And therefore we'll go scot free?" "Well, Hawley is a great fellow anyway; and I'm glad he's in our class." "He's big, anyway." "That's what I said." "No you didn't, you said great." "Same thing." "Not much. A man can be big without being great, can't he? Caesar and Napoleon were not big men, but I think you'd sum up that they were great." "Great butchers, if that's what you mean. You always spin it out too fine for me, Foster." Foster Bennett laughed and both boys entered their room to prepare for dinner. They still were taking their meals at the hotel, as their boarding-place had not been selected. In the thoughts of both it was a selection of too much importance to be made hastily, and they were therefore waiting until they became more familiar with the details of their new life. It was all novel and interesting, and on the following day the first class meeting was held. A dignified junior presided at the meeting, and after explaining what was expected and that the class officers to be selected were to serve only for a month, when it was thought that the members of the class would have become sufficiently acquainted with one another to enable them to act with becoming wisdom, he called for nominations for class president. Peter John Schenck immediately arose and said, "I nominate Hawley." The nomination was seconded, and there were calls for Hawley to step to the platform and stand where all the class could see him. The young giant obediently advanced and taking his place beside Spencer, who also was nominated for the office, awaited the verdict. There were cheers when it was announced that Hawley had won, and the junior then called for nominations for secretary and treasurer. Again Peter John arose to the occasion and said, "I nominate Phelps." Will's face flushed scarlet at the unexpected words but his room-mate at once had seconded the nomination, and he was compelled to advance to the platform and stand beside Farmer and McVey, whose names were also presented for the same office. There was some confusion for a time, but quiet was restored when the result of the ballot was announced. CHAPTER IV A CLOUD OF WITNESSES Will Phelps had been elected temporary secretary and treasurer of his class, the choice having been made chiefly because his appearance, as he stood on the platform, pleased his classmates, and not because of any general acquaintance that had been formed. And yet his election had brought him at once into a certain prominence, and doubtless Will was duly appreciative of the honor bestowed upon him. The member of the junior class to whom had been entrusted the organizing of the freshmen now rose to give some general words of advice before the meeting was adjourned. "There are some things in college," he was saying, "that have the force of laws. Some of them will appear foolish to you, it may be, and yet it will be more foolish to disregard them. For example, freshmen are not expected to go up to the hotel parlors in the evening, it would be decidedly better for them not to display on their caps or jersey the letters or numerals of the schools from which they have come, and they must not tack their cards on the doors of their rooms." Walker, the junior, continued his directions until he thought he had covered most of the details of the life upon which the incoming class was entering, but his remarks were not completed when Peter John Schenck arose from his seat and stood facing the president. There was a momentary pause as Walker ceased speaking, and the eyes of all the class were turned toward Peter John. After due deliberation, Peter John said in a loud voice, "Mr. President, I move that we adjourn." The hush that followed was broken by a loud laugh which had been started by Walker himself. Peter John, however, glanced about the room as if he was unable to perceive what it was that had caused the outbreak. Apparently unabashed, he again turned to the class president and said, "Isn't a motion to adjourn always in order, Mr. President? If it is, then I repeat my former motion. I move that we adjourn." Hawley was too good-natured to treat the interruption as it deserved, so he said, "Is the motion seconded?" Apparently it was not, and still unabashed, Peter John again took his seat while Walker resumed his remarks. "I don't know that I have anything more to say, only to tell you fellows to be careful. College traditions and customs have all the force of laws, and though some of them may seem to be foolish, still I believe in the main they help to make the life here what it is, and that's what you all want to get. If you have any questions to ask, don't be afraid to come to me with them, or to any of the juniors, and you'll be given all we know, which, though I can promise you it may not be much, still may be just a little more than you know. Or, perhaps, some of you," he added, glancing quizzically in the direction of Peter John Schenck as he spoke. When Walker departed from the room, Peter John was again the first to arise. "I move we adjourn," he said in a loud voice. "Second the motion," said Foster Bennett quickly. The motion was put and instantly carried, and the class passed out from the room. "It was anything to shut up Peter John," Foster explained to Will as he joined his room-mate. "Did you ever see the like?" "I never did," laughed Will. "I feel almost guilty to be acting as secretary for the class. If we had ten other offices to vote upon, I believe Peter John would have made the first nomination for every one." "He certainly is the freshest freshman in the whole bunch." "Yes, he doesn't know enough to know that he doesn't know, and that's about as far down as a fellow can go in his ignorance, you know." "What shall we do for him?" "Nothing." "But he'll have trouble." "Sure." "I'd hate to see him catch it too hard." "You can't save him, Foster. He's got to learn his lesson. The idea of his being on his feet so much to-day." "Well, he helped us to some good officers anyway, I'll say that much for him," laughed Foster. "But if he made such an impression on our class, what'll he do for the sophomores?" "You'd better be thinking about what they'll do for him." Walker now joined the two boys, introducing himself to each, and accompanying them to their room, where he entered and took a seat at their invitation. He was a fine-looking young man and of most agreeable manners, so that soon both Will and Foster were delighted with him personally and appreciative of the honor of the visit from their visitor. "No," Walker was saying, "the hazing doesn't amount to anything much in Winthrop. It's nothing more than a little good-natured 'horse play' for the most part. Of course, once in a while a fellow gets a little more attention than the rest of the class; but as a rule it's his own fault. You have a classmate that'll be very popular with the sophs, if he doesn't look out," he added with a laugh. "Who's that?" inquired Will, with a wink at his room-mate. "The chap that was on his feet so much in the class meeting this afternoon." "We were just talking about him," said Foster quickly. "You know he fitted at the same school where we did, and naturally we want to lend him a hand when we can. What had we better do?" "Nothing." "What do you mean?" "Just what I say. You can't do much for such a fellow; he has to learn it all for himself. The trouble is that he doesn't know how much or what he's got to learn yet. You can't do much for such a--" Walker stopped abruptly as Peter John himself entered the room. His face was beaming, and as he removed his hat his stiff red hair seemed almost to rise on his head. "Well, fellows," he said, "we did things up brown this afternoon, didn't we?" "You did too much," said Walker quietly. "Haven't I as good a right as anybody to make a motion?" demanded Peter John hotly. "You have as much right, but you don't want always to take all your rights, you know." "Why not? I'll stand up for my rights every time. Now, I don't believe a word of what you said this afternoon." "You're complimentary; but you're under no obligations to believe me," laughed Walker. "I don't mean just that. What I mean is that I'd like to see the sophomore who'd tell me what I could wear or what I couldn't; or where I could go and where I couldn't. He hasn't anything to say about that." "He thinks he has," suggested Walker quietly. "I don't care what he thinks. I know my rights, and I intend to stand up for them too!" "Is that why you were running up the railroad track the day when you came to Winthrop?" demanded Will Phelps. "Never you mind about that!" retorted Peter John in nowise abashed. "That was when I didn't know as much as I do now." "Three or four days will do great things for a fellow," remarked Walker dryly. "Yes, sir, that's so. You're right about that," acknowledged Peter John graciously. "Say, fellows, what are you going to do about these Greek letter societies?" he inquired abruptly, turning to his two classmates as he spoke. Both Will Phelps and Foster Bennett glanced uneasily at Walker, but the junior only smiled and made no response. It was apparent though that the topic Peter John had broached was one upon which all three had been conferring. "We haven't done anything as yet," said Foster. "Neither have I," acknowledged Peter John. "I thought I'd take my time before I decided which one I'd join. I suppose I'll have to write home to pa, but he won't know as much about it as I do." "We live and learn," said Walker as he rose to depart. "I'll see you to-night?" he inquired of Will and Foster as he stopped for a moment in the doorway. Will glanced questioningly at his room-mate and then said: "Thank you, Walker. We'll be very glad to come." "Where you going? What did he want?" demanded Peter John when Walker was gone. "It was something personal," said Foster. "Walker thinks you'll have to walk the chalk line, Peter John, or you'll have trouble with the sophs." "He does, does he? Well, I'll show him. I'd like to know what right they've got to tell me what to do. I'll do as I please! My chum--" It was instantly plain to the boys now the cause for this sudden and strange change in Peter John's attitude. He was relying upon the prowess of Hawley to protect him now and apparently was confident that he would not be molested since he roomed with the young giant whose name already was known throughout the college and from whom such great things were expected for the football team. "Don't depend too much upon Hawley! He can't be everywhere, remember," said Foster warningly. "I'll show 'em, if they come near me!" retorted Peter John as he departed. For several days the college life went on quietly and the boys were becoming somewhat accustomed to their new surroundings. There had been a "sweater rush" between the two lower classes, in which Hawley had been entrusted with the precious sweater, and, surrounded by his classmates, successfully defended it against the onslaught of the sophomores. The struggle had been severe but in good part, and the worst results had been some torn clothing and bruised faces. The freshmen wore upon their arms a strip of white cloth to enable them to distinguish their own comrades, and great was their elation when after the time limit had expired, it was discovered that the coveted sweater was unharmed. The strength of Hawley had been as the strength of ten and his praises were in every mouth. Into this struggle Will Phelps had thrown himself with all his might, and when he joyfully emerged from the struggling mass of humanity gathered about Hawley his rejoicing was great and his cheers for the class were among the loudest. On the border of the crowd he had perceived Peter John, but his classmate displayed no evidence of the recent struggle and Will was about to question him, when Peter John himself said, "Come over to my room to-night, Will." "All right." Will Phelps had promised readily, and then the matter departed from his mind as he rushed about among his classmates. That evening he suddenly glanced up from the book he was studying and said to his room-mate: "Foster, I agreed to go over to Peter John's room to-night. Want to go?" "Can't say that I'm pining for it. What does he want?" "I don't know. He seemed to be very much in earnest about it, though." "Is it much nearer from here to his room than it is from his room to ours? If he wanted to see you so much, why didn't he come over here?" "That isn't Peter John's way," laughed Will. "I promised to go, so I think I'll run over for a minute. I'll be back pretty soon." "If you need me let me know," called Foster as Will departed, and he then at once resumed his task. Will Phelps ran across the campus to Leland Hall, and as he turned in at the dimly lighted hall the contrast between his own surroundings and those in which he now found himself was for the moment almost painful. The stone step at the entrance had been worn away by the passing of boyish feet over it for more than a century. For a moment there flashed into his mind the thought of the eager lives that there had been trained and long since had passed over into the land beyond. Will himself was the fourth generation in direct descent in his own family to enter Winthrop, and as he now passed slowly up the rough, narrow, and worn stairway, he found himself thinking of his own father and grandfather and great-grandfather, all of whom doubtless had many a time been in the very same hallway where he himself then was. Even then from far down the street came the sounds of song and laughter of some passing body of students and the faint sound he could hear was for the moment almost like the echo of long past days. The very hall seemed to echo also with the footfalls of students who had long since completed their course and passed on. He was surrounded by a cloud of witnesses. Suddenly from the floor above him came the sound of noisy shouts and shrieks of laughter. The vision of other days and other men instantly departed, and the full force of the appeal of the present swept over him. Bounding up the steps, two at a time, he swiftly came to the third floor and then stopped abruptly as the shouts were redoubled and evidently came from Peter John Schenck's room. For a moment Will hesitated, almost tempted to turn back, but his feeling of curiosity was strong and resolutely he advanced and rapped upon the door. This was quickly opened and Will stepped inside the room. The door had instantly been closed and bolted behind him, but Will was hardly aware of that so interested was he in the sight upon which he gazed in the room which was filled with a noisy group of students. CHAPTER V UNSOUGHT ATTENTIONS One glance about him had been sufficient to convince Will Phelps that his classmates were suffering from a visit of the sophomores, a dozen or more of whom he recognized as being in the room. He looked quickly behind him at the door, but this already had been closed and three of the stalwart sophomores were standing with their backs against it, the others being stationed at different points about the room. In the center stood Mott, a lusty sophomore whom he had frequently seen and whose general bearing he had intensely disliked, for his face bore the unmistakable traces of dissipation and his bearing was that of a rowdy. The fact that Mott had secured a high position among the college athletes had in a measure made amends for his low tendencies of life in the eyes of his thoughtless mates, but though he was by nature somewhat of a leader still his personal popularity was low, and it was only his physical prowess that gave him any standing. Seated upon one end of his study table was Hawley, his face beaming with good nature and smiling broadly as he faced the assembly in the room. In one corner Peter John was standing, his back against the wall and in his hands was one of the heavy wooden chairs which he was grasping by the rounds. Even in the somewhat dim light Will could see that the great splotches of red on Peter John's face appeared to be larger and of a more fiery tint than usual, and his coarse red hair fairly stood on end. There was an expression of mingled terror and wild, almost ungovernable, rage on his face, and Will knew what that portended at that time. A brief silence had followed Will's entrance, and Mott had turned to some of his comrades and a meaning smile appeared for a moment on his face as he perceived who the new-comer was. In a moment, however, the tense stillness of the room returned, and Mott, turning to Peter John, said: "Now, then, freshman, are you ready?" "I'll brain the first man that comes near me! Don't you lay a finger on me or I'll break your head! This is my room and I'll have you understand that you can't play any of your dirty tricks on me!" Peter John's voice rose almost to a shriek, and lifting the chair he gazed menacingly at Mott, almost as if he was minded to rush upon him. Hawley laughed as his room-mate spoke, but Will's face became pale and he could almost hear the beating of his own heart, so intensely excited was he. He understood Peter John's disposition better than any of those who were in the room, and his fear of what might follow was great. "We'll give you one more chance," said Mott slowly. "I don't want any more chances. I want you to get out of this room! I didn't ask you to come! You've no right here!" shouted Peter John. "You didn't have to ask us," retorted Mott. "We came because you need us and for the good of the college. Come, freshman, do what I tell you." "Don't you come near--" began Peter John, but the sentence was not completed. At some unseen signal a half-dozen sprang upon him. Before he could bring down the chair which he still was holding above his head he was suddenly seized by his adversaries, the chair was wrenched from his hands, he was thrown heavily to the floor, and in a moment his hands and feet were fast bound with cords, and he was a helpless prisoner. Still he did not cease his struggling, but as he twisted and writhed he only drew the cords more tightly and made his own helplessness more apparent. "I know who you are!" he shrieked. "I'll report you, every one! I'll give the whole list of your names to the president! I'll have you arrested! I'll put you in jail! You're a lot of thieves and low-down scoundrels! I'll have you put where you won't abuse anybody any more!" Peter John's voice rose with every fresh threat until at last it almost broke in a sob. He was almost beside himself, and Will Phelps, though he shared in the anger of his classmate, was rejoiced that he was helpless and could not do what his desperation prompted. "Tie your handkerchief over his mouth, Hines," said Mott to one of his companions. "We must hush the infant's wailings or he'll have the whole of Winthrop up here. He seems to have some language besides that of the ordinary 'infant crying in the night'." At Mott's direction Hines and two of his classmates at once securely bound a handkerchief about Peter John's face, a task that was not accomplished without a desperate struggle. "Now then, since he seems to be quieted," said Mott at last, when his bidding had been done, "we'll turn to the other part of the program. Here, you freshman," he added, turning to Will Phelps as he spoke, "step up here and take your seat beside your classmate." For an instant Will hesitated. The sight of Peter John roused every instinct of combativeness which he possessed, and that was by no means small, but a laugh from Hawley restored a measure of self-possession, and quietly and without a word he seated himself on the table by the side of his friend. "Good! That's the way to do it! Now then, Hawley," said Mott, "you've got to get rid of that eternal grin of yours. Wipe that smile off your face and throw it out of the window." Hawley laughed aloud as he said, "I've been trying to get rid of it for nineteen years, but I haven't succeeded yet. If you fellows will show me how to do it I'll be yours truly now and for evermore." Some of the sophomores laughed, but Mott glared angrily at them as he said, "Quit that!" Then turning again to Hawley he said, "Oh, we'll help you all right enough. Just do as I tell you!" "How shall I do it?" "Take your handkerchief and wipe that smile off your face and throw it out of the window as I tell you." Hawley drew a huge handkerchief from his pocket with which he vigorously rubbed his face, and then going soberly to the window pretended to throw something out; but when he returned to his seat his laughter became uncontrollable and he broke forth into a loud guffaw, in which some of the assembly joined. At Mott's rebuke the laughter ceased, and then he said again to Hawley, "That won't do, freshman. You're not rid of it yet. Try it again!" Six times the huge and good-natured freshman was compelled to repeat his senseless and silly performance, and then Mott declared that he was satisfied. "Don't have a relapse," he said warningly, and then, turning to Will Phelps, he said, "Now I want my nice little boy, mamma's pet and papa's joy, to show what a good little boy he really is. He isn't going to do any of the naughty things that some of the wicked little college boys do. He is strong, he is, and he promised mamma he wouldn't, and he won't. Let's give him a song, fellows," he added, turning to his classmates, and at once the boys began to sing: "We're coming, we're coming, our brave little band, On the right side of temperance we always do stand; We don't use tobacco, for this we do think, That those who do use it most always do drink." Some of the singers had very musical voices and the simple little ditty sounded very clear and strong as they all joined in it. Will Phelps, however, was thinking of what it was that would be required of him. Then flashed into his mind the last conversation he had had with his mother and in which he had given her a promise not unlike that at which Mott had hinted. And he intended to keep it too, he assured himself. Come what might, he would not break it. He even smiled slightly as he thought of what his mother's feelings would be if she could look into Peter John's room and see what was then going on there. As the song ceased abruptly Will said, "What is it you want me to do, Mott?" "Well, now, freshman, that's cool. You can't help being a freshman, but it's not well even for a freshman to be too fresh. Ever hear the like of that, fellows?" he inquired of his classmates. "Never did. Never did," responded several, shaking their heads soberly. "Just think of it," began Mott again. "Here's a freshman who is so anxious to get into our good graces that he's not only willing to do what we tell him but he even comes and asks us what it is we want him to do. That beats anything old Winthrop has ever seen yet." Will's face flushed, but he was silent, though Hawley began to laugh again. "Now, then, freshman," said Mott, pointing his finger at Will, "we want you to get down on the floor and wrestle with temptation." "There's nothing here that tempts me very much," replied Will coolly, and Hawley promptly laughed aloud. "You do as I tell you! Get down on the floor and wrestle with temptation," demanded Mott sharply. "I don't mind doing it if it will please you any," responded Will as he slipped from his seat on the table to the floor. "That's the way. Now then, papa's joy and mamma's pet, show us how it is that you do the trick." Stretched upon the floor, Will Phelps went through his struggle with an imaginary foe. He twisted and writhed and struggled, shrieks of laughter greeting his efforts from the assembled sophomores, and even Hawley joined in, so ridiculous was the appearance which Will presented. "That's very good, very good indeed!" remarked Mott when several minutes had elapsed. "You'd better get up now and take a seat beside your friend." Will quickly did as he was bidden, laughing slightly as he glanced at Hawley, whose imperturbable good nature was not in anywise ruffled. "Hawley, you're a great football player, I understand," said Mott. "I'm a big player, can't say that I'm great. Some fellows might think so, but it depends on whether they've seen much or know much, I fancy." "That's right. You're as modest as Mary's little lamb. I hear you're a great sprinter," he added, turning abruptly to Will Phelps. "Oh, I can run a little. If you'll give me the chance now I'll show you how I can leave the sophs behind," said Will with a laugh, for he was now feeling somewhat the effects of Hawley's manner of meeting his tormentors, and as he glanced down at Peter John it required no deep insight to perceive which was the better way. The boys in the room laughed good-naturedly and one of them said, "That's enough, Mott. They don't need any more." "Hold on, I'm not done yet," replied Mott. "Tell me what's the name of the little school from which you came," he demanded of Will. "The Sterling High School." "And you ran there?" "A little." "Get any medals?" "A few." "Nice ones! Got any here?" On his fob Will wore the gold medal he had won the preceding June, but he laughed and made no reply to Mott's question, fearful of incurring further ridicule if he should display the trophy. "Did you run against the track team of the Meadowbrook Academy?" inquired Mott. "No. Is that where you fitted?" replied Will simply. Hawley broke into another loud laugh and Mott's face flushed. Will perceived that he had made a mistake and his better plan would be to say as little as possible, whatever the provocation might be or the opening his adversary might give him. "Did you beat the fast sprinter from the Toad Hollow Institute?" demanded Mott. "Can't say that I did. I never heard of the school till now." "Ever run against anybody from the Honeyville Classical Seminary?" "No." "Or from the Smartville Four Corners team?" "We didn't have anything to do with those schools. We weren't in their class." "Oh, let up, Mott. We've done enough. Let 'em go now," suggested one of the sophomores. "Not yet," responded Mott. "We must have these freshmen give us an exhibition of what they can do. You fellows take off your collars," he said, turning again to Will and his classmate. For an instant Will Phelps hesitated and there was a sudden tightening of the muscles in his arms, but Hawley, good-natured and imperturbable as ever, at once removed his collar and Will quietly followed his example. "That's good," said Mott encouragingly. "Now take out your collar buttons." Both freshmen obeyed, wondering what was to be required of them. Their curiosity was speedily relieved when Mott said, "We'll have a collar-button race. You two athletes put these buttons on the floor and push them across to the other side of the room with your noses. The one that wins will make the track team here I haven't a doubt." Hawley again laughed loudly as he and Will took the places assigned them. For a moment their faces were near together and Hawley whispered a few words in Will's ear. His companion's eyes flashed in response, but he did not reply, and in a moment, at Mott's word, the race was begun. CHAPTER VI A RACE IN THE DARKNESS Slowly and steadily the two freshmen began to push the collar buttons across the floor. The floor itself was uncarpeted and not particularly clean, and the position and actions of the two boys certainly did not add to their dignity; but there was not a trace of a smile to be seen on the face of either as they complied with the demands which had been made. The sophomores in the room were also serious, that is, all were save one, and, as he laughed aloud at the ridiculous aspect of their victims, Mott said savagely, "Put him out! He's no business here? Get out of this room!" The offending sophomore, despite his protests and his promise to "be good," was thrust out from the room, and the race was then resumed. Whenever either of the contestants lagged or one seemed to be gaining slightly upon the other he was sharply bidden to make good his loss, and when the two freshmen had come near the side of the room which they were seeking to gain the collar buttons were close together and each freshman could see the expression on his companion's face. Perhaps it was well for them both that the members of the rival class could not see the quiet glance which Hawley gave Will nor its equally keen response, but the look was understood by both freshmen and they were aware that the critical time in the contest was approaching. They were by this time within two feet of the door which opened into the hall. The sophomores who had been standing in front of it now moved back to give the contestants room, and as Hawley perceived that the way was clear, after looking up for a moment and glancing keenly at his classmate, he suddenly leaped to his feet and Will instantly followed his example. Before the astonished sophomores were fully aware of what was occurring both had darted through the doorway after Hawley had with almost incredible quickness flung open the door. Instantly it was closed, and Hawley, seizing the iron handle of the catch and putting forth all his strength, braced his feet against the wall and prepared to hold the inmates prisoners in the room. "Get Andrews and Briggs!" whispered Hawley, and Will quickly darted across the hallway to the room of his two classmates. A word was sufficient to inform them of what was occurring, and in an incredibly brief time all three were standing beside Hawley. The giant freshman was holding the door, which opened inward, easily, though the sophomores in the room were striving desperately on their side. But Hawley had the strong handle and only the tiny latch could be seized from within. Numbers counted for nothing in this struggle, as only one could pull at a time. The silence in the building was unbroken, though the first thought of the bold freshmen had been that their sophs would throw open the window and summon their classmates to their aid. Whether it was due to their excitement or to the fact that they did not wish to have their predicament known, Will Phelps never learned, but no outcry was made, though the steady pull upon the door continued. "I've got 'em!" whispered Hawley gleefully. "If the latch doesn't give way they won't see outdoors again till I give 'em leave. Run, Will!" he added hastily. "Get twenty of our fellows here as soon as you can and we'll fix 'em yet. I can hold on here forever!" Leaving his classmates at the doorway, Will Phelps ran swiftly down the stairs and sped across the campus to his own room. He found his room-mate seated at his desk, evidently hard at work. Foster glanced up reprovingly as Will burst into the room and said, "I thought, Will, you were--" He stopped abruptly as he perceived how excited his classmate was, but before he could make any inquiries Will broke in: "We've got a lot of sophs shut up in Peter John's room! Get some of the fellows and make for the room! Hawley's holding 'em in! Tell Jones and Camp to come and then tell them to get some more and every one to bring two or three with him. Get some more yourself and I'll do the same." Before his astonished room-mate could make any further inquiries, Will darted out of the room and ran down the stairway covering three steps at a leap. But Foster understood what it was that was demanded of him, and, without hesitating an instant, seized his cap and swiftly followed. The scheme worked marvelously well, and within five minutes a band of twenty-five freshmen had assembled in the hall in front of Peter John's and Hawley's room in Leland. Hawley was still holding the door and no outcry from within the room had been heard. "How many sophs room in this entry?" said Will quickly. "Four," replied Hawley. "Two in the front corner room on the second floor and two in the back corner." "Can you hold on till we can fix them?" "I can hold on forever. But you'd better be quick about it." At Will's word four of his classmates followed him to the floor below and two were speedily assigned to hold one door while two more held the other. They were to be quiet, and, if no outbreak was made, then they were not to make their presence known, but under no circumstances were the sophomores to be permitted to come out from their rooms. As soon as this arrangement had been perfected Will ran swiftly back to join Hawley and his classmates on the floor above. Hawley was still standing at his post of duty, but as Will approached he laughed silently and whispered: "What'll we do now, fellows?" Several whispered suggestions were made, but at last it was agreed that the assembled freshmen should step back on either side and that Hawley should permit the door to be partly opened. It was confidently believed that the sophomores would rush out, and, if they did, a half-dozen were to be permitted to come forth and these were to be seized as silently as possible and bound by the freshmen as their own unfortunate classmate, Peter John Schenck, had already been treated. When a few had emerged and been seized then Hawley was to strive to close the door again and hold the others within, and, with the force thus divided, no strong resistance could be made and the treatment which they were to receive could be determined upon. As soon as this decision had been made Hawley withdrew from the door, but there was no pressure upon it from within, and for a moment the assembled freshmen stared blankly at one another as if they feared that their game had escaped them and that they themselves were the ones to appear in the unenviable light. Will Phelps advanced as if he was about to open the door, but a silent gesture from Hawley caused him to abandon the project. As he stepped back the latch clicked and the door was suddenly opened. Evidently the inmates were surprised that the door was free, and three or four cautiously stepped forth to peer into the dimly lighted hall. Before they were fully aware of the true condition of affairs they were seized by the waiting freshmen. There were sounds of a momentary struggle, but when those who were within the room attempted to come forth the door was quickly closed in their faces and they were prisoners again. The four who had been seized were quickly bound, and then the assembly turned once more to the door itself. "We'll go in," said Hawley, "and you musn't let a soph get past you. We must hold every one in there. Now then!" he added, as he pushed gently against the door. But the door failed to yield to the pressure. For a moment the astounded freshmen knew not what to make of the unexpected resistance, and then as a slight sound from within the room could be heard, Hawley grimly braced himself against the door and whispering to his classmates began to exert all his strength in his endeavor to open it. For a brief time it resisted all their efforts, and then with a resounding crash it suddenly yielded. But it seemed to the startled freshmen as if the very walls themselves were giving way. There were the sound of falling pieces of furniture and in the midst of the confusion several of the sophomores suddenly darted from the room, and before their enemies could recover from their surprise had gained the head of the stairway and were fleeing from the building. "Take after 'em! Don't let 'em get away!" called Hawley. "Hold on, it's all right," he quickly added as he perceived Mott in the room. "We don't care for anybody else for we've got the ringleader right here. Let 'em go! Let 'em all go! We don't want anybody else." There was a momentary hesitation on the part of the sophomores as if they were minded to stand by their classmate, but as they peered about them it seemed almost as if the entire freshman class were present, and instantly discretion became the better part of valor, and they fled in a body from the room and also from the building. Several of the freshmen had seized Mott by this time, and his desperate attempts to free himself were unavailing. Peter John had been quickly freed by Will Phelps, and then Will said hastily to Hawley: "We've stirred up the hornets' nest enough, haven't we? The sophs will be back here with all their class. Shall we let him go?" "Let him go?" laughed Hawley, whose enjoyment seemed to be increasing with every passing moment. "Well, I rather think not." "What shall we do? They'll be back here in a minute." "Send everybody to his room. We'll look after this fellow ourselves." Will Phelps turned to his classmates and said: "Get away from this fellows. The sophs will be here in a minute and we may all be hauled up before the faculty. We'll look after Mott." Instantly the freshmen ran from Leland Hall, leaving Will Phelps and Foster Bennett, and Peter John and his room-mate to look after the captive sophomore. "What'll we do with him?" inquired Will hastily. "Take him over to your room." "That'll be the first place they'll come to when they don't find him here. Still, I'm perfectly willing--" "Take him out in the grove," suggested Foster quickly. "If we can get away from here without being seen we'll be all right there." "That's the thing," assented Hawley. "Foster, you run ahead and see if the coast is all clear, for we may have to carry this fellow, and we might attract some attention if we should happen to be seen on the street." "No, you won't. I'll go along all right," spoke up Mott. "It's your turn now, but it'll be mine again, you know, and I'll see that you freshmen pay up all your scores with good interest!" "Don't you threaten us!" said Peter John angrily, speaking now for the first time. "I'm not threatening you, freshman, I'm just telling you what you'll have to go through, that's all. You can do with me what you please, but whatever you do you musn't forget that it'll be paid back five times over." "Don't stop here any longer. Come ahead, fellows," said Hawley quickly. The party with Mott in their midst swiftly passed down the stairway and turned into the street that led toward "the grove," a clump of huge pine trees that had stood for many years on the borders of the rear campus of the college. The freshmen glanced anxiously about them, but apparently their presence was not noted by the few who were to be seen on the street, and they quickly increased the pace at which they were moving. As they turned into the campus, Mott suddenly broke away from his captors who had been somewhat deceived by the apparent willingness with which he had followed them, and began to run swiftly back toward the college buildings. The sophomore was known as one of the fleetest footed men in college, and already Will Phelps had had him pointed out as one of the few who had "made" the track team in his freshman year. He had looked up to him with the respect that only a freshman can know for the prominent men in college life, and now was his opportunity to test his own ability against that of the fleeing member of the sophomore class. Quickly he darted in pursuit, feeling rather than perceiving that his own classmates were speedily left far behind him. He was exerting himself to the utmost and ran as though the prize he was seeking was the greatest of coveted honors. As he sped over the grass his respect for his rival increased greatly, for whatever Mott's defects might be, there certainly was in him no lack of ability to run. The distance between the runners was steadily maintained, and indeed, it seemed to Will as if it was being increased. On and on he ran, and the college buildings were now near-by, and if the fleeing sophomore should once gain an entrance in one of them then Will knew all further pursuit would be useless. Suddenly the form of Mott disappeared in the dim light and Will Phelps stopped abruptly and peered keenly before him. But when his classmates joined him and all four cautiously advanced, several minutes elapsed before a solution for the mystery was found. CHAPTER VII SPLINTER'S QUESTIONS Directly before them the boys could see a long ditch or trench which had been dug the entire length of the back campus and of whose existence they had not been aware. Doubtless Mott had known of it, however, and in his flight had made for it with all the speed he could command, either hoping to lead his pursuers into difficulty or trusting that it in some way would provide a means of escape for himself. Whatever his plan may have been it succeeded admirably, for when the four freshmen stood together on the border of the trench not a sign of the presence of Mott could be discovered. In which direction he had fled they were also ignorant. It was evident however that he was gone and after a careful search had confirmed the conviction in their minds that the sophomore had escaped, Will Phelps said: "We'll have to give it up, fellows. He's gone." "We can go up to his room and get him," suggested Peter John, who was becoming exceedingly bold under the confidence which the presence of his friends gave him. "We can, but we won't," said Hawley bluntly. "Why not?" demanded Schenck. "It's one thing to defend yourself, but it's another to fly straight into the arms of the sophs. I don't wonder that some of the freshmen get into trouble, they're so fresh. If the sophs didn't take it out of them I think our own class itself would." "That's so," responded Peter John cordially, "I've thought of it myself lots of times. Now there's Merrivale--he rooms next to me, you know--he ought to be shown that he's too fresh." "What's he done?" inquired Foster. "Why he came into my room last week and borrowed fifty cents, and he hasn't paid it back yet, either!" "Oh, well, just remember what Mott said, Peter John." "What did he say?" "He said every freshman would be paid back with interest." "I don't want any interest," declared Peter John in all seriousness. "I'll be satisfied if I'm paid back without that." "You'll get it, though," laughed Will; and as his two companions also joined in his laugh Peter John said no more, except that he "couldn't see anything very funny in _that_." The boys, however, did not longer delay where they were but quietly returned to their rooms, nor were they again disturbed that night. Indeed, for several days the quiet of the college life was not ruffled and both Will Phelps and his room-mate began to hope that their troubles were at an end. Mott, whom they saw on the following morning when they were departing from chapel, laughed good-naturedly as he greeted them and indeed his friendship for them seemed to be increased by the recent experiences through which he had passed. Several times he came to the room of Will and Foster and remained until his welcome was decidedly that was displeasing to both the boys, though there threadbare. There was something in his bearing was a certain indefinable something about him that was not altogether unpleasant. His language, his bearing, and his general appearance all betokened a certain coarseness of fibre that somehow grated upon the feelings of Will and his room-mate, though they could not have explained even to themselves just what it was. He was such a marked man in college, however, and was looked up to by so many that there was a certain pleasure in his personal attention and both Will and Foster felt in a measure the flattery of his evident favor. The college work had now begun to settle into its regular grooves and when another week had elapsed, Will and Foster began to feel that the spirit of their surroundings had to an extent been received by them and that they were indeed a part of the life. There were moments now that came to Will, when do what he might he could not banish from his mind the thought of the home in Sterling of which practically he was no longer a part. The vision of his father seated in his easy-chair in the library of an evening, before the fire that glowed upon the hearth, his paper in his hands and the very manner in which he occasionally glanced up and read to his mother something he had noticed seemed to be one that Will could not shake off. The pictures on the walls, the very rugs on the floor, and the chairs in the room could all be distinctly seen, and somehow the sight never failed to bring a certain depression with it. Will Phelps would indignantly have denied that he was homesick, but as the days came and went his manner became somewhat subdued and when he rose from his bed in the early morning and peered forth from his bedroom window at the towering hills that were all aglow with the glory of the rising sun, somehow their very beauty and grandeur seemed to deepen his feeling that he was "a good way off," as he expressed it, though just what it was that was so far away he could only have vaguely expressed or defined. Doubtless his room-mate could have explained to him that it was the little city of Sterling that now seemed to be so remote, for he too was suffering slightly from the same malady that troubled his friend. Why is it that most boys are so afraid to acknowledge that they are ever homesick? Is it the fear that they may appear too dependent and less manly if they confess their longing for home? Certainly no boy who comes from a good home detracts from his own strength of character by acknowledging that he misses the home from which he has gone. Indeed, is it not a reflection upon the boy and the home alike, if he declares when he goes from his father's house that he misses nothing? To yield to the feeling of homesickness, to permit it to overmaster one and prevent him from performing his tasks in the place wherein he finds himself may be a confession of weakness, but to suffer nothing from it is to declare a weakness or defect greater still. And Will Phelps, though he was silent as to his own feelings, was suffering keenly in the early days of his life in Winthrop. A week had elapsed since the events recorded in the preceding chapter and Will and Foster were studying busily in their rooms one evening, striving to hold their wearied minds to their work, for there had been an unexpected written test that day in their Greek and both were somewhat anxious as to the results of their efforts. Suddenly the door opened and in walked Peter John, who had already acquired the collegiate habit of never inquiring if his presence was welcome in the room into which he came. His face was beaming and it was at once evident to both Will and Foster that their classmate had something of importance to declare. "How'd you get along in the test to-day, fellows?" was Peter John's first question. "Not very well," replied Will, motioning for his visitor to be seated. "I just killed it." Will and Foster laughed as they heard Peter John already indulging in college slang. It seemed so out of keeping with his general bearing and appearance. The gap between his trousers and his shoes had never been so apparent, his splotches so vivid, nor his hair so belligerent as now. "There's that question, 'Who were the mercenaries of the Greeks, and what was a mercenary?' I got that right, I know I did." "How did you answer it?" inquired Foster. "Why, I said 'a mercenary was a man that sold himself to some one,' and I showed what I meant by illustrating it." "How?" "I said the professors were the mercenaries of the college." "You did?" exclaimed Will, sitting instantly erect. "Yes, sir; I did. What's the matter?" he added, as both boys began to laugh loudly. "Isn't it true?" "Oh, it's too good to be true. Tell us some more, Peter John." "I can't see what you fellows are laughing at," said Peter John soberly. "That answered the question all right. I'll get an 'A' on that paper. Then there was that question, 'What was the Greek law and conception of vengeance?' That bothered me a bit at first, but I got it, I'm sure." "What did you say?" inquired Will. "Why, that's as plain as the nose on your face," responded Peter John glibly. "I said that vengeance was a low-down, mean, spiteful attempt to pay back. 'Vengeance is mine and I will repay,' saith the Lord." "Oh, you'll get more than 'A' on that," said Will in the extremity of his delight, as he was compelled to go to the window and gaze out into the night. "You'll get at least A square." "No, I won't. They don't give that. 'A' is the highest mark they give. But I think I got everything right. How did you answer that question about what Christian tenet the Greeks believed in?" he added, glancing at the copy of the questions which he held in his hands. "How did _you_ answer it, Peter John?" inquired Foster quickly. "I answered it that they believed in the immorality of the soul." "In the _what?_" demanded Foster soberly. "In the immorality of the soul." "You meant immortality of the soul, didn't you?" "Y-e-s, I suppose I did," assented Peter John somewhat ruefully. "But old Splinter will understand," he added quickly. "Splinter will know I just left out a 't', and he won't count that against me." "No, a little thing like a 't' doesn't count for much, not any more than a decimal point. It doesn't make any difference whether a decimal point is placed before or after a figure, you know. It's only a little thing anyway." "Yes," assented Peter John, failing to perceive what Foster was saying. "Then there was one other question that was dead easy," he added. "Which one was that?" "The one about the animals." "Let me see, what was that question?" said Foster thoughtfully. "Why, don't you remember? It was 'Name six animals that were common among the Greeks'." "Oh, yes; I recall it now; but I don't think I had it right. I could think of but four." "Pooh! Easiest question of the whole lot." "What was the answer?" "Easy! Dead easy! I just said, 'Six dogs'." The laughter that rang out in the room might have been heard across the campus; but Peter John was only slightly ruffled, and said: "Oh, well, you fellows may laugh if you want to, but you'll find out when you see my marks." "They'll put you in Splinter's place as soon as you graduate," suggested Foster when at last he regained control of himself. "I wish they would," responded Will heartily. "Splinter" was the term by which the Winthrop boys were accustomed to speak of Professor Hanson, who was in charge of their Greek work. The title did not appear in the college catalog, it was true; but it was the only one by which he was known among the irreverent students. He was an elderly man, whose sensitive nature had suffered for many years from the inadequate preparation of successive classes, until at last not only were his teeth on edge, but his entire disposition as well. He had become somewhat soured and sarcastic in his dealings with the students, and was more unpopular than any other professor in the college. His scholarship was accurate. His ability to impart his knowledge to such students as were eager to learn was also unquestioned, but for the indifferent and lazy, or for the dull or poorly prepared, his words were like drops of vitriol. His popular title of Splinter had been bestowed upon him because of certain physical characteristics however. He was a very tall man and exceedingly thin, and the very beard which he wore imparted by its sharp point an additionally suggestive emphasis to his slight and slender frame. No one knew how the title originated or how it came to be bestowed upon the professor; but its appropriateness had at once fastened the term and every entering class received it as a heritage from those which had preceded it. Will Phelps already had acquired a keen dislike for the man, and he had laughed heartily when Mott one night had declared that the student body had been compelled to give Professor Hanson the new name he had received. "You see," Mott had said, "the faculty and the trustees decide what titles a man can wear _after_ his name; so it's only fair that the students should decide what titles he shall wear _before_ his name. Now this man's name used to be simply John Hanson. Then some college or other said it should be John Hanson, PH.D. Well, the students here have only gone a step further and they've not taken anything away from the old fellow. They've added to him, that's what they have; and now it's Prof. Splinter John Hanson, PH.D. He ought to be grateful, but it's a cold world and I sometimes fear he doesn't appreciate what was done for him. In fact such bestowments are rarely received as they should be." The suggestion Will's room-mate had made that Peter John soon might take Splinter's place had recalled his own difficulties with the man, but soon even the thoughts of the unpopular professor of Greek were forgotten in the new interest that was aroused by the entrance into the room of three young men who were at once recognized as members of the junior class. CHAPTER VIII THE PARADE "You're just the fellows we're looking for," said Allen, the leading spirit of the three young men who entered the room. "You haven't very far to look, then," replied Will laughingly, for in his heart he felt honored by the unexpected visit of the upper classmen. "That's right, freshman. How are you getting on?" "They've kept us busy, to say the least." "You mean the sophs?" "Yes. That's the only class we have to think of, isn't it?" "No. Your own class is first." "It's the best class in college," interrupted Peter John quickly, and all who were in the room laughed as the uncouth freshman's face flushed. "That's the way to talk," responded Allen. "But it is. I'm not joking," persisted Peter John seriously. "No doubt. No doubt. But what we've come for is to tell you about the parade." "Parade? What parade?" inquired Foster. "Why, every fall there is a parade of the freshmen. They have a band usually, at least most of the classes have had one and as yours is the best class that ever entered college, why you won't want to fall behind the others I know." "Who pays for the band?" demanded Peter John. "You do, that is, your class does." "I won't pay a cent," retorted Peter John. "You don't have to," laughed Allen. "Some of the others will make it up. I'm just telling you what the custom is and only for your own good." "Go on with your story," interrupted Will. "Let's hear about the parade." "It's to come off next Saturday afternoon, and we juniors usually help out in the scheme, you see. We try to arrange a part of it for you and help you out in some of the details. The whole thing is 'horse play,' just a sort of burlesque, and the more ridiculous you can make it, the better." "I'll not make a fool of myself for anybody," spoke up Peter John sharply. "You don't have to. It won't be necessary," replied Allen quietly, but in the laugh that followed, Peter John took no part. "What do you want us to do?" inquired Foster. "Well, we suggest that this young man--I've forgotten his name," said Allen, turning to Peter John as he spoke. "Schenck. Peter John Schenck--that's my name, and I'm not ashamed of it either!" said that worthy promptly. "But I don't propose to hire a band and march around the streets making a fool of myself for anybody." "You don't have to," and again a laugh arose at the junior's words. "I was only suggesting, that's all. But if you want to know what I think, I'm of the opinion that if you'd be one to help haul the committee from the senior class around in their chariot it would be a good thing for you. That's only a suggestion on my part, as I told you, and you can do as you please about it." "I don't please to do it," replied Peter John sulkily. "What's the 'chariot' you spoke of, Allen?" inquired Will. "Oh, it's only an old hay wagon. It's been the custom for some of the freshmen to haul the officers of the senior class around in it. It doesn't amount to much, but honestly I think it will be a good thing for you to do it." "All right, you can count on me," said Will quickly. "I don't want to count on that from you. I've something else for you and Bennett to do." "What's that?" "I'll explain it to you." And Allen at once went into the details of the scheme he proposed. Both Will and Foster laughed as he laid it before them, and willingly consented to do their part. Peter John, however, said not a word, and when the visitors prepared to depart, Allen said, "You're to assemble at the gym, you know, and the parade will be formed in front of it on the street. It'll march up Main Street, down East End Avenue, around through Walker Street, up West Street, across Drury Lane and then back into Main Street and then on down to the ball ground. There the parade will break up and the freshmen and sophomores will have their annual ball game. It'll be great fun if you take it in the right spirit, and you'll have plenty of spectators too." "How's that?" said Foster. "Why, the whole college, faculty and all, will turn out to see it, and of course all the village people will be on hand, and if it's a good day there'll be a crowd here from out of town. The trains will be crowded that day, and there'll be a good many who'll come into Winthrop with their automobiles. You'll never forget the day as long as you live." "Great!" exclaimed Will. "I wish it was to-morrow. Where shall we get these things we're to wear?" "You can find them in the stores, or maybe I'll be able to help you out some. Come down to my room to-morrow and I'll see what can be done. Good night," Allen added, as he and his classmates started down the stairway. "Good night," responded Will and Foster, and then closed the door. "Of all the foolishness I ever heard that beats all," said Peter John when the freshmen were by themselves once more. "They don't get me into it." "Oh, yes, Peter John. Don't pull off that way," said Will cordially. "Not much. I'm not so big a fool as they take me to be." "You'll be a bigger one if you keep out." "Maybe I will, but I'm not going to go into any such doings." "Now look here, Peter John. You're a freshman, but you can't help that and no one blames you for it. I'm--" "I'm no more a freshman than you are," retorted Peter John warmly. "Right you are. But you don't want to make a bad matter worse. If you keep out you'll be a marked man and everybody in college will hear about it. It'll be a great deal better for you to go in quietly, and whatever you think about it, just keep your thoughts to yourself, and don't call the attention of the whole college to you by your foolishness. It'll be simply a challenge for the sophs, if you don't do it, and you'll be the one to suffer." "You think so?" "I know so." "I guess the sophs found out what sort of a fellow I was the other night. I'd have brained the first one that laid hands on me." "You didn't though, and you wouldn't. It's a great deal better to do as Hawley did and just laugh it off." "Oh, I laughed all right, and I'd have given those fellows something to laugh about too, if they hadn't tied me up." "Of course, but the trouble is they did tie you up, and the next time it'll be worse than that. It isn't worth while to kick too hard, Peter John. A fellow has just got to take some things in life as he finds them and not as he'd like to have them. It's the only way, and the sooner he learns it the better." "But my father told me never to let anybody impose on me," said Peter John dubiously. "Nobody is going to impose on you. You won't be doing anything more than every fellow in the class, and if you don't go in you'll be the one marked exception. The sophs will take it as an invitation." "You think so, do you?" "Yes, sir, I do. Come along, Peter John, and don't make any more fuss about it." "Well, I'll think about it," replied the freshman as he departed for his own room in Leland Hall. Saturday dawned bright and clear and the interest and excitement in the college over the parade rose to its highest point. A band had been secured from a neighboring city, and in the afternoon, when its stirring strains were heard from the steps of the gymnasium, all the freshmen were made aware that the time for their assembly had arrived. There were crowds of strangers to be seen about the streets and the little town was all active with unwonted bustle. Automobiles were arriving, the sophomores were assembling at the various buildings, and their jeers and cries could be heard as they greeted the appearance of the members of the class below them when they started for the gymnasium. Will Phelps and Foster Bennett felt keenly the prevailing excitement, and when they entered the gymnasium building they found a large number of their own classmates already assembled and keenly alive to the demands that were soon to be made upon them. Under the experienced guidance of the committee of juniors the freshmen were soon equipped for their various parts and the procession was formed. In advance moved the band and behind it was a huge hay wagon in which in great dignity were seated six of the seniors. The wagon itself was drawn by sixteen freshmen, all of whom had a tight grasp upon the ropes that had been fastened to the wagon tongue. Directly behind the wagon came Will Phelps and Foster Bennett and two of their classmates, all dressed in the garb of firemen, with red jackets and helmet hats of paper. In their hands was a huge rope at least two and a half inches in diameter, which was attached to a tiny tin fire engine not more than a foot in length. Behind the firemen came Hawley, who was dressed as an infant with a lace cap on his head and carefully tied bows under his chin, while in his hands he was carrying a bottle of milk. He was seated in an improvised baby carriage, which was being pushed by one of the smallest members of the freshman class. "Sunny Jim," Charley Chaplin and Ben Turpin were among the characters that could be seen in the long lines of freshmen that, three abreast, were arranged still farther back in the procession, and at last, at the word of Allen, the junior who was acting as the marshal of the day, the march was begun. Frequently Will turned and glanced behind him at the long, tortuous line, and its ridiculous appearance caused him to laugh and say to Foster: "Did you ever see anything in your life like that?" "I never did." "Silence there in the ranks!" called Allen sharply, for he chanced to be marching near the "fire engine." Not a trace of a smile could be seen on his face, and to all appearances he was engaged in what he considered one of the most serious events of his life. In the streets the people were lined up and their laughter and good-natured applause could be heard on every side. Small boys followed the line of march or walked beside the long column, and their derisive remarks were frequent and loud. The sophomores also added their comments, but there was no open disturbance throughout the march. It was one of the events of freshman year and as such was evidently not to be entered upon lightly or unadvisedly, like certain other important epochs in life. At last the procession arrived at the athletic field and there broke up for the baseball game with the sophomores. The grand stand was already filled with the people and students that had watched the march, and, as soon as Will and Foster had donned their baseball suits, for both had been selected to play on the freshman nine, they appeared upon the field, where already the other members of the team were awaiting their coming. "I didn't see Peter John, did you, Foster?" inquired Will. "No. It'll be all the worse for him, I fancy." "No doubt about that. What are we going to do with him, Foster?" "Nothing." "I don't like to see the chap suffer for his own foolishness." "Neither do I. But he'll have to learn for himself. You can't tell him anything." "You can _tell_ him all right enough, but I'm afraid that's all the good it does. You might as well try to polish sponge." The conversation ceased as the call for the game to be begun was heard and both boys hastened to take the positions in which they were to play. The noise among the spectators increased as the signal was given, but for three innings both nines played earnestly and seriously. At the end of the third inning, with the score standing five to four in favor of the sophomores, a radical change was made. The batter was blindfolded and compelled to stand upon an upturned barrel, which was substituted for the home plate. The pitcher and catcher were each also to stand upon a barrel and the pitcher was ordered to throw the ball with his left hand. Naturally it was impossible for the batter to hit the ball, since he was blindfolded, and when three strikes had been called he tore the bandage from his eyes and upon his hands and knees was compelled to crawl toward first base. The baseman stood with his back to the field and naturally found it difficult to secure the ball which had been thrown by the left hand of the catcher. Shrieks of laughter arose from the spectators, shouts and class cries were heard on every side, tin horns mingled their noise with the blasts of the band, and altogether Will Phelps thought that the scene was unique in the experiences of his young life. CHAPTER IX THE WALK WITH MOTT In the days that immediately followed the freshman parade and the burlesque game of baseball with the rival class, the work before Will Phelps and his room-mate settled more deeply into its regular grooves. The novelty of the new life was now gone and to Will it almost seemed that ages had passed since he had been a member of the household in Sterling. His vision of the hilltops from his bedroom window became longer and he could see in his mind far behind the towering barriers of the hills into the familiar street and well-remembered rooms of his father's house. The foliage on the hillsides now had assumed its gorgeous autumn dress and wherever he looked the forests seemed to be clad as if they were all on dress parade. The sight was beautiful and one which in after years was ever present with him; but in those early days of his freshman year in Winthrop, it seemed somehow to impress him as a great barrier between his home and the place where he then was. However, he never referred to his feeling to any one, not even to Foster, and strove manfully to bear it all. He was working well, but in his Greek he was finding increasing difficulty. This he acknowledged in part was due to his own neglect in the earlier years of his preparatory course, but boy-like he attributed most of his lack of success in that department to "Splinter," for whom he came to cherish a steadily increasing dislike. The man's personality was exceedingly irritating to the young freshman and his dislike for the professor was becoming intense--a marked contrast to his feeling for his teacher in mathematics for whom he entertained a regard that was but little short of adoration. His knowledge evidently was so great, and his inspiring personality in the classroom was so enjoyable that Will soon found himself working in that department as he never before had worked in his brief life. Already, the boys were referring to him as a "shark," and the praise of his classmates was sweet. But in Greek--that was an altogether different affair, he declared. Splinter was so cold-blooded, so unsympathetic, and sarcastic, he appeared to be so fond of "letting a fellow make a fool of himself in recitation," as Will expressed it, that he found but little pleasure in his work. And Will had already suffered from the keen shafts of the teacher's merciless ridicule. One day, when in fact he had spent an additional hour in the preparation of his lesson in Greek, though the results he had achieved left him still troubled as he thought of the recitation, he had been called upon to translate and make comments upon a portion of the lesson of the day. He could feel as well as see, or at least he fancied that he saw, the drawing down of Splinter's lips that presaged an outburst of sarcasm. Will had been permitted to go through his task without interruption and then the professor had said dryly, "That will do, Mr. Phelps. That is what one might term 'making Greek' of it. It certainly is justice neither to the Greek nor to the English." A partly suppressed titter had run through the class at the biting words, and with face flushed scarlet Will Phelps had resumed his seat, feeling that in all the world there could not be found another man so thoroughly despicable as Splinter. And his feeling of dislike had increased with the passing days. He had come not only to detest the man, but the Greek as well. If he could have followed his own desire he would have abandoned the subject at once and substituted something in its place, but Will understood fully his father's desire for him to become proficient in that department and how useless it would be for him to write home for the desired permission. In sheer desperation he began to devote additional time to his study of Greek, until he felt that he was almost neglecting certain other studies in his course that in themselves were far more enjoyable. But his progress under Splinter seemed to be in no wise advanced, and soon Will was cherishing a feeling that was something between a hopeless rage and an ungovernable detestation. One break had occurred, however, in that both he and Foster had joined one of the Greek letter fraternities--the Phi Alpha. Both freshmen were now taking their meals at the fraternity house and in the good fellowship and the presence of his fellow-members he found a measure of relief from the homesickness that was troubling him and his difficulties with the detested professor of Greek. It was also a source of some comfort to him to learn that his own feeling for Splinter was one that was commonly held by all the students who had been under him; but though his misery may have loved the company, his problem still remained his own and appeared to be as far from solution as ever. Not long after Will and Foster had joined the Phi Alpha fraternity, Peter John had dropped into their room one evening and quickly discovered the neat little badge or pin that each boy wore on his vest directly over his heart. "Hello!" exclaimed Peter John; "you've joined the Phi Alpha, have you?" "Yes," replied Will quietly, striving then to change the topic of conversation, for the subject was one not to be cheapened by ordinary remarks. "It's about the best in college, isn't it?" persisted Peter John. "That's not for us to say," laughed Will. "I haven't joined any fraternity yet," said Peter John. "My father told me I'd better wait and perhaps he'd come up to Winthrop a little later and then he'd tell me which one to join." Will and Foster glanced at each other, but neither spoke. In fact there was nothing to say. "If you feel sure the Phi Alpha's the best, I might write home to my father and perhaps he'd let me join now," suggested Peter John. "He thinks that whatever you two fellows do is about right." As only about half the students in Winthrop were members of the Greek letter fraternities, and as those who were elected were chosen because of certain elements in their characters or lives that made them specially desirable as companions or comrades, the election was naturally looked upon as an especial honor and many of the entering class had been eagerly awaiting the invitation for which all longed. Peter John Schenck's unique personality and his sublime self-assurance had been qualities, if no other defects had been apparent, that would have debarred him, but he was so sublimely unconscious of all this--"Not even knowing enough to know that he didn't know, the worst form of ignorance in all the world," Foster had half angrily declared--that not for a moment did he dream that his membership was something perhaps undesirable of itself. "I might write home and ask him," suggested Peter John when neither of his classmates responded. "I think I like the Phi Alpha pretty well myself." "I wouldn't do it," said Foster. "How are you making out with Splinter?" he added, striving to change the subject. "Oh, Splinter's all right." "Glad you think so," said Will bitterly. "Some of the fellows think he's hard, but he's all right if you know how to handle him," declared Peter John pompously. "I'll put down a good mark for him." "Good for you, Peter John!" laughed Foster. "Wait till he puts down your mark." "I'll get an 'A' in Greek." "I hope you'll give me a part of it then," said Will. "Did you ever see such a fellow?" he said to Foster when their visitor had departed. "I never did. I don't mind him myself, but for his own sake I wish he could learn something. I don't believe he'll ever do it though." "I'm afraid he'll be taught some things that are not in the course of study." "Do him good," remarked Foster, as he turned once more to his work. The following day was Saturday, and in the afternoon there were no recitations. Will had promised Mott that he would go for a long walk with him, and promptly after luncheon the sophomore appeared. For some reason which Will could not explain, Mott appeared to have taken a decided fancy to him, and had paid him many special attentions. There was little about him that was attractive to Will, but somehow he found it difficult to avoid him. He certainly was a well dressed handsome young fellow, and was prominent in college chiefly because of his success in athletics, for already he had the reputation of being one of the swiftest runners in college. But in the college vernacular he was commonly referred to as a "sport," a term for which Will instinctively had little liking, and less for the young man himself. However, he had found it difficult to avoid him, and somewhat reluctantly he had consented to take the long walk to a distant village with him on the day to which reference has been made. For a time after the two young men had departed from Winthrop, and had made their way up the road that led along the steep hillside, the exhilaration of the bracing air and the superb view had made Will keenly alive to the beauties of the surrounding region. A soft halo covered the summits of the lofty hills, and the quiet of the valley was almost as impressive as the framework of the mountains. Mott too had been exceedingly pleasant in all that he had said, and Will was almost beginning to feel that he had misjudged his companion, and that his reputation was worse than the fellow himself. They had now left the hillside road and were once more in the valley and not far from the village they were seeking. "I hear you're quite a fair sprinter," suggested Mott, as they proceeded. "I do a little," assented Will, laughing lightly as he spoke. "Where did you run?" "On the high school team." "What high school?" "Sterling." "Run against the other schools in the league?" "Yes," replied Will, wondering how it was that Mott happened to know of the existence of the league. "How did you come out?" "Oh, I happened to win. There wasn't very much to run against, you see." "What time did you make?" "Ten, two." "Going to run here?" "Going to try to." "I find this taking long walks is good for me," said Mott. "It keeps my muscles in trim and gives me wind." This, then, was the object which Mott had in view in inviting him to take the walk, Will hastily concluded. He wanted to find out all he could learn about his ability as a runner, and in spite of himself Will was flattered by the evident interest and attention. They were now within the confines of the village, and excusing himself for a moment Mott left Will, but when he returned it was evident from the odor about him that the sophomore had been to some speakeasy. Will had known of Mott's habits, and the fact that he had left him and gone alone to secure his drink argued that the fellow was not altogether bad. There was not a long delay in the village, and the return by a different road from that by which they had come was suggested by Mott, and Will had acquiesced. They had not gone far, however, before Mott discovered a farmer approaching with a team and a heavy but empty farm wagon, and quickly suggested that they should ride, and as Will at once agreed, his companion hailed the passing man. "Hi, grandpa! Will you give us a ride?" he called. Without a word the farmer, who was an old man, halted his team and permitted the boys to clamber up into the wagon. "This is more like it," said Mott, forgetful of the benefits of walking, as the horses started. "It's not half bad," replied Will, as he glanced at the old man who was driving. A straw hat covered his gray head, and his untrimmed gray beard as well as his somewhat rough clothing could not entirely detract from the keen twinkle in his eyes. "I fancy," said Mott, addressing the driver, "that the beauties of this country have added much to your longevity?" "My which?" demanded the farmer sharply. "Your longevity." "I never had no such complaint's that. I've had the rheumatiz, but that's all that ever bothered me any." "You are to be congratulated," murmured Mott. "Guess that's so. See that buryin' ground over there?" inquired the driver, pointing as he spoke to a quaint little cemetery by the roadside. "Yes," replied Mott. "Probably most of the people died of longevity." "It don't tell on th' gravestones. Jest got a new gravedigger." "How's that?" "Third we've had inside o' a year. Had one fur nigh onto forty year, but he up an' died." "Longevity?" gravely inquired Mott. "Like enough; though some folks thought 'twas softenin' o' th' brain; but my 'pinion is he never had any brains to get soft. Still he were a good digger, but the man we got next was no good." "What was the trouble with him? More longevity?" "No; he buried everybody with their feet to the west." "Isn't that the proper thing?" "No, 'tisn't!" "Why?" "Any fool knows ye ought t' be buried with yer feet t' the east." "Why's that?" "So't ye can hear Gabriel's trumpet better when he blows, an' can rise up facin' him an' be all ready t' go when he calls." "I hadn't thought of that." "Like 's not. Some folks don't. We've got another digger now, an' he knows." For a time conversation ceased, and the farmer drove briskly along the country road. When an hour had elapsed, Mott said, "I don't see that we're getting anywhere near Winthrop." "Winthrop? Is that where ye want t' go? Students there, maybe?" "Yes." "Well, we've been goin' straight away from Winthrop all the time. Ye didn't say nothin' 'bout it, an' I didn't feel called upon t' explain, for I supposed college students knew everything." "How far is it to Winthrop?" inquired Will blankly. "'Beout ten mile," responded the farmer, his eyes twinkling as he reined in his team. CHAPTER X A VISITOR The boys both hastily leaped to the ground and the old farmer quickly spoke to his team and started on, leaving his recent passengers in such a frame of mind that they even forgot to thank him for his courtesy and kindness. As the wagon drove off, Will fancied that he heard a sly chuckle from the driver but he had disappeared around the bend in the road before the young freshman recovered from his astonishment sufficiently to speak of it. "That old chap wasn't such a fool after all," said Mott glumly. "That's what he wasn't," responded Will beginning to laugh. "What are you laughing at?" demanded Mott sharply. "At ourselves." "I don't see the joke." "Might as well laugh as cry." "You'll sing another song before you're back in Winthrop to-night. Ten miles isn't any laughing matter after we've tramped as far as we have to-day." "But it'll help us for our track meet," suggested Will, laughing again. "Bother the track meet!" "It'll help our longevity then. I've always heard that walking was the best exercise." "The old fellow was foxy. He never said a word but just let us talk on. I'd give a dollar to hear his account of it when he gets home." "Cheap enough. But say, Mott, have we got to tramp all the way back to Winthrop?" "Looks that way." "Can't we get a car here somewhere?" "Hardly. We might try it at that farmhouse over yonder," replied Mott pointing toward a low house not far away as he spoke. "Come ahead! Let's try it anyway," suggested Will eagerly. The boys at once hastened to the place, and after a brief delay succeeded in summoning the young farmer who lived there. They made their wishes known, but in response the man said, "Can't do it anyhow. My wife's sick and I'm goin' for the doctor now." "Where is he?" demanded Will eagerly. "Over at the Junction." Will knew where the Junction was, a little hamlet about seven miles from Winthrop. How far it was distant from the place where he then was, however, he had no idea. It was easy to ascertain, and in response to his question the farmer explained that it was "about three mile." "You might take us there, then," said Will quickly. "I don't know just how the trains run for Winthrop, but it'll be three miles nearer anyway." "Yes, I'll be glad to take you there." "How much are you going to charge us?" demanded Mott who did not plan to be caught again by the "guilelessness" of any of the people of the region. "Oh, I sha'n't charge ye anything. Glad t' do ye the favor," responded the farmer heartily. In a brief time his car was ready, and, acting upon his suggestion, the boys at once took their places on the seat, and the driver soon was briskly speeding down the roadway. Conversation lagged, for the boys were somewhat wearied by their long tramp and the young farmer was silent, doubtless anxious over the illness in his home. When a brief time had elapsed he deposited the boys on the platform of the little station at the Junction, and again declining any offer on their part to pay for the service he had rendered them at once departed in his search for the physician. Approaching the little window in the ticket office Mott inquired, "What's the next train we can get for Winthrop?" "No more trains to-night," responded the man without looking up from the noisy clicker over which he was bending. "No more trains?" "That's what I said. The last one passed here fifteen minutes ago." "Isn't there any way we can get there?" "I s'pose there is." "What is it?" demanded Mott eagerly. "Walk." "How far is it?" "Seven miles." "And there's no other way?" "You won't be the first that have counted the ties between Junction and Winthrop." "Isn't there a freight train that comes along pretty soon?" inquired Will. "There's one that's due in 'bout an hour. But you never can depend on it. It may be here in an hour and it may be three hours. You never can tell." "What shall we do, Phelps?" inquired Mott, turning sharply to his companion. "I don't care much, but I believe it would be better for us to start. It isn't so very far and besides it'll be good for our longevity and help us for the meet." There was an exclamation of anger from Mott who doubtless had become somewhat sensitive to the frequent references to his favorite expression of the day, but he made no protest and the two boys at once started up the track. Both were hungry and weary but the distance must be traversed, and there was no time or breath to waste in complaining. Steadily they trudged onward, the monotony of the walk increased by the deepening darkness. They had been gone from the station only about an hour when the shrill screech of the whistle from a locomotive approaching from behind them was heard, and in a few minutes the long and noisy freight train thundered past them. Mott was almost beside himself with rage as he watched the passing cars and heaped all manner of maledictions upon the head of the station agent, who, he declared, must have known the train was coming, and with malice aforethought had withheld his knowledge and advised the boys to walk. "Everybody was against the college boys," he declared, "and looked upon it as legitimate to take advantage of them in every possible manner." But Will only laughed in response and made no protests though he was as thoroughly wearied as his companion. At last the lights of the college could be seen and shortly after ten o'clock they arrived at their dormitory. "We'll remember this walk, I take it," said Mott glumly as he turned toward his room. "We certainly shall," replied Will. "The 'longevity' of that old farmer was something wonderful." "Bother his longevity!" exclaimed Mott as he turned quickly away. Left to himself Will slowly climbed the stairs until he arrived at his own room, but as he was about to enter he suddenly stopped and listened intently to the sound of voices within. Surely he knew that voice, he thought, and in an instant opened the door and burst into the room. Seated in the easy-chair was his father. Instantly Will's weariness was forgotten and with a shout he rushed upon his visitor throwing his arm about his neck and laughing in a way that may have served to keep down a stronger emotion. "How long have you been here?" he demanded. "Where's mother? When did you come? How's everybody at home? Anything wrong? My, but I'm glad to see you! How long are you going to stay?" The questions and exclamations fell from Will's lips in such confusion that it was impossible to reply and even Foster who was in the room joined in the laugh with which his room-mate's excitement was greeted. "Not too fast, Will," laughed his father. "I had to come near here on business and I thought it would be a good thing to stop at Winthrop over night and have a little visit with my boy. I didn't know that I should be able to have one," he added smilingly, "for he wasn't anywhere to be found." "I'm sorry! I wish I'd known it. I've been out for a walk with Mott. And we certainly have had one!" he added as he recounted some of the experiences of the afternoon. His recital was greeted with laughter and even Will himself could enjoy it now that it was all past and he was once more safe in his room. For an hour Mr. Phelps remained in the room listening to the tales of the boys of their new life in the college, laughing as he heard of their pranks, and deeply interested in all they had to relate. At last when he arose to go to his room in the village hotel, he promised to come and attend church in the morning with the boys and then explained that he would have two hours to spend with Will on the morning following as his train did not leave until half-past ten. "But I have a recitation the first hour," said Will blankly. "I'll 'cut' it, though, for it isn't every day one has his daddy with him, and I wouldn't lose a minute of your time here, pop, for ten hours with old Splinter. I have Greek, you know, the first hour in the morning. Oh, I've got 'cuts' to burn," he added hastily as an unspoken protest appeared in the expression on his father's face. "You needn't worry about that." "I don't want you to lose any recitation because I am here," said his father quietly. "I sha'n't want to come again if my coming interferes with your work, and as it is I have serious doubts--" "All right, pop," replied Will patting his father affectionately on the shoulder. "I'll go to Splinter's class, though I know he'll 'go for' me too. I won't do a thing that'll ever keep you from showing up here in Winthrop again." On Monday morning after the exercises in the chapel, Mr. Phelps went to Will's room and waited till the hour should pass and the eager-hearted boy should return. As the great clock in the tower rang out the hour he arose and stood in front of the window peering out across the campus at the building where Will was at work, but the stroke had scarcely ceased before he beheld the lad run swiftly down the steps and speed along the pathway toward his room as if he were running for a prize. The expression in the man's eyes was soft and there was also a suspicious moisture in them as well as he watched his boy. Was it only a dream or reality? Only a few short years ago and he had been an eager-hearted boy speeding over the same pathway (he smiled as he thought how the "speed" was never displayed on his way to the recitation building), and now it was his own boy who was sharing in the life of old Winthrop and doubtless he himself was in the minds of the young students relegated to that remote and distant period when the "old grads" were supposed to be young. Doubtless to them it was a time as remote as that when Homer's heroes contended in battle or the fauns and satyrs peopled the wooded hills and plains. And yet how vital it all was to him. He watched the groups of students moving across the campus, and as the sound of their shouts or laughter or the words of some song rose on the autumn air, it seemed to the man that he needed only to close his eyes and the old life would return--a life so like the present that it did not seem possible that a great gulf of thirty years lay between. Mr. Phelps' meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Will, who burst into the room with the force of a small whirlwind. "Here I am, pop!" he exclaimed as he tossed his books upon his couch and threw his cap to the opposite side of the room. "Old Splinter stuck me good this morning, but I can stand it as long as you are here." "Who is Splinter?" "Why, don't you know? I thought everybody knew Splinter. He's our professor of Greek and the biggest fraud in the whole faculty." "What's the trouble with him?" Mr. Phelps spoke quietly but there was something in his voice that betrayed a deeper feeling and one that Will was quick to perceive and that gave him a twinge of uneasiness as well. "Oh, he's hard as nails. He must have 'ichor' in his veins, not blood. I don't believe he ever was a boy. He must have been like Pallas Athenæ. Wasn't she the lady that sprang full-fledged from the brain of Zeus? Well, I've a notion that Splinter yelled in Greek when he was a baby. That is, if he ever was an infant, and called for his bottle in dactylic hexameter. Oh, I know lots about Greek, pop," laughed Will as his father smiled. "I know the alphabet and a whole lot of things even if Splinter thinks I don't." "Doesn't he think you know much about your Greek?" "Well, he doesn't seem to be overburdened with the weight of his opinion of me. He just looks upon me, I'm afraid, as if I was not a bright and shining light. 'Learn Greek or grow up in ignorance,' that's the burden of his song, and I've sometimes thought that about all the fun he has in life is flunking freshmen." "How about the freshmen?" "You mean me? Honestly, pop, I haven't done very well in my Greek; but I don't think it's all my fault. I've worked on it as I haven't worked on anything else in college. I've done my part, but Splinter doesn't seem to believe it. What am I going to do about it?" Will in spite of his light-hearted ways, was seriously troubled and his father was silent for a brief time before he responded to the boy's question. CHAPTER XI THE PERPETUAL PROBLEM "I was aware that you were having trouble with your Greek," said Mr. Phelps quietly, "and that was one of my reasons for stopping over here." "You were? How did you know?" "I had received word from the secretary of the faculty. He sent me a formal note announcing that your work was so low that it was more than probable you would fail in your mid-year examination." For a moment Will Phelps was silent. His face became colorless and his heart seemed almost to rise in his throat. Fail in his mid-year's? A "warning" sent home to his father? To the inexperienced young student it seemed for a moment as if he was disgraced in the eyes of all his friends. He knew that his work had been of a low grade, but never for a moment had he considered it as being at all serious. So many of his newly formed friends in the college had been speaking of their conditions and low grades as a matter of course and had referred to them laughingly, much as if they were good jokes to be enjoyed that Will too had come almost to feel that his own trouble was not a serious one. And Splinter was the one to be blamed for the most of it, he was convinced. The words of his father, however, had presented the matter in an entirely different light, and his trouble was vastly increased by its evident effect upon him. Will's face was drawn and there was an expression of suffering upon it as he glanced again at his father and said: "What shall I do? Will it drop me out of college?" "I think not necessarily. You must pass off more than half your hours to enable you to keep on with your class; but failure in one study will not bring that of itself, for your Greek is a four-hour course. But the matter is, of course, somewhat serious and in more ways than one." "Yes, I know it," replied Will despondently. "Well, if you know it, that's half the battle won already. The greatest trouble with most unsuccessful men is that they have never learned what their own weaknesses and limitations are. But you say you know, and I wish you'd tell me what you think the chief difficulty is." "My Greek," said Will, trying to smile. "But what's the trouble with the Greek?" "The trouble is that the Greek troubles me. I suppose the Greek is all right and I'm all wrong." "In what way?" "I don't know it as I ought to." "Is that 'Splinter's' fault?" "No, it's mine. You know how hard I worked in the closing half of my last year in the high school, but that didn't, and I suppose couldn't, make up for what I hadn't done before." "Are you working hard now?" "On my Greek?" "Yes." "I'm putting more time on that than on everything else." "I didn't ask you about the 'time,' but about the work." "Why, yes. I don't just see what you mean. I spend three hours on my Greek every day we have it." "It's one thing to 'spend the time' and another to work. Some men will accomplish more in an hour than others will in three." "I do my best," said Will gloomily. He felt almost as if his father was unfair with him and was disposed to question what he had said. "Now, Will," said Mr. Phelps quietly, but in a tone of voice which his boy clearly understood, "it would be an easy thing for me to smooth over this matter and make light of it, but my love and interest in you are too strong to permit me to think of that for a moment. I believe in you, my boy, but there are some things in which I cannot aid you, some things which you must learn and do for yourself. Last year you faced your crisis as a man should, and I believe you will face this one too." "It seems as if there was always something to be faced." "There is. That's it, exactly. My boy, Splinter, as you call your professor in Greek, is not limited to the faculty of Winthrop College. In one form or another he presents himself all through your life. His name is simply that of the perpetual problem." "I don't see, then--" interrupted Will. "No, you don't see; but it is just because I do, and I am your father, that I am talking in this way. Why do you think I have sent you to college? It isn't for the name of it, or for the fun you will get out of it, or even for the friendships you will form here, though every one of these things is good in itself. It is to have you so trained, or rather for you so to train yourself, that when you go out from Winthrop you will be able to meet the very problems of which I am speaking and master them. They come to all, and the great difference in men is really in their ability to solve these very things. I think it is Emerson who says, 'It is as easy for a large man to do large things as it is for a small man to do small things.' And that is what I want for you, my boy, the ability to do the greater things." "But I'll never use Greek any. I wish I could take some other study in its place." "Just now it is not a question of Greek or something in its place. It is a question of facing and overcoming a difficulty or permitting it to overcome you. You must decide whether you will be a victor or a victim. There are just three things a man can do when he finds himself compelled to meet one of these difficult things that in one form or another come to everybody. He can turn and run from it, but that's the part of a coward. He can get around it, evade it somehow, but that's the part of the timid and palterer, and sooner or later the superficial man is found out. Then there is the best way, which is to meet and master it. Everybody has to decide which he will do, but do one of the three he must, and there is no escape." "You think I ought to hit it between the eyes?" "Yes, though I should not put it in quite that way," said his father with a smile. "I'd like to smash it! I don't like it! I'll never make a Greek scholar, and I detest Splinter. He's as dry as a bone or a Greek root! He hasn't any more juice than a piece of boiled basswood!" "That does not alter the matter. It won't change, and you've got to choose in which of the three ways I have suggested you will meet it." "I suppose that's so," said Will quietly. "But it doesn't make it any easier." "Not a bit." "I know what you would say." "Then it isn't necessary for me to say another word. There's one thing I am thankful for, Will, and that is that you and I are such good friends that we can talk this trouble all over together. The dean was telling me this morning--" "Have you seen the dean?" interrupted Will quickly. "What did he say?" "The dean was telling me," resumed Mr. Phelps smiling and ignoring the interruption, "that he sees so many of what might be termed the tragical elements of college life, that he sometimes feels as if he could not retain his position another day. Fathers and mothers broken-hearted, boys discouraged or worse, but the most tragical experience of all, he says, is to try to deal with fathers who have no special interest in their boys, and between whom there is no confidence. Whatever troubles may come to us, Will, I am thankful that that at least will not be one of them." As he spoke Mr. Phelps arose, for the machine which was to convey him to the station could now be seen approaching and the time of his departure had arrived. His good-bye was hastily spoken for he knew how hard it would be for Will to be left behind, and in a brief time he had taken his seat in the auto. He saw Will as he hastily ran back to his room and then he could see him as he stood by the window in his room watching the departing auto as long as it could be seen. He gave no signal to show that he saw his boy, but his own eyes were wet as he was carried swiftly down the street, as he thought of the predicament in which Will was and how the testing-time had come again. But the young student must be left to fight out his battle alone. To save him from the struggle would be to save him from the strength. If it were only possible for a father to save his boy by assuming his burden, how thankful he would be, was Mr. Phelps' reflection, but he was too wise a man and too good a father to flinch or falter now, and, though his heart was heavy, he resolutely kept on his way leaving Will to fight his own battle, and hoping that the issue would be as he most fervently desired. Left to himself, for a moment Will was almost despondent. The departure of his father seemed to leave the loneliness intensified, but he was recalled as he heard some one run up the stairway and rush into the room. His visitor was Mott, and perhaps the sophomore almost instinctively felt that his presence was not welcome, for he said: "Governor gone, Phelps? Hope he left a good-sized check with you! I've come over to be the first to help you get rid of it." "What's the trouble?" inquired Will quietly, glancing up as he spoke. "Your money all gone? Want to borrow some?" "I'm always ready for that," laughed Mott, "though I'll have to own up that I've got a few cents on hand yet. No, I don't know that I want to borrow any; but I thought you might want a little help in getting rid of that check, and I'd just run over to oblige you. Just pure missionary work, you see." Mott seated himself in the large easy-chair and endeavored to appear at his ease, though to Will it still seemed as if there was something which still troubled his visitor. "I haven't any special check." "That's all right. My 'old man' never has been up to see me since I entered Winthrop, but as I look around at the fellows whose fathers and mothers have been up, I've noticed that they're usually pretty flush right after the old gentleman departs." "Hasn't your mother ever been up?" inquired Will in surprise. "No. Why should she? She hasn't any time to bother with me. She's on more than forty boards, and is on the 'go' all the time. She has to attend all sorts of 'mothers' meetings' too, and I believe she has a lecture also, which she gives." "A lecture?" "Yes. She has a lecture on 'The proper method of bringing up boys.' How do you suppose she ever has any time to visit me?" Mott laughed as if the matter was one of supreme indifference to him, but Will fancied that he could detect a feeling of bitterness beneath it all. For himself, the condition described by the sophomore seemed to him to be incredible. His own relations with his father had been of the frankest and most friendly nature. Indeed, it never occurred to him in a time of trouble or perplexity that there was any one else to whom he so naturally could go as to his own father. Since he had entered Winthrop, however, he had discovered several who were not unlike Mott in their feelings toward their own families; and as Mott spoke he almost unconsciously found a feeling of sympathy arising in his heart for him. Some of his apparently reckless deeds could be explained now. "Mott, you must go home with me next vacation," he said impulsively. "That's good of you, but it's too far off to promise. Say, Phelps, what's become of that man Friday of yours?" "Who's he?" "Schenck." "Oh, he's flourishing." "He's the freshest freshman that ever entered Winthrop. What do you suppose he had the nerve to say to me to-day?" "I can't imagine." "Well, he told me that he thought the Alpha Omega was the best fraternity in college, and that he'd made up his mind to join it." As this was the fraternity to which Mott himself belonged, Will laughed as he said, "Oh, well, don't be too hard with Peter John. He doesn't know any better now, but he'll learn." "That's what he will," replied Mott with a very decided shake of his head. "I thought I'd come over to tell you that the sophomore-freshmen meet is to come off on Saturday afternoon." "Not next Saturday?" exclaimed Will aghast. "Yes, that's the very day." "They told me it wasn't to be for two weeks yet." "All the same it's on Saturday. I thought I'd tell you, though I'm going to do my best to keep you from winning your numerals." Mott rose and departed from the room, and when Foster returned he found his room-mate hard at work, with his Greek books spread out on the desk before him. CHAPTER XII THE MEET The fact that the track meet between the two lower classes had been placed at an earlier date than that for which it had first been announced was a serious disappointment to Will Phelps. His success in the school athletics had made him quietly hopeful, if not confident, that he might be able to win some laurels in college, and he also was aware that the gold medal he wore upon his fob had made his own classmates expect great things from him. And the changed date now prevented him from doing any training and he must enter the contest without any preparation. Reports had come to him that Mott and Ogden, the two fleetest-footed sophomores, had already been working hard, and rumors were also current that he himself was to be kidnapped and prevented from entering the games. Will had given but slight heed to any of these reports, but he had in his own mind decided that he would begin training at once for the contest, for if he should by any chance win then he would be the first member of his own class to gain the coveted privilege of wearing his class numerals upon his cap and sweater. And, not unnaturally, Will was eager to secure the honor. As he thought over Mott's words he was half inclined to believe that the sophomore himself had been the cause of the unexpected change in the date of holding the games, and his feeling of anger and desire to win both became keener. There was no time, however, afforded in which he might make preparations for the meet, and he must simply do his best under existing circumstances. There was to be no burlesque or "horse play" in this contest, and the entire college would be on hand and interested to note the promise of the entering class in a department of college life that appealed strongly to all the students. Even his new determination to push his work in his Greek harder than ever he had done and his feeling of homesickness did not in the day that intervened between the present and the day of the games prevent his interest and excitement from increasing during the passing hours. Saturday afternoon finally arrived, clear and cool, an ideal day for the contest. When Will stepped forth from the dressing-room, clad in his light running suit and with his bath robe wrapped around him, as he glanced over the track he could see that a crowd was already assembled. The sophomores were seated in a body in one portion of the "bleachers," and their noisy shouts or loud class cries rose steadily on the autumn air. Opposite was the freshman class, but its members were still too unfamiliar with their surroundings and with one another to enable them to join in anything like the unison of their rivals. In the grand stand were numbers of the members of the families of the faculty and the townspeople and visitors, and altogether the scene was one that strongly stirred Will and his room-mate, Foster Bennett, who also was to compete in the games. Suddenly a loud, derisive shout arose from the sophomores, and Will glanced quickly up to discover its cause. In a moment the cause was seen, when Peter John Schenck came running across the field toward the place where Will and Foster were standing beside a few of their classmates, who were also waiting for the game to begin. The sight of Peter John was one that caused even Will and Foster to smile, for their classmate was dressed as if he too was about to become a contestant, and this was something neither of them had expected. It was Peter John's garb, however, which had so greatly delighted the beholders, for it was unlike anything to be seen upon the field--"fearfully and wonderfully made," as Mott, who had joined them for a moment, had expressed it. Evidently it was the result of Peter John's own handiwork. His running trousers came to a place about halfway between his knees and ankles before they stopped, and were fashioned of coarse bagging or material very similar to it. He wore no running shoes, but a pair of gray woolen socks, plainly "hand made," provided a substitute. His "running shirt" was a calico blouse which had at one time doubtless served him as a garment in which he had done the daily chores upon his father's farm, but, as if to make matters still worse, a broad band of ribbon, the colors of the class, was diagonally fastened to his blouse in front, and Peter John's fierce shock of bright red hair, uncut since he had entered Winthrop, served to set off the entire picture he presented. "Well, I guess we'll do 'em to-day, Will," exclaimed Peter John as he approached the group of which his friend was a member. "I guess we will," remarked Mott soberly. "I'm going to do my prettiest," continued Peter John. "If you let anybody once get ahead of you, Schenck," said Mott, "you'll never catch him. If he sees you after him he'll run for his life." "He'll have to!" "What are you entered for?" inquired Mott, glancing at his program as he spoke. "The half-mile run." "Ever do it before?" "Once or twice." "What time did you make?" "I don't just recollect." "Never mind. You'll make a new record to-day." "That's what I want to do," replied Peter John, sublimely unconscious that he was being made sport of by the sophomore. The conversation was interrupted by the call, "All out for the hundred-yard dash!" and, as Will was to run in the first heat, he drew off his bath robe and tossing it to Foster, turned at once for the starting-place. He had already been indulging in a few trials of starting, but his feeling of confidence was by no means strong as he glanced at those who were to be his competitors. There were four runners in his heat, and one of them was Ogden, the sophomore of whose reputation as a "sprinter" Will already was aware. The other two were freshmen and therefore unknown quantities, but Will's chief interest was in Ogden. He could see the knots of muscles in his arms and back and legs, and his own feeling of confidence was in nowise strengthened by the sight. Certainly Ogden was a muscular fellow, and a competitor as dangerous as he was striking in his appearance. The call, "On your marks," was given, and Will, with the other three, advanced and took his place on the line. Every nerve in his body seemed to be tingling with excitement and his heart was beating furiously. "Get set!" called the starter, and then in a moment there followed the sharp report of the pistol and the runners were speeding down the course. Will felt that he had secured a good start, and but a few yards had been covered when he realized that he and Ogden were running almost side by side and had left the other two contestants behind them. Nor were their relative positions changed as they sped on down the track except that the distance between Will and Ogden and the two freshmen behind them was steadily increased. Will was dimly aware as he drew near the line that the entire sophomore body had risen and was noisily calling to their classmate to increase his speed. There was silence from the seats occupied by the freshman class, but Will was hardly mindful of the lack of support. Glancing neither to the right nor the left, he could almost instinctively feel that Ogden was a few inches in advance of him and all his efforts were centered upon cutting down the intervening distance. As the contestants came within the last ten yards of the course, Will gathered himself together for one final burst of speed. His feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground as he darted forward. But Ogden was not to be outdone, for he too increased the pace at which he was running, and when they touched the line that was stretched across the course, the sophomore was still ahead by a few inches and had come in first in the heat, while Will was second. Foster was standing near to catch his room-mate, and as he wrapped the bath robe around him, he said: "It's all right, Will; you're in the finals." "First two taken?" gasped Will. "Yes." "Hold on. Let's hear the time," said Will, stopping abruptly as the announcer advanced. "Hundred-yards dash, first heat," called the senior, "Won by number ten. Second, number fifteen. Time, ten and two-fifths seconds." "That's good for the heat, Will," said Foster warmly. "I'm not in training," said Will despondently. "The others aren't either, or at least not much. You had Ogden nearly winded, and when it comes to the finals you'll do him up," said Foster encouragingly. Will did not reply, for the call for the second heat was now made and he was intensely interested in watching Mott's performance, for his reputation in the college was even greater than Ogden's. And if he himself had been beaten by Ogden, what chance would he have against Mott? The question was not reassuring, but as the five men in the second heat could now be seen taking their positions on the line, it was for the moment ignored, as intensely interested he turned to watch the race that was about to be run. In a moment the pistol was fired and the five contestants came speeding down the course. It was soon seen that Mott was leading, but only by a little, though he did not appear to be exerting himself strongly. "Easy, dead easy!" Will heard a sophomore near him remark, and as he watched Mott's easy stride he heartily concurred in the opinion. The runners were nearing the line now, and as Mott drew near he almost stopped for a moment and glanced smilingly behind him at his contestants. Instantly his nearest competitor darted forward and before the sophomore could recover himself he had touched the string and won the heat, with Mott a close second. Mott, however, appeared to be in nowise disconcerted and laughingly received the bantering words of his classmates. He laughed again when the time was announced as ten and four-fifths seconds, and approaching the place where Will and Foster were standing, said: "You did well, freshman. Made better time than I did." "I had to, if I kept anywhere near Ogden." The other events of the meet were now being run off, and as Peter John Schenck took his place on the line for the half-mile run the uproar became almost tumultuous, and when the freshman apparently took it all in his most serious manner and bowed gravely to the sophomores, evidently appropriating to himself all the noisy demonstrations of delight, the shouts and laughter redoubled. In a moment, however, the runners were off and Peter John quickly advanced to the first place, followed by a line of five that were well bunched together. There were many derisive calls and cries and Peter John's work seemed to be taken as a joke by all the spectators, who were loud in their declarations that he was "making a mistake" and would "never be able to maintain his stride." Around the course sped the runners until at last they were on the home stretch and still Peter John was in advance, his arms working like the fans of a Dutch windmill and his awkward movements becoming more awkward as the strain of the final part of the race came upon him. Still he was in the lead, however, and the derisive cries were giving place to shouts of approval and encouragement from his own classmates. The increasing excitement seemed to provide an additional spur to the awkward freshman, for his speed suddenly increased and he darted across the line far in advance of his rivals who were bunched behind him. Laughter was mingled with the applause that greeted him, and when the captain of the college track team advanced and extended his hand in congratulation, the genuineness of the applause that followed was unquestioned. Peter John, highly elated by his success, approached Will and said glibly: "There, Will, I rather guess that'll add five points to our score." "I rather guess it will," laughed his classmate cordially. He was as greatly surprised as any one that day, but he was too generous to begrudge any praise to Peter John. "Now see that you do as well," said Peter John, as the call for the finals in the hundred-yard dash was made. Will made no response as he advanced to take his place. Foster had already won the running broad jump and was in a fair way to win the shot-put as well. Peter John had been successful too, and to Will it seemed that he must win his race or his disappointment would be almost too bitter to bear. At the report of the pistol the contestants darted from the line and came speeding down the track toward the finish, which was near the place where the spectators were assembled. Vigorously, lusty, the perfection physically of young manhood, the four runners sped on with the swiftness of the wind, but when they touched the tape it was evident that Mott was first by a small margin and that Ogden was second, being an almost imperceptible distance in advance of Will Phelps, who had finished third in the race. CHAPTER XIII WAGNER'S ADVICE The applause that greeted the winners was sounding but dimly and like some far-away shout in Will Phelps' ears when he staggered into the outstretched arms of Hawley, who was waiting to receive his classmate. Mortification, chagrin, disappointment were all mingled in his feelings, and it was all intensified by the fact that both Foster and Peter John had won their "numerals" and were now marked men in the class. Not that he begrudged either the honors he had won, but his own reputation as a sprinter had preceded his coming to Winthrop, and Will knew that great things had been expected of him. "It was a great race, Phelps," said Hawley, "and you've added another point to our score." Will could understand the attempt at consolation which his huge classmate was making, but it only served to increase the bitterness of his own defeat. He smiled, but made no response. He could see Peter John strutting about and receiving the half-bantering congratulations of the students, and his heart became still heavier. "Never mind, Phelps, you didn't have any chance to train," said Hawley. "Mott and Ogden have been down on the track every evening for the past three weeks." "They have?" demanded Will, a ray of light appearing for the moment. "Sure. And besides all that they got the date of the 'meet' changed too." "They beat me," said Will simply. "Everybody expected them to. They all know you're a good runner, Phelps, but they say a freshman never wins. Such a thing hasn't been known for years. You see, a freshman is all new to it here, and I don't care how good he is, he can't do himself justice. You ought to hear what Wagner, the captain of the college track team, had to say about you." "What did he say?" inquired Will eagerly. "He said you had it in you to make one of the best runners in college, and he's going to keep an eye on you for the team too." "Did he say that?" "That's what he did." "The two-twenty hasn't been run yet. I believe I'll go in for that." "That's the way to talk." "Let me see when it comes," said Will, turning to his program as he spoke. "Fifteen minutes yet," said Hawley. "Come into the dressing room, Phelps, and I'll give you a good rubbing down." Will at once accompanied his friend to the dressing room, and when the call for the two hundred and twenty yards' dash was made, he took his place on the line with the other competitors. There were only four, the same four that had run in the final heat of the hundred yards, the defeated contestants all having dropped out save one. When the pistol was fired and the racers had started, Will was at once aware that again the victory was not to be his. The lack of training and practice, and perhaps also the depression which his previous defeat had produced in his mind contributed to his failure; but whatever the cause, though he exerted himself to the utmost, he found that he was unable to overtake either Mott or Ogden, who steadily held their places before him. It was true when the race was finished that he was less than a yard behind Mott, who was himself only about a foot in the rear of the fleet-footed Ogden, and that the fourth runner was so far behind Will that he was receiving the hootings and jibes of the sophomores, but still the very best that Phelps was able to do was to cross the line as third. It was true that again he had won a point for the honor of his class, but it was first place he had longed to gain, and his disappointment was correspondingly keen. It was Hawley who again received him in his arms, and once more the young giant endeavored to console his defeated classmate, for as such Will looked upon himself, in spite of the fact that he had come in third, and therefore had scored a point in each race. But as Hawley perceived that his friend was in no mood to listen, he wisely refrained from speaking, and both stood near the track watching the contestants in the various events that were not yet run off. Too proud to acknowledge his disappointment in his defeat by departing from the field, and yet too sore in his mind to arouse much enthusiasm, he waited till the games were ended and it was known that the sophomores had won by a score of sixty-four and a half to forty-eight and a half. Then he quietly sought the dressing room, and as soon as he had donned his garments went at once to his own room. It was a relief to find that not even Foster was there, and as he seated himself in his easy-chair and gazed out at the brilliantly clad hills with the purple haze that rested over them all, for a time a feeling of utter and complete depression swept over him. Was this the fulfillment of the dreams he had cherished of the happiness of his college life? Already warned by Splinter that his work in Greek was so poor that he was in danger of being dropped from the class, the keen disappointment of his father apparent though his words had been few, the grief in his home and the peril to himself were all now visible to the heart-sick young freshman. And now to lose in the two track events had added a weight that to Will seemed to be almost crushing. He had pictured to himself how he would lightly turn away his poor work in the classroom by explaining that he could not hope to win in everything, and that athletics had always been his strong point anyway. But now even that was taken away and his failure was almost equally apparent in both. He could see Peter John coming up the walk, receiving the congratulations of the classmates he met and giving his "pump-handle" handshake to those who were willing to receive it. It was maddening and almost more than Will thought he could bear. It was a mistake that he had ever come to college anyway, he bitterly assured himself. He was not well prepared in spite of the fact that he had worked hard for a part of his final year in the preparatory school. Greek? He detested the subject. Even his father came in for a share of blame, for if he had not insisted upon his taking it Will never would have entered Splinter's room. He might have taken German under "Dutchy," or English under Professor Jones, as many of his classmates were doing, and every one declared that the work there was a "snap." It was not long before Will Phelps was in a state of mind wherein he was convinced that he was being badly treated and had more to contend against than any other man in his class. His naturally impulsive disposition seldom found any middle ground on which he was permitted to stand. His father had one time laughingly declared that the comparative degree had been entirely left out of Will's make-up and that things were usually of the superlative. "Worst," "best," "poorest," "finest" were adjectives most commonly to be found in his vocabulary, and between the two extremes a great gulf appeared to be fixed. He had also declared that he looked for Will to occupy no middle ground. He would either be a pronouncedly successful man or an equally pronounced failure, a very good man or a man who would be a villain. And Will had laughingly accepted the verdict, being well assured that he knew, if it must be one of the two, which it would of necessity be. All things had gone well with him from the time of his earliest recollections. His home had been one of comfort and even of elegance, any reasonable desire had never been denied, he had always been a leading spirit among the pupils of the high school, and that he was too, a young fellow who was graceful in his appearance, well dressed, and confident of his own position, doubtless Will Phelps was aware, although he did not give expression to the fact in such terms. And now the "superlative degree" had certainly displayed itself, Will thought in his wretchedness, only it had manifested itself in the extreme which he never had before believed to be possible with him. He listened to the shouts and laughter of the students passing along the street below and every fresh outburst only served to deepen his own feeling of depression. Not any of the enthusiasm was for him. He was roused from his bitter reflection by the opening of the door into his room, but he did not look up, as he was convinced that it was only his room-mate, and Foster understood him so well that he would not talk when he saw that he was in no mood for conversation. "Hello, Phelps! What's wrong?" Will hastily sat erect and looked up. His visitor was Wagner, the captain of the track team, the one senior of all others for whom Will cherished a feeling of respect that was almost unbounded. He had never met the great man before, but he had looked up to him with awe when Wagner had been pointed out to him by admiring students, and he was aware that the captain's reputation was as great in the college for his manliness as it was for his success in athletics. Unpretentious, straightforward, without a sign of "cant" or "gush" about him, the influence of the young leader had been a mighty force for good in the life of Winthrop College. And now as Will glanced into the face of the tall, powerful young fellow and realized that it was indeed himself whom his visitor was addressing, his feeling of depression instantly gave place to surprise and in the unexpected honor he found it difficult to express himself. "Nothing much. I wasn't just looking for any--for you," he stammered. "Won't you take this chair, Mr. Wagner?" Will pushed the easy-chair toward his visitor as he spoke and again urged him to be seated. "That's all right, Phelps. Keep your seat. I'll just sit here," replied Wagner, seating himself upon the edge of Will's desk. "How do you feel after the games?" he inquired. "I'm a bit sore outside and worse still inside." "What's the trouble?" "I came in only third." "Only third? Where did you expect to come in?" "Why--why, I was hoping I'd get first in the hundred," Will managed to reply. "You're a modest youth," laughed Wagner, surveying his long legs and laughing in such a manner that Will was compelled to join. "Well, the fellows rather thought I'd win and that's what makes me feel worse about it." "They're only freshmen; they don't know any better," laughed Wagner. "Don't let that bother you for a minute. I think you did well myself, and besides, the freshmen very seldom win in the sprints. I don't know that I ever saw one since I've been in college." "Did you win the hurdles when you were a freshman?" "Oh, I just happened to. 'Twas an accident of some kind, I fancy. Yes, I think the soph who was ahead of me tripped and fell, so I crawled in first." "That will do for you to tell." "Perhaps I did win. But that's neither here nor there. It isn't what I came for. I didn't want to talk about myself but about you." Will looked up eagerly but did not speak, though his question was to be seen in the expression of his face. "My advice to you is to go to work and try for the track team in the spring." "Do you think I can make it?" said Will breathlessly. "I don't say that," laughed Wagner. "That's something to be decided later. All I said was that you'd better 'try' for it. You've nothing to lose if you fail and something to win if you succeed." "But if I should try and then not make it." "Yes, that's a possibility, of course. No man can ever tell about that. But I shouldn't let it break my heart if I didn't make the team the first year. Very few do that. All I say is go ahead and try. No man can ever tell what's in him till he tests himself, can he?" "No, I suppose not." "Now don't have any nonsense about it, Phelps, and don't misunderstand me. I believe in every man doing his best and then just resting there and not crying over what he can't ever have. If a man does his best and then doesn't have the whole world bowing and scraping before him because he isn't very high up, that isn't any reason why he should kick. Take what you've got, use it, test it, and then if you find you're not a star but only a candle, why, just shine as a candle and don't go sputtering around because you can't twinkle like a star. At least that's the way I look at it." "Perhaps a fellow's father and mother don't look at it that way." "Are you having trouble with Splinter?" demanded the senior sharply. "A little. Yes, a good deal. I detest the fellow!" said Will bitterly. "No wonder you lost the hundred," responded Wagner with a smile. "Do you know, Phelps, I had the same experience you're having with him when I was a freshman." "What did you do?" "Do? There's only one thing to do and that is to do his work. But I advise you to go down to his house and see him and talk it over." "He won't want to see me." "Yes, he will. He's not half so bad as you think. Try it; I did." "He'll think I'm trying to boot-lick." "No, he won't. You can run if you have to, can't you?" demanded Wagner. "You've got a good stride, and, like trying for the track team, you've nothing to lose and everything to gain." CHAPTER XIV THE ADVICE FOLLOWED For a time after the departure of Wagner, Will Phelps sat thinking over the stirring words of his visitor. His feeling of positive discouragement, with the natural rebound of his impulsive temperament, had in a measure given place to one of confidence and even of elation. To be recognized by the great captain was an honor of itself, but to receive a personal visit from him and a warm invitation to try for a place on the track team was a distinction for which he never had even dared to dream. Even his other pressing problem--his work in Greek--appeared slightly more rosy-hued now, and a sudden determination seized upon him to do as Wagner had suggested and see Splinter that very night. Accordingly, soon after dinner--the meal at his fraternity house which he had dreaded in view of the semi-defeat of the afternoon--he started toward the home of his professor of Greek, resolved to talk over the entire situation with him and strive to learn exactly where he stood and what his prospects were likely to be. As he approached the walk that led from the street back to the professor's home he came face to face with Mott and Peter John Schenck. His surprise at meeting them was not greater than that he should find them together, and the fact to his mind boded little good for his classmate. "Going in to see Splinter?" inquired Mott. "Yes." "Better not." "Why?" "Boot-licking isn't in very high favor here at Winthrop." Will was glad that the darkness concealed the flush which he knew crept over his face, but his voice was steady as he replied: "That's all right, Mott. I'm not going in to see Splinter because I want to, you may let your heart rest easy as to that." "How long are you going to be in the house?" "I'm afraid that will not be for me to decide. If I have my way, it won't be long." "Well, good luck to you!" called Mott as he and his companion passed on down the street. Will rang the bell and was at once ushered into the professor's study. The professor himself was seated at his desk with a green shade over his eyes, and evidently had been at work upon some papers. Will even fancied that he could recognize the one which he himself had handed in the preceding day and his embarrassment increased. "Ah, good evening, Mr. Phelps," said the professor extending his hand and partly rising from his seat as he greeted his caller. "Will you be seated?" "Good evening, professor," replied the freshman as he took the chair indicated. An awkward silence followed which Will somehow found it difficult to break in upon. He heartily wished that he had not come, for the reality was much worse than he had thought. Even the very lines and furrows in the professor's face seemed to him to be forbidding, and he felt that it would be well-nigh impossible for him to explain the purpose of his coming. "Was there something concerning which you desired to consult me?" inquired the professor. The voice seemed to be as impersonal as that of a phonograph, and every letter in every word was so distinctly pronounced that the effect was almost electric. "Yes, sir." Again silence intervened. The professor's lips moved slightly as if, as Will afterwards declared, "he was tasting his Greek roots," but he did not speak. The freshman shifted his position, toyed with his gloves and at last, unable to endure the suspense any longer, he broke forth: "Yes, sir, there is, professor. I have not been doing very well in my Greek." "Ah. Let me see." The professor opened a drawer and drew forth a little notebook which he consulted for a brief time. "Yes, you are correct. Your work is below the required standard." "But what am I to do about it?" demanded Will. "Yes, ah, yes. I fancy it will be necessary for you to spend a somewhat longer period of study in preparation." "But _how_ shall I study?" "Yes. Yes. Ah, yes. Exactly so. So you refer to the method to be employed in the preparation for the classroom?" "Yes, sir. That's it. I'm willing enough to work, but I don't know how." "Well, I should say that the proper method would be to employ a tutor for a time. There are several very excellent young gentlemen who are accustomed to give their services to deserving youth--" "I don't want them to give it. I'll pay for it!" interrupted Will. "I was about to say that these young gentlemen give their services for a consideration--a proper consideration--of course." The professor's thin lips seemed to be reluctant to permit the escape of a word, so firmly were they pressed together during the intervals between his slowly spoken words. His slight figure, "too thin to cast a shadow," in the vigorous terms of the young freshman, was irritating in the extreme, and if Will had followed his own inclinations he would at once have ended the interview. "I knew I could get a tutor, and if it is necessary I'll do it. But I did not know but that you might be able to make a suggestion to me. I know I'm not very well prepared, but if you'll give me a show and tell me a little how to go to work at the detestable stuff I'll do my best. I don't like it. I wouldn't keep at it a minute if my father was not so anxious for me to keep it up and I'd do anything in the world for him. That's why I'm in the Greek class." "You are, I fancy (fawncy was the word in the dialect of the professor) doing better work in the various other departments than in your Greek?" "Yes, sir. I think so." "You are not positive?" "Yes, sir. I know I'm doing fairly well in my Latin and mathematics. Why the recitation in Latin never seems to be more than a quarter of an hour, while the Greek seems as if it would never come to an end. I think Professor Baxter is the best teacher I ever saw and he doesn't make the Latin seem a bit like a dead language. But the Greek seems as if it had never been alive." "Ahem-m!" piped up the thin voice of the professor of Greek. Will Phelps, however, was in earnest now and his embarrassment was all forgotten. He was expressing his own inward feelings and without any intention or even thought of how the words would sound he was describing his own attitude of mind. He certainly had no thought of how his words would be received. "Ahem-m!" repeated the professor shrilly and shifting a trifle uneasily in his seat. "I fawncy that a student always does better work in a subject which he enjoys." "Yes, but doesn't he enjoy what he can do better work in too? Now I don't know how to study Greek, can't seem to make anything out of it. As you told me one day in the class 'I make Greek of it all.' Perhaps not exactly the kind of Greek you want, though," Will added with a smile. "Ah, yes. I fawncy a trifle more of work would aid you." "Of course! I know it would! And that's what I'm willing to do and what I want to do, professor. But the trouble is I don't know just how to work." "I--I fail to see precisely what you mean." "Why, I spend time enough but I don't seem to 'get there'--I mean I don't seem to accomplish much. My translation's not much good, and everything is wrong." "Perhaps you have an innate deficiency--" "You mean I'm a fool?" Will laughed good-naturedly, and even the professor smiled. "Ah, no. By no means, Mr. Phelps, quite the contrary to that, I assure you. There are some men who are very brilliant students in certain subjects, but are very indifferent ones in others. For example, I recollect that some twenty years ago--or to be exact nineteen years ago--there was a student in my classes who was very brilliant, very brilliant indeed. His name as I recall it was Wilder. So proficient was he in his Greek that some of the students facetiously called him Socrates, and some still more facetious even termed him Soc. I am sure, Mr. Phelps, you have been in college a sufficient length of time to apprehend the frolicsome nature of some of the students here." "I certainly have," Will remarked with a smile, recalling his own compulsory collar-button race. "I fawncied so. Well, this Mr. Wilder to whom I refer was doing remarkable work, truly remarkable work in Greek, but for some cause his standing in mathematics was extremely low, and in other branches he was not a brilliant success." "What did he do?" inquired Will eager to bring the tedious description to a close, and if possible receive the suggestions for which he had come. "My recollection is that he finally left college." "Indeed!" Will endeavored to be duly impressed by the startling fact, but as he recalled the professor's statement that the brilliant Wilder was in college something like twenty years before this time, his brilliancy in being able to complete the course and now be out from the college did not seem to him to indicate any undue precocity on the part of the aforesaid student. "Yes, it was so. It has been my pleasure to receive an annual letter from him, and I trust you will not think I am unduly immodest when I state that he acknowledges that all his success in life is due to the work he did here in my own classes in Winthrop. My sole motive in referring to it is the desire to aid you." "You think I may be another Wilder?" inquired Will lightly. "Not exactly. That was not the thought that was uppermost. But it may serve as an incentive to you." "What is this Wilder doing now?" "Ahem-m!" The professor cleared his throat repeatedly before he spoke. "He is engaged in an occupation that brings him into contact with the very best that has been thought and said, and also into contact with some of the brightest and keenest intellects of our nation." "He must be an editor or a publisher then." "Not exactly. Not exactly, Mr. Phelps. He is engaged rather in a mercantile way, though with the most scholarly works, I do assure you." "Is he a book agent?" "Ahem-m! Ahem-m! That is an expression I seldom use, Mr. Phelps. It has become a somewhat obnoxious term, though originally it was not so, I fawncy. I should hardly care to apply that expression as indicative of Mr. Wilder's present occupation." "And you think if I try hard I may at last become a book agent too?" "You have mistaken my implication," said the professor scowling slightly as he spoke. "I was striving solely to provide an incentive for you. You may recall what Homer, or at least he whom in our current phraseology we are accustomed to call Homer--I shall not now enter into the merits of that question of the Homeridæ. As I was about to remark, however, you doubtless may recollect what Homer in the fifth book of his Iliad, line forty-ninth, I think it is, has to say." "I'm afraid I don't recall it. You see, professor, I had only three books of the Iliad before I came to Winthrop." "Surely! Surely! Strange that I should have forgotten that. It is a pleasure you have in store then, Mr. Phelps." "Can you give me any suggestions how to do better work, professor?" inquired Will mildly. "My advice to you is to secure Mr. Franklin of the present junior class to tutor you for a time." "Thank you. I'll try to see him to-night," said Will rising and preparing to depart. "That might be wise. I trust you will call upon me again, Mr. Phelps. I have enjoyed this call exceedingly. You will not misunderstand me if I say I had slight knowledge of your classic tastes before, and I am sure that I congratulate you heartily, Mr. Phelps. I do indeed." "Thank you," replied Will respectfully, and he then departed from the house. He was divided between a feeling of keen disappointment and a desire to laugh as he walked up the street toward his dormitory. And this was the man who was to stimulate his intellectual processes! In his thoughts he contrasted him with his professor in Latin, and the man as well as the language sank lower and lower in his estimation. And yet he must meet it. The problem might be solved but could not be evaded. He would see Franklin at once, he decided. CHAPTER XV A REVERSED DECISION In the days that immediately followed, Will Phelps found himself so busy that there was but little time afforded for the pleasures of comradeship or for the lighter side of college life. Acting upon the one good point in the advice of his professor of Greek he secured a tutor, and though he found but little pleasure in the study, still he gave himself to it so unreservedly that when a few weeks had elapsed, a new light, dim somewhat, it was true, and by no means altogether cheering, began to appear upon his pathway. It was so much more difficult to catch up than to keep up, and perhaps this was the very lesson which Will Phelps needed most of all to learn. There was not much time given to recreation now, and Will acting upon the advice of the instructor in athletics had abandoned his projected practice in running though his determination to try to secure a place on the track team was as strong as ever. But he had substituted for the running a line of work in the gymnasium which tended to develop the muscles in his legs and keep his general bodily condition in good form. He was informed that success in running was based upon nerve force as well as upon muscular power, and that "early to bed" was almost as much a requisite here as it was in making a man "healthy and wealthy and wise." This condition however he found it exceedingly difficult to fulfill, for the additional work he was doing in Greek made a severe draught upon his time as well as upon his energies. "I hate the stuff!" he declared one night to his room-mate after he had spent several hours in an almost vain effort to fasten certain rules in his mind. "You don't catch me taking it after this year." "You don't have to look ahead, Will," suggested Foster kindly. "No, the look behind is bad enough. If I had worked in the early part of the high-school course as I ought to I'd not be having all this bother now." "And if you work now you won't have the trouble ahead," laughed Foster. "I suppose that's the way of it." "Of course it is. A fellow reaps what he sows." "I'd rather _rip_ what I sewed," said Will ruefully. "Do you know, Foster, sometimes I think the game isn't worth the candle. I'd give it all up, even if I had to leave college, if it wasn't for my father." "You wouldn't do anything of the kind and you know it, Will Phelps! You're not the fellow to run when the pinch comes." "I'd like to, though," said Will thoughtfully. "My fit in Greek was so poor I'll never get much of the good from studying it." "You'll be all the stronger for not giving up, anyway." "That's the only thing that keeps me at it. I'm so busy I don't even have time to be homesick." "Well, that's one good thing." "Perhaps it is, but if I flunk out at the mid-year's--" "You won't if you only keep it up and keep at it." "I'd feel better if I thought I wouldn't." "You'll be all right," said Foster soothingly, for he understood his friend so well that he knew he was in one of his periods of mental reaction, and that what he needed was encouragement more than anything else. "And just think of it," continued Will gloomily, "you're about the only one of the fellows I ever see nowadays. I don't believe I've seen Hawley in three weeks, that is to have a word with him." "Who has?" "I don't know. All the fellows, I suppose." "Not much! Hawley is working like a Trojan on the football team. You know that as well as I do." "I suppose that's so. Still I'd like to see the fellow once in a while." "He's a good man all right and I've a notion that he's saved Peter John from more than one scrape because he roomed with him." "I haven't seen Peter John either for more than a week." "We ought to look him up and keep an eye on him." "'Keep an eye on him'? You want to keep both eyes and your hands and your feet too, for the matter of that. He certainly is the freshest specimen I ever saw, and the worst of it all is that he doesn't seem to know that he lacks anything. He's just as confident when he marches up to Wagner and gives him some points in running the track team as he is when he's telling you and me how to work up our Greek. And the fellow has flunked in Greek every time he's been called up for the past ten days." "Yes, I know it. That's why I said we ought to look out for him." "He's got to learn how to look out for himself." "He needs a tutor, though, Will--" "Same as I do in my Greek? That's not nice of you, Foster. It's bad enough to have to work up the stuff without having it rubbed in. And yet," said Will quietly, "I suppose I am in the same box with Peter John. He doesn't know some things and I don't know others." "No one has everything," said Foster quickly. "Startling fact! But we fellows who live in glass houses mustn't throw stones I 'fawncy,' as my learned instructor would put it. There I am again, finding fault even with Splinter when I ought to be boning on this Greek to make up for my own lacks. Here I go!" And Will resolutely turned to the books which were lying open on his desk. The silence that reigned in the room was broken in a few minutes when Hawley opened the door and entered. His coming was greeted enthusiastically, and when he had accepted the invitation to be seated, he said quickly, "I can't stay, fellows." "You never can nowadays, Hawley. Since you've been on the team you've shaken all your old friends." "You'd shake too, if you had the captain over you that we have." "Is he hard?" "Hard? He beats every coach we've got. He goes into the game as if there wasn't anything else to think of." "It counts though," responded Will emphatically. "We haven't lost but two games so far this season, and they were with ---- and ----. Of course we couldn't expect to win those." "Oh, we've done fairly well. But the hardest rub is coming next Saturday. That's when we're going down to the city to have our game with Alden. There'll be a big crowd out, and the Alden alumni are mighty strong around town there too, and they'll be out in bunches. We've got to keep up our end, and that's why I've come over to see you fellows. I want you both to go next Saturday." "Sure!" shouted Will, leaping to his feet. "We'll be on hand. You rest your soul easy about that." "How many are going, Hawley?" inquired Foster quietly. "So far, about half the college have agreed to go. We'd like to get another hundred to go along. It will make a big difference to the team. Last year there were six thousand people on the grounds, and it rained hard too, all the time. This year, if we have a good day, there'll be ten thousand on hand anyway." "How are the fellows going down?" said Foster. "Chartered a special train." "What's the fare?" "About six dollars for the round trip." "Come back the same day?" "Can if you want to, the train is coming back that night after the game. But a good many will stay over till Monday." "When do you have to know?" "You ought to give in your names by to-morrow night. Peter John is going along. I think he'll be a good mascot, don't you?" laughed Hawley. "I'm sorry Peter John is going," said Foster thoughtfully. "Sorry!" exclaimed Hawley aghast. "Why, man alive, he'll have the time of his life." "That's what I'm afraid of, and besides he ought not to spend the money." "I don't know anything about that," said Hawley quickly. "But he may make enough on the game to pay all his expenses." "Has he staked money on the game?" said Will. "You'll have to ask him," retorted Hawley somewhat sharply. "We can count on you two fellows then, can we?" "That's what you can!" replied Will heartily. "I'll think about it and let you know in the morning," said Foster. And Hawley at once departed from the room. "What do you suppose it means that Peter John is going?" was Foster's first question after their visitor had departed. "I don't know, but I don't like the look of it," responded Will. "Neither do I. Can we do anything to stop it?" "No, I'm afraid not. Peter John is getting beyond us." Foster shook his head thoughtfully but made no response, and the work was resumed. For an hour each boy labored at his desk, and then Foster was the first to break in upon the silence. "Will," he said, "I think I'll go with you on that trip with the team." "I don't think I'll go," said Will quietly. "Not go? Why not?" demanded Foster in astonishment. "I've been thinking it over and I've made up my mind that it won't do for me to break in on the regular program I've mapped out for myself. You see Saturday is the day when I always have a double dose with my tutor, and it won't do for me to spoil it," and Will Phelps made a wry face as he spoke. "But, Will," protested Foster, "you can make up the work before then and not lose a bit." "Yes, I've thought of that, but I don't think I'll do it. It's a bitter dose I know, but I might as well swallow it first as last." "Do you mean it?" "Don't I act as if I did?" "All right. I'll not say another word. Maybe it'll be a way out for Peter John. I'd like to fix it for the fellow if I can." "I don't just see--" began Will; but he stopped when he perceived that his room-mate had risen from his seat and was about to depart from the room. On the following day the excitement among the students of Winthrop increased when a mass meeting was held and various leading spirits of the college delivered very florid and perfervid addresses in which the student-body was urged to support the team and take advantage of the low rates offered to accompany it and be on hand on the field to cheer it on to victory. Shouts and cheers greeted the speakers, and when the meeting broke up and the boys were returning to their rooms Mott and Peter John joined Will on his way to Perry Hall. "Have the time of your young life on Saturday, Phelps," said Mott loudly. "I'm not going." "Why not? All the fellows are." "I'd like to, but I've some work I _must_ do, and I can't break in on it." "You must be a 'shark' Phelps," laughed Mott. "I'd like to see the work that would keep me away. Peter John Schenck and I intend to take it all in, don't we, freshman?" he added, turning to his companion as he spoke. "Ye-es, I guess so," responded that worthy who had been addressed. "You'll have a good time," said Will. "I wish I could go too, but I can't, and the only thing for me to do is to stand up and not whine over it." "You'll be sorry for it," laughed Mott, as he and Peter John turned toward the latter's room. "All we can do will be to try to make up for what you're going to lose." And Will Phelps did almost feel that he was too strict in his demands upon himself when the student-body formed in line early Saturday morning and, preceded by a band, started down the street on the way to the station. His room-mate had said no more to him concerning the trip, but as Will marched by Foster's side he could feel the deep sympathy of his friend. His heart almost misgave him. It was not too late even yet to go, for doubtless he could borrow money of some one. Perhaps it was too much a mere sentiment to hold himself to his work as he was doing. And he detested the work so heartily too. Still he held rigidly to his decision, and even when the heavily laden train pulled out from the station and the words of the song which was sung came back to him he did not falter, though his heart was heavy within him. Gaudeamus igitur Juvenes dum sumus Gaudeamus igitur Juvenes dum sumus Post jucundam juventutem Post molestam senectutem Nos habebit humus Nos habebit humus. CHAPTER XVI TELEGRAMS When Will Phelps returned to the college, the entire place to him seemed to be deserted, and a stillness rested over all that was almost oppressive. Even the few college boys who were to be seen about the grounds all shared in the prevailing gloom and increased the sense of loneliness in the heart of the young freshman. When he entered his room, the sight of his room-mate's belongings was almost like that of the possessions of the dead and Will Phelps was utterly miserable and dejected. Work he decided was his only cure and at once he busied himself at his task from which he was aroused in the course of an hour or two by the coming of the senior who was tutoring him. "I'm mighty glad to see you," said Will impulsively. "I feel as if I was about the only one of my kind in the world." "You're downhearted over deciding to stay in town, to-day?" replied his tutor pleasantly. "Oh, well, never mind. It will be a good tonic for you and when you've passed your mid-year's in Greek, you'll never once think of this trip with the team to-day." "I'm afraid that's cold comfort just at the present moment. I've just been hanging on and that's all there is to it." "Sometimes it's the only thing a fellow can do. It may bring a lot of other good things with it, though." "Maybe," replied Will dubiously. "There's one thing I've learned though, and if I ever come to know my Greek as well as I know that, I'll pass all right." "What's that?" "Never to get behind. I'll keep up and not catch up. When I see what a fool I made of myself in my 'prep' days, I wonder sometimes that I ever got into college anyway. I never really worked any except in a part of the last year." "You're working now," suggested the senior. "Yes, I have to. I don't like it though. The descent to Avernus is the easy trip, if I remember my Virgil correctly. It's the getting back that's hard." "Do you know, I never just believed that." "You didn't? Why not? Why, you can see it every day! It's just as easy as sliding down hill. It's dragging the sled back up the hill that makes the trouble." "That isn't quite a fair illustration. If I'm not mistaken, it seems to me that somewhere, sometime, some one said that 'The way of the transgressor is hard.' He didn't seem to agree with Virgil's statement somehow, did he?" "But that means it's hard afterward." "That isn't what it says. I think it means just what it says too." "I don't see." "Well, to me it's like this. In every fellow there's a good side and a bad side. Sort of a Doctor Jekyl and Mr. Hyde in every one of us. I heard the other day in our laboratory of a man who had taken and grafted one part of the body of an insect on the body of another. He tried it both on the chrysalis and on an insect too. I understood that he took the pupa of a spider and by very careful work grafted upon it the pupa of a fly. Think of what that monstrosity must have been when it passed out from the chrysalis and became a full-fledged living being. One part of it trying to get away from the other. One wanting to fly and the other to hide. One part wanting to feed on flies and the other part in mortal terror of all spiders." "Was that really so?" inquired Will deeply interested. "I didn't see it myself, but it was told over in the biological laboratory and I don't think there was any question about it. It struck me that it was just the way some of us seem to be built, a sort of a spider and fly combination and not the ordinary combination either, when the fly is usually inside of the spider and very soon a part of his majesty. And yet when you've told all that you know, it's a sort of monstrosity after all, and that the truth is that a fellow really _is_ his best self if he'll only give that part half a chance. That's why I say the way of the transgressor is hard and not easy. A fellow is going against the grain of his best side. He throws away his best chances under protest all the while, and _he_ doesn't want to do it either. No, Phelps, I believe if a fellow goes down hill it's like a man dragging a balky horse. It looks easy but it isn't, and he himself is pulling against it all the time." "I never thought of it in that way before." "Then on the other hand this very kind of work you're doing now is the sort that stirs your blood. I expect that those fellows who live down in the tropics and about all the work they have to do to feed themselves is to pick a banana off a tree and go through the exertion of peeling it, don't really get half the fun out of life that some of us boys had up on the hillside farms in Vermont. Why, when we'd have to get up winter mornings, with the weather so cold that we'd have to be all the while on the lookout that we didn't freeze our ears or noses, and when we'd have to shovel out the paths through three feet of snow and cut the wood and carry water to the stock, it did seem at times to be a trifle strenuous; but really I think the boys in Vermont get more fun out of life than the poor chaps in the tropics do who plow their fields by just jabbing a hole in the ground with their heel, and when they plant, all they have to do is to just stick a slip in the ground. It's the same way here, Phelps. This sort of thing you're doing is hard, no doubt about that; but it's the sort of thing that really stirs up a live man, after all." "I'm afraid I'll be all stirred up if we don't get at this work pretty soon," laughed Will, who was nevertheless deeply impressed by the words he had heard from the prospective valedictorian of the senior class. "Why can't we do it all up this morning?" he inquired eagerly. "All?" "Oh, I mean all we were planning to do to-day. I'd like to go down to the gym this afternoon and watch the bulletins of the game. I decided not to go, but if I can get my work off that'll be the next best thing; and besides it'll help to pass the time. It's going to be a long day for me." "All right, I'm agreeable," replied the senior cordially. Until the hour of noon was rung out by the clock in the tower, Will labored hard. The words of his tutor had been inspiring, but he could not disguise from himself the fact, however, that he had little love for the task. It was simply a determination not to be "downed," as Will expressed it, that led him on and he was holding on doggedly, resolutely, almost blindly, but still he was holding on. About three o'clock in the afternoon the few students who were in town assembled at the telegraph office where messages were to be received from the team at intervals of ten minutes describing the progress of the game. One of the seniors had been selected to read the dispatches and only a few minutes had elapsed after the assembly had gathered before the senior appeared, coming out of the telegraph office and waving aloft the yellow slip. A cheer greeted his appearance but this was followed by a tense silence as he read aloud: "They're off. Great crowd. Winthrop line outweighed ten pounds to a man. Holding like a stone wall." "That's the way to talk it!" shouted the reader as he handed the dispatch to the operator, and then began to sing one of the college songs, in which he was speedily joined by the noisy group. The song was hushed when again the operator appeared and handed another slip to the leader. Glancing quickly at it the senior read aloud: "Ball on Alden's twenty-five yard line. Great run by Thomas. Hawley playing star game." Hawley, Thomas, and the captain of the team, and then the team itself, were cheered, and once more the group of students gave vent to their feelings in a noisy song. It was all stimulating and interesting, and Will Phelps was so keenly alive to all that was occurring, that for the time even his disappointment in not being able to accompany the team was forgotten. A groan followed the reading of the next dispatch. "Alden's ball on a fumble. Steadily forcing Winthrop line back by superior weight. Ball on Winthrop's forty-yard line." "That looks bad," said Will's tutor, who had now joined the assembly and was standing beside Will Phelps. "We've a quick team, but I'm afraid of Alden's weight. They've two or three men who ought not to be permitted to play, anyway." "Professionals?" inquired Will. "Yes, or worse." "Have we any on our team?" "Hardly," laughed the senior. But Will was thinking of the conversation he had had with Hawley when they had first entered college, and was silent. Besides, another dispatch was about to be read and he was eager to hear. "Ball on Winthrop's five-yard line. Hawley injured and out of the game." "Too much beef," muttered the reader disconsolately, and the silence in the assembly was eloquent of feelings that could not be expressed. Less than the regular interval had elapsed when another yellow slip was handed to the reader, and the suspense in the crowd was almost painful. The very silence and the glances that were given were all indicative of the fear that now possessed every heart. "Alden makes touchdown. No goal," read the leader. "Six nothing! Team's no good this year, anyway!" declared one of the students angrily. "Had no business to play Alden, anyway! Ought to have games with teams in our class." "Alden seemed to be in our class last year, or rather she didn't," said the reader quietly. "Remember what the score was?" "No. What was it?" "Twenty-four to nothing in our favor. If they win this year it will be only following out the regulation see-saw that's been going on for seven years. Neither college has won its game for two successive years." "Alden will win this time all right enough." "Perhaps. The game isn't ended yet. You haven't learned the Winthrop spirit yet, which is never to give up till the game is played clear through to the end. You've got something to learn yet." The rebuked student did not reply, but the expression upon his face betrayed the fact that he was still unconvinced, and that he did indeed have the first of all lessons taught at Winthrop yet to learn. The score was unchanged at the end of the first half, and the students scattered during the period of intermission, assured that no further information would be received until after the second half of the game was begun. The confidence in victory was, however, not so great when they assembled once more, though the interest apparently was as keen as at the beginning. For some unaccountable reason the dispatches were delayed and a much longer interval than usual intervened before the welcome yellow slip was handed to the announcer. Murmurs of disappointment were heard on every side, and it became more evident with every passing moment that hope had mostly been lost. At last, however, the welcome word was received, and even Will Phelps was so eager to hear that he crowded forward into the front ranks of the assembly. "Alden scores touchdown and goal. Winthrop fighting desperately, but outweighed and outplayed since Hawley taken out." "It's all over but the shouting," said the sophomore whose gloomy views had been so sharply rebuked by the senior. "There isn't any use in hanging around here. Come on, fellows! Let's go where there's something a little more cheerful." He made as if to depart from the crowd, but as no one followed him, he apparently abandoned his purpose and remained with his fellows. Only two more dispatches were read, the second of which announced the end of the game with the score still standing in favor of Alden thirteen to nothing. "Rotten!" exclaimed the sophomore angrily. "Just what we might--" He stopped abruptly as the senior advanced to a place where he could be seen by all and began to harangue the assembly. "Now, fellows," he began, "the best test of our spirit is that we can stand up and take this in the right way. Of course, we wanted the game, and some of us hoped and expected we would have it too. But the other team, and doubtless the better one, has won. Next year we'll be ready for them again, or rather you will, for I sha'n't be here, and the time to begin to win then is right here and now. But I want to put in a good word for our team. I haven't a doubt that they did their level best, and if we could see them now, we'd be almost as proud of them as if they had won. I know every man put in his best work. And what I propose is that we go down to the station to-night and meet them with as hearty a cheer as if they had won the game, for we know they did their best to uphold the honor of old Winthrop to a man!" A cheer greeted the senior's words, and at ten o'clock that evening all the students who were in town assembled at the little station to greet the returning members of the team. But Will Phelps, when the train came to a standstill and the boys leaped out upon the platform, speedily forgot all about the game in the sight which greeted his eyes. CHAPTER XVII PETER JOHN'S DOWNFALL In the midst of the cheering and shouting that greeted the return of the team and its supporters, Will Phelps attained a glimpse of the sturdy heroes themselves who had fought the battle of the gridiron. Some of them were somewhat battered and he could see that Hawley carried his arm in a sling. His classmate's face was pale, but as he was surrounded by a crowd of students, Will found it was impossible to make his way to him and soon gave up the attempt. He was standing somewhat back from the train eagerly watching all that was going on about him, but only in a half-hearted way joining in the excitement, for the defeat of the team and his own disappointment in not being able to make the trip had chilled his enthusiasm. Suddenly he caught sight of Foster as he stepped down upon the platform and instantly Will began to push his way forward to greet him. As Foster stepped down he turned back as if to assist some one, and Will perceived that it was Peter John Schenck who was being assisted. But his actions were strange and his general appearance was woebegone in the extreme. "What's the matter with Peter John? Sick?" inquired Will as he pressed forward. "Sick? Sick nothing!" retorted Foster in a low voice. "Can't you see what ails him? The fool!" The maudlin expression on Peter John's face, his wabbling steps, the silly smile with which he greeted Will at once disclosed what his condition was and with a feeling of disgust Will turned away. "Hold on, Will," called Peter John tremulously, beginning to cry as he spoke, "don't go backsh on a fellow now. I los' all my money. Seven dollar I put up on the team an' they jis' sold out," and Peter John's tears increased and he threatened to fall on Foster's shoulder. Will had turned back sharply at the words, his disgust and anger so plainly stamped upon his face that even Peter John was moved by it and began to sob audibly. "Sold out, Will! Seven dollar all gone! Too bad! Too bad!" "Get a taxi, Will," said Foster in a low voice. "If we can get the fellow up to his room without attracting too much attention we may be able to put him in bed." As Will turned away, he was rejoiced to notice that his classmate's condition had apparently not attracted the attention of the crowd, which was too much occupied in the excitement of greeting the team to be mindful of other matters. Disgust and anger were so mingled in Will's feelings that he was hardly aware of what he was doing, but at last he succeeded in getting a taxi, and bidding the driver hold it near the end of the platform, he hastened back to the assistance of Foster. As he returned he noticed that Mott was now with Peter John, and only one glance was required to show that he was in a condition similar to that of Peter John, though not quite so helpless. "Glad t' see you, freshman," stammered Mott as Will approached. "Great sport, that fellow," and he pointed stupidly at Peter John as he spoke. "Put up his monish like li'le man. No squeal from him, no, not a squeal. No, goo' man. Goo' man, freshman." "Shall we take him too?" inquired Will of Foster. "Yes, if there's room." "I think there will be." "He can make his way all right, I think, but you'll have to help me with Peter John. Get hold of his other arm. That's right," he added as Will grasped his maudlin classmate by the left arm, while Foster supported him by the right. "Come on, Mott, if you want to ride up," said Will sharply to the sophomore. "That ish good o' you, freshman," drawled Mott. "Broke, dead broke! Do ash much for you some day. You get broke some daysh, I s'pose." "Shut up, Mott," said Foster savagely. "A'-a' right. Just's you say, not's I care." A few in the assemblage noted the condition of the boys and laughed thoughtlessly, but neither Will nor his room-mate was in a frame of mind to respond. Disgusted, angry, mortified beyond expression, they nevertheless assisted the boys to the seats in the taxi which Will had secured, and quickly doing as he was bidden, the driver started rapidly up the street. Peter John had fallen heavily against Will's shoulder and was instantly asleep, but Mott was not to be so easily disposed of. Peering out from the window at the crowds that were moving up the street and by which the taxi was passing, he emitted three or four wild whoops and then began to sing: "We're coming, we're coming, our brave little band, On the right side of temperance we always do stand; We don't use tobacco, for this we do think, That those who do use it most always do drink." "Mott, if you don't keep quiet I'll throw you out," exclaimed Will mortified as he perceived that the passing crowd was turning about to discover what the noisy commotion meant. "A'-a' right," responded Mott in a shout that could have been heard far away. "I'll be as sthill as an intensified hippopotamus! Not a sound of my voice shall awake the echoes of these purple hills. I'll not be the one to arouse the slumbers of this peaceful vale." "Driver," interrupted Will sharply, "stop your cab." "No, no, Will, you'll only make a bad matter worse. Let's keep on and do the best we can. It'll only call attention to ourselves," said Foster hastily. "Thatsh sho," assented Mott noisily, swaying in his seat as he spoke. "Keep on, driver. Go straight up to prexy's house; I've got something p'ticular to shay t' him. Shame, way the team sold out t'-day! Disgrace to old Winthrop! Have a good mind to leave the college myself an' go to Alden; they're men there! They know how to stan' up an' take their med'cine. Great place, Alden! Guess they'll be shorry here when they shee me with a great big A on my sweater!" "Mott, keep still," exclaimed Foster. "Keep still yerself, freshman. Don't talk t' me." There was nothing to be done except to endure it all in silence or put the noisy student out of the taxi. Poor Will felt that the people they were passing looked upon all four of the occupants of the cab as if they were all in the same disgraceful condition. His eyes blazed and his cheeks were crimson. To him it seemed as if the cab was scarcely moving on its way to Leland Hall. The way was interminable, the suffering almost too great to be endured. At last, however, the driver stopped before the dormitory where Mott had his room and Foster said, "Will, I'll look after this fellow if you'll attend to Peter John." "Nobody--no freshman in p'ticular--ish going to help me!" exclaimed Mott noisily. "I can walk a chalk line, I can. Keep your eyes on me and you'll see how it's done." "All right. Get out, then," said Foster hastily. Mott lurched out of the cab, and the driver, at Foster's word, at once started on and neither of the boys glanced behind to see how it fared with the intoxicated sophomore. They were eager now to dispose of their classmate, and as soon as the taxi halted in front of Leland Hall they tried to arouse the slumbering freshman. At last, by dint of their united efforts, they succeeded in lifting him to the ground, and then they somehow got him up the stairway and soon had him in his bed. When their labors were ended Will exclaimed, "It must be midnight. Surely the people couldn't see who we were except when the cab passed the street lights, but I'm afraid some of them knew then." "That isn't so bad. I don't care half so much about their seeing as I do about something else." "What's that?" "What they saw. Poor fool!" he added bitterly as he turned and glanced at the bed whereon Peter John was lying and noisily sleeping. "I did my best to hold him back, but he would go on with Mott." "Do you think he lost his money too?" "Haven't a doubt of it." "And he didn't have very much to lose." "It was all he had. It would have been the same if it had been seven thousand instead of just plain seven. He was so set up by the attentions of Mott that he was an easy mark. I never saw anything like it." "Well, all I can say is that I hope I sha'n't again, but probably I shall if he stays in college," said Will bitterly. "It's in him, that's about all one can say," said Foster. "If it hadn't been here it would have been somewhere else. And yet they say that a college is a dangerous place for a young fellow to be in." "I don't believe it." "No more do I. There are all kinds here the same as there are pretty much everywhere, and all there is of it is that a fellow has a little more freedom to follow out just what he wants to do." "Come on," suggested Will, starting toward the door. "We can't do anything more for Peter John. He'll probably be around to see us to-morrow." As the boys approached the doorway they met Hawley and at his urgent request turned back into the room with him. The big freshman glanced at his sleeping room-mate and then laughed as he said, "Too young. Ought not to have left his mother yet." As neither of the boys replied, Hawley continued, "He'll have to quit that or he'll queer himself in the college. I don't know that he can do that any more successfully than he has done already though," he added. Will was irritated that Hawley should take the matter in such a light way and said half-angrily, "Do you suppose he'll be hauled up before the faculty?" "Not unless they hear of it," laughed Hawley, "and I don't believe they will." "Tell us about the game," interrupted Foster. "My story is short and not very sweet," retorted Hawley grimly, glancing at his arm as he spoke. "How did that happen?" "Nobody knows. It's done and that's all there is to it. I'm out of the game for the rest of this season." "That's too bad. Did Alden really have such a tremendous team?" "Look at the score. You know what that was, don't you?" "Yes, I heard. Come on, Will. We'd better be in bed. We'll get Hawley to tell us all about the game some other time. Come on." The two freshmen at once departed, but when they were in their own room it was not the lost game which was uppermost in their minds and conversation, but the fall of Peter John. And when at last they sought their beds it was with the conviction that Peter John himself would seek them out within a day or two and try to explain how it was that his downfall had occurred. This, they thought, would give them the opportunity they desired, and if the faculty did not discover the matter and take action of their own then they might be able to say or do something to recall Peter John to himself. On the following day, however, their classmate did not appear, and in the days that followed he did not once come to their room. Mott they had seen, but he had only laughed lightly when he met them and made no reference to the ride he had taken in their taxi. "I don't believe Peter John knows that we know anything about what happened on his trip," said Foster thoughtfully one day. "What makes him keep away from us all the time, then?" "That's so. Probably his conscience isn't in the best of condition. You don't suppose he's waiting for us to make the first move, do you?" "I don't know." "I hate to leave the fellow to himself," said Foster. "He'll go to the dogs as sure as you're born if he is." "If he isn't there already." "Well, if he's there we must help to get him out." "You're the one to do it, Foster. You aren't working up your Greek." Will had been working with even greater intensity than before and was beginning to see the results of his labors. With his disposition there was no comparative degree. Everything was at one extreme or the other and now he was giving himself but little rest and even Peter John's disgrace was not so keenly felt by him as at the time when it had occurred. "I think I'll have to do something," assented Foster, "or at least try to." But on the following day an excitement broke out among the students at Winthrop that speedily and completely banished from the minds of Will and Foster even their well-intended efforts to aid their weak and misguided classmate. CHAPTER XVIII AN ALARMING REPORT The excitement first came to Will Phelps when one night he was returning to his room from his dinner in the fraternity house. The house, together with four or five other similar houses, was situated in the same street with the dormitory, but was distant a walk of seven or eight minutes, and there was usually a crowd of the college boys to be seen on the village street three times a day when they passed to or from their boarding places. On this particular evening Will chanced to be alone, and as he went on he perceived Mott approaching. He had had but little to say to the fellow since the escapade, and now as he recognized the sophomore his feeling of anger or disgust arose once more, and he was inclined to pass him with only a light nod of recognition. But Mott was not to be so lightly turned aside or ignored, and as he saw Will he stopped, and his manner at once betrayed the excitement under which he was laboring. "Have you heard the news, Phelps?" he demanded. "I haven't heard anything," replied Will coldly. "You haven't? Well, you ought to. It's all over college now." "What's all over college?" "Why, the report of the typhoid." "What?" demanded Will, instantly aroused. "I mean what I say. And there are all sorts of reports about what's to be done. Some say the faculty have decided to shut up shop for a few weeks, and some say they've sent for experts, and I don't know what all." "Who are the fellows that are down with it?" "Schenck--" "Peter John?" demanded Will sharply. "Yes, and there are seven others. He's the only freshman; there are two sophs, two juniors, and one senior. Wagner is the senior." "Where are they?" "They're all in the infirmary, and the whole shop has been quarantined." "When was it found out?" "Only to-day, this afternoon, I think. You see all eight have been under the weather for a while, and the doctor here thought it was first one thing that ailed them and then another. Last night or this morning they had a consultation, and decided that every one of the eight had typhoid fever. It's a great go, isn't it?" "And you say Peter John is one?" "Sure." "Is he in the infirmary?" "Yes, every one of them is there." "Is he very much sick?" "Can't tell yet, but he's sick enough." "Can anybody see him?" inquired Will thoughtfully. "No. There isn't any one allowed in the building except the nurses, doctors, and the families of the fellows, that is, when they come. I understand that word has been sent to all the families, and nurses have already been engaged, and that some of them are on the ground now." "It's terrible!" said Will with a shudder. "I know what I'm going to do," said Mott glibly. "What's that?" "I'm going home. Of course, the governor won't believe me at first when I tell him why I've returned to the ancestral abode, but you may rest easy when he sees it in the papers, then he'll believe it all right enough. Fine to have your daddy believe a lying newspaper before he takes the word of his own offspring, isn't it?" "May not be all his fault." "Yes, it is. I'd have been as decent a fellow as you or any fellow in college if I'd been treated halfway decently. But I wasn't." Will had his own ideas as to that, but he did not express them, for the full sense of the calamity of the college was now strongly upon him. Even the shadows of the great hills seemed to him to be more sombre than usual, and in whichever direction he looked there was an outer gloom corresponding to the one within. In the first shock of the report a nameless fear swept over him, and already he was positive that in his own case he could discover certain symptoms that were the forerunners of the dreaded disease. He hastily bade Mott good-night and ran all the way back to his room. Foster was already there, and at once he exclaimed: "Foster, have you heard about it?" "The typhoid?" "Yes. They say Peter John and Wagner and six others are down with it." "It's true." "What's going to be done?" "You mean what the college is going to do or what we're to do?" "Yes, that's it. Both." "I've telephoned home," said Foster quietly. "You have?" "Yes. I have just come back from the office." "Did you telephone my father?" "No. I telephoned my father and told him to ring up your house." "And did he?" "Of course he did." "Did you hear anything--I mean--" "Now, look here, Will," said Foster quietly. "Don't get rattled. I know it's bad, but there isn't any use in losing your head over it. I've been down to see the dean and have talked it over with him." "What did he have to say?" "He said the report was true and the eight fellows were all down with the typhoid, and that every one of them had been taken to the infirmary." "What else?" demanded Will, his excitement increasing in spite of his effort to be calm. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, if you'll give me half a chance. He said the president had sent for the best experts in the country, and that everything that it was possible to do would be done. He said too, that they would deal absolutely squarely with the boys, and if it was discovered that there was the least danger of it spreading they would tell us, and if necessary they'd close for a while till the whole thing had been ferreted out." "That's square." "Of course it is." "What are you going to do, Foster?" "Nothing, that is, for a day or two anyway. I've told my father, and if he thinks I'd better come home he'll say so." "But he may not know." "He will in a day or two." "What are you going to do now?" "Study my Greek." "I ought to, but I'm going out for a little while. I've got to cool off a bit before I can settle down to work." "Don't be gone long. You'll only see the fellows and get stirred up all the more. I'd drop it and go to 'boning.' It's the best cure." "It is for a fellow like you, Foster. I can't do it yet. I've got to get outdoors till I can get my breath again." Seizing his cap Will went out into the night. He passed by Leland Hall and glancing up discovered that there was a light in Peter John's room. Instantly he entered the building and bounding up the stairway knocked on his classmate's door, and in response to the invitation entered and found Hawley within and alone. "Hello, Hawley. What's the news about Peter John?" "Oh, he's got it. Temperature a hundred and four and a half and all that sort of thing." "Any idea where or how he got it?" "Not the least." "Have you seen him?" "Since he went to the infirmary? Yes, once; but I sha'n't see him again till he comes out well or--" "Is he the worst?" "No. Wagner seems to be the hardest hit, but they told me you couldn't tell very much about it yet. Have to wait a few days anyway." "Mott says he is going home." "Yes, there probably will be a lot of the fellows leaving by to-morrow." "Are you afraid?" "Some." "Going to leave?" "I'm going to wait a day or two and see what turns up before I decide just what I shall do." On his way back to his room Will fell in with several others of his classmates, and the exciting conversation was repeated in each case until at last when he joined Foster, whom he found still poring over his lesson in Greek for the morrow, his feelings were so overwrought that he was almost beside himself. "Everybody's going to leave, Foster," he declared. "Not quite, for I'm not going yet myself." "But--" Will ceased abruptly as he perceived that a messenger boy was standing in front of his door. Quickly seizing the envelope he perceived that it was directed to himself and instantly tearing it open he read: "If new cases develop within three days come home. Otherwise remain. Wire me daily." The message was signed by his father. "That settles it!" exclaimed Will, "I'm going to bed. Splinter will be easy on us to-morrow anyway." Foster smiled as he shook his head and continued his own work, but his room-mate was not aware of either action. In chapel on the following morning the president of the college reiterated the statement which the dean already had made to Foster, and after trying to show the students that a panic was even more to be feared than the fever, and promising to keep them fully and frankly informed as to the exact status of affairs, he dismissed them to their recitations, which it was understood were to be continued without interruption, at least for the present. In his Greek that day Will failed miserably and completely, and his anger at Splinter was intensified when the professor near the close of the recitation said: "It is quite needless, I fawncy, for me to emphasize, young gentlemen, the necessity there is at the present time for you all to adopt the utmost care in all matters pertaining especially to your health. I refer to you individually as well as collectively. My advice to you is to use only mineral water--I refer obviously to the water you drink--and it might be well to avoid the undue use of milk--" A shout of laughter interrupted the professor which caused his face to flush with anger and he arose abruptly from his seat, the signal that the class was dismissed. As Will, who was among the last to pass out, came near the desk the professor said to him, "Mr. Phelps, I should be pleased if you would remain for a brief time. I should like exceedingly to have a word with you." Accordingly, Will stood by the desk till all the class had passed out, and then the professor said, "Ah, Mr. Phelps, would you kindly inform me what your opinion is as to the cause of the students receiving my remarks a few minutes ago with such an outburst of laughter? I assure you I had not the least intention to say anything that should even appear to be liable to excite the mirth of the young gentlemen. I do not know that I was ever more serious in my entire life." "I think, professor, it was your reference to milk." "Why should I not refer to it? In times of fear, when typhoid fever is--is--ah, at least somewhat feared, it is wise to be extremely cautious, and I have it on the authority of men of the highest reputation that milk is a medium through which the germs of the disease transmit themselves most readily." "Yes, but you know, professor, the college is supposed to think the freshmen feed on milk. That's supposed to be their diet." "Ah, yes," replied the professor, smiling in a manner that proclaimed his entire inability to perceive the point. "That must be the point of the joke. Ah, yes. I see it distinctly now. It is very good! It is very good, indeed!" "Professor, can you tell me my marks? How am I doing in my Greek lately?" "I am not supposed to reply to such a question from any of the young gentlemen, but I fawncy in a general way I may be able to respond to your query. Ah, yes," he added, glancing at the page in the little book before him wherein Will's record was contained, "there is an improvement, not great, it is true, but still an improvement; and if your work continues it will bring you almost up to the mark required." "Almost?" exclaimed Will aghast. "You don't mean to say, do you, Mr. Splinter--" "Mr. _who?_" demanded the professor, instantly rising and his face flushing again with anger. CHAPTER XIX A RARE INTERVIEW Instantly Will Phelps was overwhelmed with confusion. His face flushed crimson and his knees shook under the excitement which quickly seized upon him. The opprobrious title by which the Greek professor was known among the students and by which he was commonly spoken of by them had slipped from his tongue almost unconsciously. He stood staring stupidly into the professor's face, while visions of expulsion and future difficulty flashed into his troubled mind. "I beg your pardon, professor," he managed to ejaculate at last. "I did not mean to say that. The word slipped out before I knew it. I am very sorry for it, for I certainly did not intend to be disrespectful in any way." "You insulted me!" exclaimed the professor in a rage that under other circumstances would have seemed almost ludicrous to Will. It was like the anger of an infuriated canary bird or of some little child. "Then I want to apologize," said Will quietly. "As I said, I certainly did not intend to do anything of the kind." "But you did," persisted the outraged teacher. "You most assuredly did." "Can't you believe me when I say it was not intentional?" "That does not excuse it, but I fawncy the tendency among the young gentlemen of the college is to bestow appellations upon the various members of the faculty that are not warranted." "I have heard some of them spoken of in that way, but I don't think the fellows meant either to be disrespectful or unkind," said Will eagerly. "No, I fawncy it may in part be due to the thoughtlessness of youth and I would not be unduly harsh with you after your ample apology. Then you have been accustomed to hear me myself referred to as Splinter, have you?" "I--yes--that is--" stammered Will. "Precisely. Now what in your opinion is the basis upon which the students have added such a derisive epithet to my name?" Will was silent, though in spite of his efforts the expression of his face betrayed somewhat the feeling of blank amazement which possessed him. "I fawncy I can trace its derivation," said the professor simply. "Doubtless when I first became a member of the faculty the appellation, or, let me see, is it an appellation or a cognomen, as you commonly have heard it?" "Yes, sir," Will managed to respond. "It is, then, as I fawncied, and doubtless was bestowed upon me as indicative of my lack of avoirdupois. And it was not entirely unnatural that they should do so, for at the time when I came to Winthrop I was very slight, very slight indeed. The appellation, or cognomen, was without doubt given in recognition of that fact, a custom not unknown, among the classical nations and one prevalent among the Hebrews and even among the Indians of America. The history of names would provide an exceedingly interesting field of study for you, Mr. Phelps." Will bowed but did not speak, for he was afraid to interrupt or to divert the childlike man from the channel in which his thoughts appeared to be running. "Such a name once given," resumed the professor, "would doubtless cling to one long after physical changes had been made that would no longer afford an accurate basis for the nomenclature. But I was very slight, very slight indeed, Mr. Phelps, when I first came here some seventeen years ago, or, to be exact, seventeen years and four months, that is, four months lacking a few days. Why, I believe I weighed only one hundred and seventeen pounds at the time." Will strove to be duly impressed by the fact, but as he looked at the man who was somewhat above six feet in height and whose body did not give many tokens of having increased materially in breadth or thickness since the time to which the professor referred, he found it extremely difficult to repress the smile that rose to his lips. "Yes," resumed the professor quickly, "I have increased in weight since that time but the appellation still clings and doubtless will as long as I remain in Winthrop." "How much do you weigh now, professor?" The moment Will asked the question he regretted it, but the temptation was too strong to be resisted. "I cannot say exactly," said the professor in some confusion, "but my weight has very materially increased. If I recall aright, the last time when I was weighed I had added two and three-quarters pounds. It is true it was in the winter and doubtless heavier clothing may have slightly modified the result. But still I can safely affirm that I am much heavier than I was at the time when I joined the Winthrop faculty." "Do you find that you feel better now that you are more corpulent? I have heard it said that addition to the body is subtraction from the brain. Do you think that is so, professor?" "It is true, most assuredly. All classifical literature confirms the statement you have just made." "Then you don't believe in athletics, do you, professor?" "Assuredly not. Most assuredly not." "But didn't the ancient Greeks have their racecourses? Didn't they believe in running and jumping and boxing and I don't know what all?" "That is true, but the times were very different then. They had not in the least lost the sense of the poetry of life. They were not so crassly or grossly materialistic as the present age undoubtedly is. Every grove was peopled with divinities, every mountain was the abode of the unseen. Why, Mr. Phelps, the Greeks were the only people that ever lived that looked upon mountains as anything but blots or defects." "Is that so?" inquired Will in surprise. "It certainly is. It is true that since the days of the poet Gray there has been a tendency among English-speaking people to affect a veneration for the mountains, but it is, I fawncy, only a faint echo of the old Greek conception and is a purely superficial product of an extremely superficial age and people." "Didn't the Hebrews have a feeling like the one you tell of? Isn't there a psalm that begins 'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help'? Didn't they describe the high hills that were round about Jerusalem?" "Ah, yes. That is true," assented the professor in some confusion. "I had not thought of it in that light precisely. You have given me a new insight to-day, Mr. Phelps. I shall at once go over my data again. I am grateful to you for acceding to my request to remain to-day." "But, professor," persisted Will, "what about my work in Greek? I've had a tutor ever since you told me to get one and I've been working hard too. Today I didn't do very well, but I was so excited about the fever, for Peter John--I mean Schenck--is one of the fellows to come down with it, you know, and we've been telephoning and telegraphing home--" "Ah, yes. But you heard my remarks to-day concerning the necessity of increased work in Greek as a preventive, did you not?" "I did. But, professor, I'm willing to work. If I'm to be shut out of the exam--I mean the examination--as you seem to think I will, anyway, I don't see any use in my trying any more." The expression on the professor's face became instantly harder as he said, "I fawncy the effort to curry favor with the various members of the faculty is not very popular with the student body." "Do you think I'm trying to 'boot-lick'?" demanded Will quickly. "I look upon that term as somewhat objectionable, but I fawncy in the vernacular of college life it is one that is quite expressive." "I'm not trying to boot-lick you or any other professor!" retorted Will, now feeling angry and insulted as well. "I didn't stay here to-day because I wanted to. You yourself asked me to do it. And I asked you a perfectly fair question. I knew I hadn't been doing very well, but after I saw you I've been trying, honestly trying, to do better. And all the encouragement you give me is to say that if I work harder I may almost come up to the passing mark." "Pardon me, Mr. Phelps, but you are the one to change your record, not I. All I do is merely to jot down what you have been doing. I do not do the work--I merely record it." For a moment Will Phelps was almost speechless with anger. He felt outraged and insulted in every fibre of his being. He hastily bade the professor good-morning, and, seizing his cap, rushed for his room, a great fear being upon him that unless he instantly departed he would say or do something for which he would have a lifelong regret. As he burst into his room he found Foster already there, and, flinging his books savagely across the room, Will seated himself in his easy-chair and glared at his room-mate. "Why? What's wrong? What's happened, Will?" demanded Foster, in astonishment. "Oh, I've just had another delightful interview with old Splinter. He's the worst I ever struck yet!" "Did you strike him, Will?" inquired Foster, a smile of amusement appearing on his face. "No, but I'd like to! His soul would get lost in the eye of a needle! He's the smallest specimen I have ever run up against. He may know Greek, but he doesn't know anything else. I never in all my life saw--" "Tell me about it, Will," interrupted Foster. Thus bidden, Will related the story of his interview with his professor of Greek. When Foster laughed as he told of Splinter's description of his marvelously increased corpulence, Will did not join, for the ludicrous side now was all swallowed up in his anger. And when his room-mate scowled as he heard of the professor's insinuation that the young freshman was trying to "boot-lick," Will's anger broke forth afresh. "What's the use in my trying, I'd like to know?" he demanded. "I've never tried harder in my life than I have for the last three or four weeks. And what does old Splinter have to say about it? 'Oh, I'm doing better and if I keep on I'll _almost_ come up to the passing mark!' I tell you, it isn't fair! It isn't right! He's just determined to put me out!" "Perhaps he thinks he's bound to stick to the marks he's given you before." "Yes, that's it. But think of it, Foster. Here I am doing better and putting in my best work. And the old fellow acknowledges it too, for he says so himself. But what does it all amount to? He doesn't give me any credit for what I've been doing lately. No, he's just tied up to the marks I got at the beginning of the year. What fairness is there in that, I'd like to know? That's the way they do in State's prison, but I didn't suppose old Winthrop was built exactly on that plan. I thought the great point here was to wake a man up and inspire him to try to do better and all that sort of thing. And I _am_ doing better, and I know it, and so does he, but his soul is so dried up and withered that he can't think of anything but ancient history. He hasn't the least idea of what's going on here to-day. I'll bet the old fellow, when he has the toothache, groans in dactylic hexameters and calls for his breakfast in the Ionic dialect. Bah! What's all the stuff good for anyway? I haven't any reason for trying any more." "Yes, you have." "I have? Well, what is it?" "Your father, if nothing else." Will instantly became silent, for Foster's words only seemed to call up before him the vision of his father's face. He was the best man that had ever lived, Will declared to himself, and his conviction had been strengthened as he had seen the relations between many of his college mates and their fathers. How he would be grieved over it all. And yet Will knew that never an unkind word would be spoken. It was almost more than he could bear, he thought, and his eyes were glistening when he arose from his seat to respond to a knock on the door. As he opened it he saw standing before him his own father and the father of Peter John Schenck, and with a yell of delight he grasped his father's outstretched hand and pulled him hastily into the room. CHAPTER XX A CRISIS In response to Will's eager questions, Mr. Phelps explained that he had come to Winthrop to satisfy himself as to the exact status as to the fever that had broken out. Before he had come up to Will's room he had consulted the college officials and now felt that he was in a position to decide calmly what must be done by his son. "And what's the verdict?" inquired Will. "It will not be necessary for you to return. I think everything is being done that ought to be and though we shall be anxious, still I am not unduly alarmed. I have confidence in you, Will, and I am sure you will not be careless in a time like this. The president informs me that there have not been any new cases since the first outbreak, and he is of the opinion that all these cases were due to one cause and that was found outside of the village." "Then you don't want me to go home with you?" inquired Will quizzically. "What I might 'want' and what is best are two different matters," said his father with a smile, "Just at present what I want and what you need happen to be one and the same thing." "What's that?" "Your Greek." Will's face clouded and then unmindful of the others who were in the room he told his father of his recent interview with his professor of Greek. The smile of amusement on the face of Mr. Phelps when Will began soon gave way to an expression of deep concern. To Will, who understood him so thoroughly, it was evident that his father was angry as well as disappointed, and for a moment there was a feeling of exultation in his own heart. Now something would be done, he felt confident, and the injustice under which he was laboring and suffering would be done away. "Your other work is all right, Will?" inquired his father after a brief silence. "Oh, yes! Fine! If old Splinter was only half the man that Professor Sinclair is, there wouldn't be a bit of trouble. Why the recitation in Latin never seems to be more than fifteen minutes long. But the Greek--bah! The hour is like a week of Sundays!" "Still, Will, there is only one way out of it for you." "I suppose so," responded Will, his heart sinking as he spoke. "Yes, it must be faced. I know it's hard, but you can't get around it, Will, and I'm sure you don't want to run from it. As I told you, it isn't as if your Greek professor was the only one of his kind you will meet in life, for his name is legion and you will find him everywhere. The only thing for you to do is to keep on with your tutor and prove yourself to be the master. If you do that, the experience, hard as it is, may prove to be one of the best that could come to you." Will was silent for a moment before he spoke, and then he said impulsively, "Well, pop, I suppose you are right. I'll do my best." "Of course you will," responded his father quietly, though his eyes were shining. "It isn't so hard for you as it is for Mr. Schenck." "Is Peter John worse?" inquired Will quickly. "Yes." "Isn't there something we can do?" said Will eagerly. "No, nothing," said Mr. Schenck. "My boy is very sick, but all we can do is to wait. He is having good care. The only comfort I have is what they tell me about him and what he has been doing since he came to college." Both boys looked up quickly, but neither spoke and Mr. Schenck continued. "Yes, there's a young man I have met since I've been here who has told me many things about my boy that comfort me now very much." "Was it Mott?" interrupted Will. "Yes, that was his name. You know him too, I see. He seems to be a very fine young man. He told me that Peter was one of the leaders in his class, and that everybody in the college knew him. He said too, that he had won his numerals--though I don't just understand what that means." "It means that he has the right to wear the number of his class on his cap or sweater," said Will. "That's more than I've won." He had not the heart to undeceive the unhappy man, though both he and Foster were aware that Mott had been overstating the facts in his desire to comfort Peter John's father. "Well, I hope he'll get well," said Mr. Schenck with a heavy sigh, "though it does seem as if such things always happened to the brightest boys. I'm going to stay here for a few days till I know he's better or--" The sentence was not completed and for a time there was a tense silence in the room. At last the men departed, Mr. Schenck to go to his son's room where he was to sleep while he remained in Winthrop, and Mr. Phelps to the station where he was to take the train for his home. Will accompanied his father, but the subject that was uppermost in the mind of each was not referred to for there are times when silence is golden. In the days that followed, Will Phelps worked as he never had worked before in all his brief life. His distaste for the Greek and dislike of the professor were as strong as before, and at times it almost seemed to him that he could no longer continue the struggle. His sole inspiration was in the thought of his father and in his blind determination not to be mastered. An additional element of gloom in those days were the reports that came from the infirmary of the condition of Peter John. All the other patients appeared to be doing well, but the daily word from the watchers by Peter John's bedside was that he was worse. A pall seemed to be resting over the entire college. The noisy songs and boisterous shouts were not heard in the dormitories nor upon the campus. A part of the general anxiety was gone when as the days passed there were no reports of new cases developed, but the fear of what was to be the issue in the case of Peter John was in every heart--even with those who had not exchanged a word with him since he had entered Winthrop. Will Phelps found himself even wondering how it was that the "old grads" when they returned always spoke in such enthusiastic terms of their own college days. How they laughed and slapped one another on the back as they recalled and recounted their exploits. It was Will's conviction that those days must have been markedly different from those through which he was passing, for he was finding only hard work and much trouble, he dolefully assured himself. He was too inexperienced to understand that one is never able to see clearly the exact condition of present experiences. There is then no perspective, and the good and evil, the large and small, are strangely confused. It is like the figures in a Chinese picture wherein the background and foreground, the little and the big, are much the same in their proportions. Only when a man looks back and beholds the events of the bygone days in their true perspective is he able to form a correct estimate of the relative values. Even Will Phelps would not have believed that there might come a day when the very struggle he was having in mastering his Greek would be looked upon by him as not unpleasant in the larger light in which all his college days would be viewed. Mr. Schenck still remained in Winthrop, and his face every morning when Will went to inquire about Peter John was a sure indication of the report which was to be made even before a word had been spoken. Steadily lower and lower sank the freshman, who was desperately ill, until at last the crisis came, and with the passing of the day the issue of life or death would be determined. In the interval between his recitations Will ran to see the suffering man and learn how the issue was going, and when at last the word was received that Peter John, if no relapse occurred, was likely to recover, he felt as if a great load had been lifted from his mind. It was his first experience with the deep tragedy that, like a cloud, rests over all mankind, and in the glimmer of hope that now appeared it seemed to him that all things appeared in a new light. Even his detested Greek was not quite so bad as it previously had been, and in the reaction that came Will bent to his distasteful task with a renewed determination. When several weeks had elapsed, and the time of the Christmas vacation was near, for the first time Will was permitted to enter the room where Peter John was sitting up in bed. It was difficult for Will to hide the shock that came when he first saw his classmate, his face wasted till it almost seemed as if the bones must protrude, his head shaved, and his general weakness so apparent as to be pathetic. Striving to conceal his real feelings and to appear bright and cheery, Will extended his hand and said nervously: "I'm mighty glad to see you, Peter John, and so will all the fellows be. I don't think you've taken the best way of getting a vacation." Peter John smiled in a way that almost brought the tears to Will's eyes, and said, "I'm much obliged to you, Will." "No, you're not. We're all much obliged to you for getting well. I don't know what the track team would have done without you." "Guess I won't bother the track team this year. That's what the doctor says." "Oh, well," said Will hastily, "that won't make any difference. You'll be all right for another year and that will do just as well." "Say, Will," said Peter after a brief pause: "What is it?" inquired Will kindly. "There's something I want to say to you." "Say it, then," laughed Will. "I'm never going to touch a drop again." "That's all right. Of course you won't," assented Will cordially. "And, Will--" "Yes?" "I'm not going to have anything charged up to you any more." "'Anything charged up to me'? I don't know what you mean." "I mean those cakes and pies I had charged to you down at Tommie's." "Tommie" was the name by which the proprietor of one of the little restaurants and bakeshops in Winthrop was familiarly called by the college boys. "I didn't know you had anything charged to me." "You didn't?" "No. I haven't had any bill for it, anyway." "You'll get it. You'll have one," said Peter John nodding his head decidedly. "I don't know what I ever did it for anyway. At first I thought it was a good joke on you. M--some of the fellows said it would be. And then somehow I kept it up." "Never mind, Peter John. I'll fix it. It'll be all right." "Did you tell my father?" inquired Peter John anxiously. "No. I haven't told him anything." "I'm glad. I lost some money on that trip with the football team, Will." "How much?" "Seven dollars and a half. It was all I'd got." "Do you want--" Will started to take out his pocketbook, but stopped abruptly, for he was not certain just how Peter John might receive his offer. He did not see the light that came for a moment into his classmate's eyes or the look of disappointment that quickly followed it. "I'm never going to bet any more," remarked Peter John simply. "Of course not." "But my money is gone and I sha'n't be able to pay for those things I had charged to you at Tommie's, as I fully meant to." "Never mind that." "I'm going to study harder too." "Not just yet. I shouldn't bother my head about such things now, Peter John. Wait till you are up and around before you do that." "I'm afraid that'll be a long time." "No. Oh no, it won't," said Will cheerily. "You'll be all right before you know it." Peter John shook his head and was about to reply, when Mott entered the room and at the same time the physician also came. The latter glanced keenly at his patient, and then said to the visitors, "That's enough this time, boys. You'd better cut it short now and come again." Will and Mott at once departed after bidding Peter John good-bye, and when they were out on the sidewalk Mott began to laugh. "What's struck you? I don't see anything so very funny," said Will irritated by his companion's manner. "Peter John has made a clean breast of it." "What of it?" "Oh, nothing much. Only when the 'devil was sick the devil a monk would be.' You know the words probably. It strikes me as absolutely funny." "I don't see anything to laugh about," retorted Will warmly. "You wait and maybe you will later, Phelps. Tra, la, freshman!" and Mott abruptly departed. His words, however, still lingered in Will's mind, and throughout the evening the jingling rhyme that the sophomore had repeated kept running through his thoughts. CHAPTER XXI THE EXAMINATION Vacation had come and gone. How Will Phelps did enjoy that break in his work! He almost begrudged the swiftly passing hours while he was at home, and as the vacation drew near its close he found himself computing the hours and even the minutes that yet remained before he must return, just as he had previously reckoned the time that must pass before he could return to Sterling. It was not that he did not enjoy his college life, for as we know he had entered heartily into its spirit, but the work was hard and his handicap in the one subject had robbed him of the enthusiasm which perhaps otherwise he might have had. When the day at last arrived when he was to return he was unusually quiet and seldom had a word to say to any one. Uppermost in his thoughts was the expression of the principal of the school where he had prepared for college, who had said to him: "Well, Will, with all the fun of college there is still another side to it, and that is, that when a fellow enters college he really is leaving home. From that time forward he may come back for his vacations, but it is nevertheless the break that sooner or later comes to every man." Will had thought much of the saying, and its truthfulness was so apparent that he was unable entirely to shake off the somewhat depressing effect it had produced upon himself. When the hour came and the good-byes must be said he strove desperately to be calm, but he dared not trust himself to say much. He did not once glance behind him as he walked away from the house to the street, though he knew that his father and mother were standing on the piazza and were watching him as long as his sturdy form could be seen by them. On the train he found several of his college friends and it became somewhat easier for him in their company to forget his own heaviness of heart, and as he sped on toward Winthrop the numbers increased and the noisy shouts of greeting and the enthusiasm of the students diverted him from the feeling to which otherwise he might have yielded. Peter John and Foster were in the number of the returning students, the former having recovered sufficiently to warrant him in taking up a part of his work. Wagner also and several of the other students who had been victims of the fever were on the train when it arrived at Winthrop, and in the warmth of their reception by their student friends there was a tonic such as even the physicians' prescriptions had not afforded. Will found a slight return of his depression when he first entered his room, but when a few days had passed his life had once more settled into the grooves of the daily routine and assumed its former round of tasks. The mid-year examinations came within a month after the reopening of the college, and the chagrin and anger of Will Phelps were keenly aroused when he learned that although he had done well in his other studies he was conditioned in his Greek. He stormed and raved about the injustice with which he was being treated, and finally, at Foster's suggestion, sought a personal interview with his professor. "I don't understand it, professor," he said warmly. "I never felt more sure of anything in my life than I did that I had passed that exam--I mean that examination." "Ah, yes," replied the professor. "Quite likely if you had had the decision to make, you would have passed _cum laude!_ Ha, ha! Yes, I fawncy it might have been so, but unfortunately the decision had to be made by other parties." "But didn't I pass the examination, professor?" demanded Will. "I do not exactly recollect as to that. Quite likely you failed, since that impression seems to be vivid in your thoughts. Were you so reported?" "Yes, sir. Have you got that paper, professor?" "I _have_ it. I should not say I have _got_ it." "May I see it?" Will's manner was subdued, but there was a flush on his cheeks which those who knew him well would at once have understood. "I will look it over with you," assented the professor. "It is against our rules to return papers to students, and I fawncy our rules are made to be obeyed, not ignored." "Yes, sir." Will was hardly aware of what he was saying so impatient and eager was he for the paper to be produced. The professor unlocked a drawer in his desk and drew forth a package of papers that were carefully tied with a piece of ribbon. Even the knot was exact and the loop on one side did not vary from that on the other by the smallest fraction. In his impatience Will noticed even this detail, but it was ignored in a moment when the professor slowly and with care examined the headlines of the papers and at last drew forth one which he placed on the desk in front of him and said: "Ah, yes. Here is the paper in question. It is credited with being two points above the mark required to pass a student." "It is?" demanded Will enthusiastically. "I thought there must be a mistake." There was a slight scowl on the professor's brow as he said: "Ah, yes. I will now refer to your true mark," and he drew forth a little book as he spoke and carefully examined the record. "Ah, yes," he murmured, not lifting his eyes from the page on which he had placed a forefinger. "Ah, yes. It is as I fawncied. Your average for the term in your recitations is what brings you below. It is true you are two above the required mark in your examination, but you are three below in your recitation work, and that, I regret exceedingly to say, brings you still one point below the mark necessary to pass you." The professor looked up and smiled blandly. But Will Phelps was not smiling and his vigorous young heart was filled with wrath. By a desperate effort, however, he contrived to control his voice and said quietly: "Was I not doing better? Was I not improving in my work?" "I should not care to speak positively, but my impression is that you were. Ah, yes," he added as he glanced again at his record. "You were improving. I may even say there was a marked improvement." "And I passed the exam?" "I have told you that you were two points above the mark required for passing the examination," said the professor with dignity. "Then I don't see what I'm stuck for." "You are not 'stuck'." "I'm not? Thank you, professor. I thought I was. You can't understand what a load--" "Excuse me, Mr. Phelps. I did not affirm that you were not conditioned. I merely declared that you were not 'stuck'." "Then I am conditioned, am I?" said Will, his heart instantly sinking. "Most certainly." "What shall I have to do?" "Pass the examination." "But I have passed it! I passed this one!" declared Will promptly. Again the professor's scowl returned and his thin lips were tightly compressed as he said, "I fawncy it will not be necessary for me to repeat what I have already said. You were deficient in the term work and therefore are conditioned." "Then you mean to tell me, do you," said Will, no longer able to repress his rising indignation, "that, though I steadily improved in my class work, and then passed the examination, in spite of it all you are going to give me a condition because according to your figures I am still one point below?" "Most certainly." "And I'll have to take another exam?" "Precisely." "Good evening, professor," said Will, rising abruptly. There was nothing more to be said, and he felt that it would be wise to withdraw from the professor's presence before, in his indignation, he should say something he was certain to regret. When, however, he returned to his own room, there the flood tides of his wrath broke loose. He related the interview to Foster, and bitterly declared that if a smaller specimen of a man could be found with a microscope he thought he would be willing to spend his days and nights searching for him. There was neither justice nor fairness in it. He had improved steadily, even Splinter acknowledged that he had, and had passed the required exam, and yet for the sake of the professor's pettiness and the red tape of the college rules he must take another, and then if he should pass _that_ he would be all right. Bah! Greek was bad enough, but Splinter was worse. What kind of a man was he to put in charge of a lot of fellows with live blood in their veins, he'd like to know. For his part he wished he was out of it. Such things might do for kids, but it was too contemptible to think of for college students. Foster wisely waited till the outburst had been ended and then said, "Well, Will, you're up against it, whatever you say. What are you going to do about it?" "Do about it? I'm going to pass that exam. There isn't any other way out. I've got to do it! but that doesn't make it any nicer for me, does it?" "Splinter's here and is likely to stay. And if you and I are going to stay too, I suppose we'll have to come to his tune." "I fancy--you should hear Splinter say that." "Say what?" "'Fancy,' only he calls it 'fawncy'. I 'fawncy' my father is dead right when he says that I'll find a splinter everywhere and just as long as I live; but I don't believe I'll ever find one as bad as this one is." "He may be worse. Don't you remember that little bit of Eugene Field's verse where he tells how when he was a boy he was sliding down hill with some other little chaps in front of the deacon's house? And how their yelling annoyed the deacon till at last he came out and sprinkled ashes on the path? Well, Eugene said he always had found since that there was some one standing ready to throw ashes on his path, it didn't seem to make any difference where he was." "I don't remember, but it's like my father's words about finding splinters everywhere. Oh, no, I'm mad about it, but I'm not running away. I'm going to do it if that's the thing to be done." And when a month had gone by Will had passed the examination, and was facing his work without the drag of work undone to hinder him. The final influence had come one Sunday in the college chapel where the pulpit from week to week was occupied ("filled" was a word also occasionally used) by men of eminence, who were invited for the purpose of speaking to the college boys. Some of these visitors by words, presence, and message were a great inspiration to the young men, and others were correspondingly deficient, for in the vocabulary of Winthrop there was no word by which to express the comparative degree. Will Phelps had regularly attended the services, not only because such attendance was required by the college authorities but also from the habit and inclination of his own life. With his fellows he had enjoyed some speakers and had disliked others in his thoughtless manner, and in the preceding week had laughed as heartily as any one over the unconscious escapade of Mott. The preacher for the day had been unusually prosy, having length without much breadth or thickness as Foster had dryly described the discourse, and in the midst of the hour, Mott had fallen asleep in his pew. Short and stout in figure, doubtless doubly wearied by the late hours he had kept the preceding night, in the midst of his slumbers he had begun to snore. From low and peaceful intonations he had passed on to long, prolonged, and sonorous notes that could be heard throughout the college chapel. Nor would any one of his fellows disturb his slumbers, and when at last with an unusually loud and agonizing gasp Mott was awakened and suddenly sat erect and stared stupidly about him, the good-hearted, but boyishly irreverent audience, it is safe to affirm, was decidedly more interested in the slumbering sophomore than in the soporific speaker, though few doubtless thought them related as cause and effect. On the following Sunday Will was thinking of Mott's experience and wondering if he would give another exhibition. This thought was even in his mind when the visiting speaker entered the chapel pulpit and reverently began the service of the day. He had not been speaking long before it was evident that every eye was fastened upon him. It was evident that here was first of all a man, and then a man who was present because he had something to say and not merely because he had to say something. "I am appealing to those of you," he was saying, "who are eager and earnest, not to you who are indifferent or weaklings. Those of you who are members of your college teams, who are leading spirits in the college life, who are not living lives that are above reproach because you have no temptation to be bad, but because if you do right it is because you have to struggle and fight for it--it is to you I am speaking this morning." Will was listening intently, as was every one in the chapel, and then there followed a sentence that seemed to him almost electric with life and that made a lasting impression upon his life. CHAPTER XXII A FRESH EXCITEMENT "What I want every one of you young men to do," the speaker was saying, "is to give your better self a chance. There isn't one of you to-day who is not proud of his physical strength, not one of you who, if he should be urged to join one of the athletic teams, would not willingly, even proudly go through all the training that would be required of him. And that is right. In your intellectual work some of you see what the desired end is--the development of power, getting your brains into form so that you can meet and compete with the forces you will have to face when you leave your college days behind you and go forth to make your name and place in the great battlefield of life. Some of you, it may be, do not as yet see this clearly, and when you can evade a task or dodge a difficult demand upon you, count it as so much gained. But in your heart of hearts you know better, and are dimly conscious that you are losing and not gaining by your neglect." The earnestness, the sincerity, and naturalness of the speaker acted upon Will Phelps with the effect of an electric shock. Never had he been so thoroughly aroused, and every nerve in his body was tingling when he left the chapel and started toward his own room. "That's the kind of a talk the fellows like." Will glanced up and beheld Wagner, who had overtaken him and now was walking by his side. "I never heard such a man in all my life," said Will warmly. "There isn't a man that comes here who has such a grip on the students as he has. One of the best things you have to look forward to is the treat you will have every year of hearing him. There isn't a spark of 'cant' or 'gush' about him, but what he says goes straight home. I don't think I'll ever forget some of the things he has said to us while I've been in college." Accepting Will's cordial invitation, Wagner went with him to his room and remained there for an hour, and for the most of the time their conversation was of the man and the message they had that morning heard. "I'll never forget one thing he said," remarked Wagner thoughtfully. "What was that?" inquired Will, deeply interested at once. "He was talking once about the reason why women were supposed to be so much more religious than men, and he said he didn't believe they were." "There are more in the churches, anyway," suggested Will. "Yes, that's what he said; but he said too, that the reason for it was because one side of the life of Christ had been emphasized at the expense of the other. He said so much had been made of his gentleness and meekness and the kindly virtues, which were the feminine side of his nature and appealed most to women, that he was afraid sometimes the other the stronger side and the one that appealed most to men had been lost. And then, he went on to speak of the Lion of the tribe of Judah, and he pictured the temptation and the power of decision and the heroic endurance and strength, and all that. I never heard anything like it in all my life. It made me feel as I do when the team is in for a meet. I'll never forget it! Never!" "I wish I'd heard it." "You'll have three more chances, anyway." "Maybe more than that if I don't pass in all my work," laughed Will. "Having any trouble?" "A little with my Greek, but I've passed off my condition now." "I think you're all right then, though Splinter is a hard proposition. Just imagine him talking like this man this morning." Will laughed, and then becoming serious, he said, "Wagner, I've a classmate who is bothering me." "Who is it?" "Schenck. Peter John everybody calls him." "What's he doing? What's the trouble with him?" "Well, to be honest, he's drinking hard." "Wasn't he one of the fellows who was down, with the typhoid when I had it?" "Yes." "An awkward, ungainly, redheaded fellow?" "That's the one." "What have you been doing for him?" "Everything I could think of, but nothing seems to hold. He made all sorts of promises when he was sick and he hasn't kept one of them. He goes around with Mott and you know what that means." "Yes," said Wagner thoughtfully. "He's a queer chap. I was in school three years with him and in some ways he was absolutely idiotic. For a while he'd work all right and then without a word of warning he'd break out and do some of the most absolutely fool things you ever heard of." "Not very much to appeal to, I fancy." "There might be if a fellow knew how, but I confess I don't." "You think it would do any good for me to see him?" "Yes, I do," said Will eagerly. "You know he might stand a show for the track team--" "Is he the fellow that won the half-mile in the sophomore-freshman meet?" inquired Wagner eagerly. "Is he the one?" "Yes." "I'll see him. I'll go right over there now. You're not letting up any in your own work for the team are you, Phelps?" "I'm doing a little all the time," Will admitted, "but I don't suppose it will amount to much." "Yes, it will. You never can tell till you try. If Mott does not do better he'll find himself out of it. We'll need you and every one we can get. You know I can't go in this year." "Why not?" "The typhoid. Doctor won't let me." "Then Peter John can't go in either." "That's so. I hadn't thought of that. All the more reason then why you ought to do your best, Phelps. I'll see this John Henry anyway--" "You mean Peter John." "All right. Have it your own way. I'll go over to his room and look him up anyway. Good-bye, Phelps." "Good-bye," responded Will, as the senior started down the stairway. Several days elapsed before Will heard anything of Wagner's interview with Peter John and then all that Wagner told him was that the freshman had promised faithfully to do better. But Will had already had so much experience with Peter John's promises that he was somewhat skeptical as to results. His classmate he knew was not essentially vicious, only weak. He was so weak and vain that he was eager to gain the favor of whatever person he chanced to be with, and his promise of better things to Wagner was as readily given as was his response to Mott when the latter happened to be his companion of the hour. Troubled as Will was, he nevertheless did for Peter John all that was within his power, which was not much, and was heavy-hearted as the reports steadily came of his classmate's downfall. Even Hawley, good-natured as he was, had at last rebelled and declared that he would no longer room with a fellow who had no more sense than Schenck, and Peter John, left to himself, was quick to respond to Mott's invitation to share his room, and was soon domiciled in the sophomore's more luxurious quarters. Will Phelps found meanwhile that his own work in the classroom was of a character that promised a fair grade, though by no means a high one. Even his professor of Greek now appeared in a slightly more favorable light, and Will was convinced that the change was in Splinter, not in himself, so natural and strong were his boyish prejudices. As the springtime drew near, however, his thoughts and time were somewhat divided in the excitement of the last great struggle between the members of his own class and their rivals, the sophomores. For years it had been the custom of the college for the two lower classes to bury, or rather to burn the hatchet on St. Patrick's Day. For a week preceding that time the tussles between the rival classes were keener than at any other time during the year. At that eventful date the freshmen for the first time were permitted to carry canes, and on the day itself there was to be a parade of the freshman class, every member clad in some outlandish garment which he wore outside his other clothing, and it was the one ambition of the sophomore class to silence the music of the band that was at the head of the procession and at the same time tear the outer garments from the noisy freshmen. For a week preceding the time of the parade the freshmen were striving by every means in their power to smuggle their canes into Winthrop so that they would all be supplied when the day of emancipation arrived, and the test of the sophomores' keenness was in being able to thwart the plans of their adversaries and prevent the entrance of the canes into the town. Every road leading to the village was strictly guarded by the vigilant sophomores and spies were busy in the adjacent towns who were continually on the lookout for the purchase or purchasers of the canes. The excitement had become keener with the passing of the days until now only two days remained before the great parade when the huge wooden hatchet would be borne at the head of the procession and duly consigned to the flames on the lower campus in the presence of the entire student body. Will and Foster had shared in the growing interest and both knew just where the coveted canes had been purchased by the duly authorized committee and hidden till the time should arrive when they were to be brought stealthily into the village. Their excitement became keener still when on the evening of the day to which reference has been made Peter John Schenck burst into Will's room with a report that instantly aroused his two friends. CHAPTER XXIII THE RUSH TO COVENTRY CENTER "The sophs have found out where the canes are," Peter John almost shouted. "They have? How do you know?" demanded Will. "I was in my bedroom and I heard them talking with Mott in our study room." "Who?" "Tucker, Spencer, and Goodman." "What did they say?" "They said the canes were over in Coventry Center, at the minister's house there." Coventry Center was a little hamlet about seven miles distant from Winthrop, and the excited freshmen had indeed stored a part of their canes in the house of the worthy old minister of the village. They had frankly explained to him what their purpose was and he had laughingly consented to receive the coveted possessions in his home and store them there for the four days that intervened between the time and St. Patrick's day. And the freshmen had been confident that their hiding-place would not readily be discovered. No one would suspect that the parsonage would be selected or the worthy minister would act as a guard. To make assurance doubly certain, however, only half of the canes had been entrusted to the minister, and even those were divided--a bundle containing a dozen being placed in the woodshed and the remaining being stored beneath the hay in the little loft of the barn. The other half of the class canes had been taken to a farmhouse a mile distant from the parsonage and there concealed in an unused well, the mouth of which was filled with rubbish and the _débris_ of a shed that had been blown down by a severe windstorm that had occurred a few weeks before this time. As the utmost care had been observed by the committee having in charge the purchase of the canes, and they had stealthily in a stormy night taken their precious burdens to the two places of concealment they had been confident, over-confident now it appeared, that their actions had not been discovered. Will and Foster had both served on the committee that had purchased and hidden the canes, and when Peter John brought his unwelcome tidings that the rival class was aware of the place where the canes had been stored, it was difficult for them to determine whether anger or chagrin was uppermost in their feelings. At all events they both were greatly excited, and Will said as he hastily rose from his chair: "How did they find it out?" "I don't know. I didn't hear them say," replied Peter John. "Did they find out that you were there?" "No, they left before I came out of my room. The door was partly open and I didn't dare stir hand or foot." "Lucky for you, Peter John." "Yes. I know it." "What are they going to do?" inquired Foster, who up to this time had been silent. "They've gone over to get the canes." "Gone!" exclaimed Will aghast. "Yes. That's what Goodman said." "How many went, do you know, Peter John?" demanded Foster. "He said three." "Do you know who they were?" "No." "When did they start?" "Goodman said they went about an hour ago." "Which road?" "I don't know." "Why didn't Mott go?" "I don't think he knew anything about it before these fellows came and told him." "What did he do after they told him?" "He slapped his legs and laughed." "You say he went away with those fellows that told him about it?" "Yes." "Did they say anything about any other canes--" began Will. But he was sharply interrupted by Foster and abruptly ceased. "I didn't know there were any others," said Peter John. "Are there? Where are they?" "We haven't any time to waste here," said Foster, hastily donning his sweater and putting a cap on his head. "Peter John, you go back to your room, and if you hear of anything more go straight to Bishop with the word." "I'd rather go with you fellows." "Not this trip. You'll have to be on the lookout here. Somebody must do it and you're the one, Peter John. Come on, Will," he added, calling to his room-mate and instantly departed from the room. Ignoring Peter John, Will hastily followed Foster, and together the two freshmen ran to Hawley's room. There a hurried consultation was held, the result of which was that it was decided that Foster and Dana should secure a car and drive swiftly to Coventry Center by one road, two other classmates were to drive to the same destination by another road, while Will and Hawley were to go on foot across the country and strive to arrive at the minister's house by the time the others had done so. In this way it was believed that every avenue of approach or retreat would be covered, and that even if the sophomores had been first on the scene they would still be unable to get away with their booty before they would be discovered, and at least followed. In a brief time Will and Hawley were on their way across the country, leaving their more fortunate comrades, who were to ride, to follow as soon as their conveyances could be secured. The ground was still frozen, and in places there were patches of snow and ice, although the heavy snowfall of the winter for the most part was gone. Their way led through woods and over plowed fields, but the steady run or "trot" was maintained uphill and down, and within an hour and a half from the time they had departed from Winthrop they arrived at the confines of the little hamlet of Coventry Center. "See or hear anything, Will?" inquired Hawley, as the two freshmen stopped and listened intently as they peered all about them. "Not a thing," whispered Will in response. The lights in the little homes were already out, for the people of Coventry Center were not believers in keeping untimely hours, and the twinkling lights of the little village for the most part disappeared before ten o'clock arrived. It was about that hour when Will Phelps and Hawley stopped at the end of the one straggling street to try to discover if there were any signs of the presence of their enemies or classmates. "Shall we wait or put straight for the minister's house?" inquired Hawley. "Go there," replied Will. "Look out! Don't let any one see you," said Hawley in a low voice as they stealthily began to make their way up the street. Occasionally they stopped to make sure that they were not being followed or to strive to discover if their own friends were near. They had passed the little white wooden church building and were approaching the parsonage when both stopped abruptly. "What's that?" demanded Hawley in a whisper. "You know as much about it as I do. Come on and we'll find out." The sound of voices could be heard from the rear of the house and from the tones it was evident that the speakers were somewhat excited. Furthermore Will was positive that he recognized the voices of two and they were members of the sophomore class at Winthrop. "How many are there?" whispered Hawley. "Sounds as if there were six or eight. Hark! There's the minister talking." "What's he saying?" "I can't make out. He's excited over something, though." "Come on," whispered Hawley, "let's creep up around the corner of the barn. We can see and hear too there, and if we're careful they won't suspect us." "It will be all day with us if they do," whispered Will in response. Slowly and cautiously the two freshmen crept along the side of the street and diagonally across the vacant field till they had gained the desired corner of the barn. Then crouching low they peered forth at the sight which could be seen in the dim light. On the highest step of the rear piazza of his house stood Mr. Whitaker, the minister of Coventry Center. He was a man at least sixty-five years of age, genial and shrewd, the friend of every one in the region. On the ground before him now five men could be seen and neither Will nor Hawley had any difficulty in recognizing all five as sophomores. Will pinched Hawley's arm in his excitement, but did not speak, though it almost seemed to him that the thumpings of his heart must betray his presence to the men who were before him. Mr. Whitaker was speaking and instantly Will's attention was centered upon what was being said. "No, young gentlemen, I am not willing that you should enter my house." "But, Mr. Whitaker," said one in reply whom Will took to be a sophomore who roomed near him in Perry Hall, "we don't want to come into the house--just into the woodshed, that's all." "I cannot consent even to that." "We'll not harm anything." "You certainly will not if you do not enter." "We've got to come in, Mr. Whitaker!" said the speaker a little more boldly. "And I forbid it." An interval in the conversation then followed during which Will could see that the sophomores were conferring. They had withdrawn to a place about midway between the house and the barn and consequently were nearer the hiding-place of the two freshmen than before, but both were compelled to draw back for fear of being discovered and consequently were unable to hear what was said. In a brief time the sophomores returned to the piazza where the minister was still standing. "Mr. Whitaker," began the leader. "Yes, sir. At your service," responded the minister pleasantly. "Why do you object to our coming in? You know we won't do any harm to the place. You know what we've come for." "Perhaps that's the very reason why I object." "You don't have to stay here. We'll give you our word we won't harm anything. All we want is to get those freshmen canes. You're not responsible for them and you certainly don't mean to say that you would stand up for that class. Why it's the worst that ever entered Winthrop." "I have frequently heard of the class," said the minister laughing genially as he spoke. "I have a grandson who chances to be a member of it." "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to say that every fellow in it was a poor stick. All I meant was that as a class it's the most conceited one that was ever seen. That's what every one says." "Doubtless," remarked Mr. Whitaker dryly. "You don't care anything about the squabbles of the classes. It's nothing to you anyway, Mr. Whitaker," pleaded the sophomore. "What led you to suspect that the canes might be here?" "It wouldn't be fair to tell that," laughed the sophomore. "We know they're here all right, and that's enough." "Would you believe me if I were to say to you that they are not here?" "Yes, sir, I suppose we should," replied the sophomore dubiously, "but you won't say it." "Why not, since they are not here?" "What?" demanded the entire party almost together. "That is what I said. The canes are not in my house." "In the barn, then?" said the leader suspiciously. "No, they are not in the barn, either. There is not a cane on my place except the one I occasionally use myself. If you think that will do--" "But, Mr. Whitaker, the man was seen when he brought the canes here." "Quite likely." "And yet you say they are not here?" "That is what I said. And what I still say." "I don't understand--" "I do not say they _were_ not here. All I say is that they _are_ not here." "They're gone? They've been taken away? Is that what you mean?" demanded the astonished sophomore. "Precisely." "Let's go in and search anyway," said one of the party now thoroughly angry. "I advise you not to attempt that," said the minister quietly. "Why not?" said the sophomore impudently. "Because one of my neighbors is a deputy sheriff and housebreaking is a somewhat serious offense." For a moment the assembly was nonplussed, but their uncertainty was speedily relieved, or at least interrupted, by an occurrence that instantly caused them all to turn and flee from the place at their utmost speed. CHAPTER XXIV THE MYSTERY OF THE CANES At the very moment when the consternation of the sophomores was keenest the sound of a sleigh turning into the yard in which they were standing caused them all to look quickly toward the gateway. The ground was bare in places, and the runners of the sleigh, as the iron bands passed over the gravel, emitted shrieks and groans as if they were striving to warn the sophomores of the impending peril. Seated in the sleigh were three men whom the assembly speedily recognized as members of the freshman class, and their own fears for a moment doubtless caused the sophomores to magnify the numbers as well as the danger. "Look out, fellows! Here they come!" said one in a low voice whom Will and Hawley recognized. It was Mott, who was again the spokesman and leader of the little band. "Let's get out of this," responded one whose voice Will could not determine, and as if a sudden panic had seized upon them the young men turned and began to run swiftly. "Hold on! Hold on, fellows!" called Mott savagely, although his voice was not loud. "Hold on! What are you running for? There are only three of them, and we're good for any three freshmen in Winthrop. Don't run. Come on back!" Mott's appeal served to restore a measure of confidence among his companions, and instantly the flight was abandoned and all turned slowly back toward the yard. Neither Will nor Hawley had yet moved from his hiding-place, though they were leaning farther out from the corner of the barn in their eagerness to discover what was occurring in the yard before them. They could see that the driver in the sleigh was Foster, and he had leaped out and was now as calmly tying his horse and fastening the blanket upon it as if never a thought of his rival class had entered his mind. Beside him two young men were standing, but in the dim light it was impossible to determine just who they were. The returning sophomores were now near the new arrivals, and the genial old minister could also be seen, still standing on the piazza and evidently not uninterested in the sight and presence of the young men before him. "What are you doing here, Bennett?" demanded Mott of Foster. "Oh, we're out for a sleigh ride," responded Foster glibly, "and we just stopped here to see the fun. What are you doing here?" "Oh, we stopped to see the fun too," responded Mott gruffly. "It's worth going miles to see freshmen who don't know any more than to go sleigh-riding on bare ground. Had a good time, freshman?" "Yes. Have you?" "We're all right. If you've come for the canes you're too late." "Have you just found that out?" replied Foster with a loud laugh. It was true that he was not aware that the canes had been taken away, but he was not minded to betray his surprise to the members of the rival class. There was a brief interval of silence which was broken by the old minister, who said, "I shall be very glad, young gentlemen, to have you come into the house. The night air is cold and you must be thoroughly chilled. A little while ago I may have appeared somewhat lacking in hospitality," he added, turning to Mott as he spoke; "but now I can assure you I shall be very glad indeed to receive you." "Thank you," responded Foster. "We shall be glad to come in if the others will come too." "We can't very well to-night," said Mott glumly. "We've got to go--" Suddenly there broke in a wild yell upon the silence of the night. The sound was made by only two men, but these two were possessed of a lung power that was well-nigh phenomenal. Hawley who with his companion had been watching the events that were occurring before them had suddenly turned to Will and whispered, "Let's go in and take a hand! Yell, Phelps! Make them hear you clear over in Winthrop!" "Hi-i-i-i!" the two lusty freshmen had shouted together as they leaped forward, and the prolonged yell was repeated when all the assembly had instantly turned and for a moment in sheer astonishment were gazing at the startling approach of men from behind the barn. "Come on, fellows!" shouted Hawley again. "Come on! We'll get every one of them! Come on! Come on!" To the startled sophomores it seemed as if myriads of their foes were rushing upon them, and after a momentary confusion every one had started swiftly across the narrow field that intervened between the yard and the road that approached Coventry Center from another direction. "Come on, Foster! Come on all you fellows!" shouted Hawley. "Come on! We'll get every soph that's here and will put 'em where they won't do any harm till long after St. Patrick's Day." Obediently every freshman started to follow Hawley, and across the rough, plowed field they ran swiftly toward the road where the sophomores had already disappeared from sight behind the bushes that were thick and high by the roadside. When once they had gained the road they could see the forms of two men speeding away in the distance, and with a renewed shout the freshmen started in swift pursuit. On up the long hill they sped until at last they stood together on the summit. Not a sight of their rivals was to be seen, and blankly the freshmen stood and stared about them till Hawley said: "No use, fellows. They've got away and we might as well go back. Foster," he added, "did you know the canes were gone?" "Gone? Gone where?" replied Foster blankly. "I haven't the slightest idea. All I know is that Mr. Whitaker told Mott that the canes _had_ been in his house but they had been taken away." "Who took them?" "I haven't the slightest idea." "You don't suppose the sophs got them, do you?" said Foster hastily. "I hadn't thought of that. It never entered my mind that anybody but our own fellows had come for them." "I don't believe it was anybody else that got them," said Will. "You ought to have heard Mr. Whitaker talk to Mott and the other sophs. They were just determined to go into his house, but the old man would not let them. No, you can rest easy about it, Mr. Whitaker never let the canes go out of his house without knowing who had come for them. No, sir. Not much." Somewhat comforted by Will's positiveness, the boys began to retrace their way down the long road, and after a moment Hawley said, "We'll find out all about it anyway, for Mr. Whitaker will tell us. He's all on our side. That's what comes of having his grandson in our class. Say, fellows, you just ought to have heard Mott rake over our class. He had the nerve to stand there and tell Mr. Whitaker that we were the worst lot that had ever entered Winthrop." "I wish we had caught him!" said Foster warmly. "We would have made him come up in his estimate of the freshmen." "Oh, he was just talking to hear himself," said Will Phelps lightly. "He knows who we are all right enough, and he isn't going to forget us right away either. But I wish we had caught him." "Here we are, fellows," said Hawley, as the five young men clambered over the fence and once more were in Mr. Whitaker's yard. "Let's go in and ask him about it now." "All right," responded Foster as they started toward the door. "Hold on a minute. Let me take a look at my horse first. I'll be with you in a minute. Gre-a-at--" he suddenly began. "The horse is gone!" "What!" exclaimed Will in astonishment. No heed was given his expression, however, as all five ran quickly to the post to which the horse had been tied. But the horse and sleigh were gone, and not a trace remained to show in which direction they had departed. "Sure you fastened him all right?" inquired Hawley anxiously. "I know I did," replied Foster. "If you did then he couldn't have got loose. I wonder if Mott and the sophs could have done it? Come on! We'll go in and tell Mr. Whitaker and he may be able to give us a point or two. There's a light in the kitchen, and we'll probably find him there. Come on, fellows!" Hastily the boys ran to the kitchen door, and in response to their knock Mr. Whitaker himself opened the door and stood before them. "Mr. Whitaker," began Foster, "do you know who took our horse and sleigh?" "Why! Why, I supposed that you did. Two young men came into the yard not more than three minutes ago and took them away." "They did? Then it _was_ the sophs," said Foster turning to his comrades. "We'll never hear the last of it. We can't get a horse here, can we, Mr. Whitaker?" he inquired eagerly. "I fear not. I have none of my own, and there are not many to be had here anyway." "Did they start toward Winthrop?" "I think so. They turned toward the lower road." "Let's get after them," suggested Foster. "A long way after them," said Will grimly. "We never could catch up with them." "Mr. Whitaker," said Hawley, "how long ago were the canes taken away from here?" The good man hesitated, and the freshman without waiting for him to speak began again. "We belong to the same class as your grandson. We're freshmen and we don't want the sophs to get those canes." "I regret exceedingly that I had anything to do with it, but my grandson over-persuaded me and so I consented. I should say that it was about an hour ago when they came for the canes." "Who came?" "There were two young gentlemen, and they brought me a note which informed me that I was to let them take the canes away." "A note?" demanded Hawley. "What did it say? Who signed it?" "It was signed by Hawley--Albert Hawley, if I recollect aright, and also by my grandson." "My name is Hawley and somebody forged it. The sophs have the canes and I'm afraid it's too late--" "Too late nothing, Hawley!" said Will impulsively. "What kind of a rig, I mean wagon or sleigh or whatever it was, did they have?" he inquired of the minister. "It was a box wagon, a farm wagon, and they had a farmer to drive for them." "Did you know the man?" demanded Will. "No. I cannot say that I did. He was a stranger to me. But the note--" "Probably some soph disguised as a farmer. Did he have any other load in the wagon box?" "Yes. I noticed some bags of meal." "Good. And you say they took the lower road?" "Yes. I recollect that distinctly." "Isn't there a short cut? Can't we cut across lots and head them off? They would have to go slow, and it might be that we could head them somewhere and get those canes away from them." "Yes," replied Mr. Whitaker. "I don't know that I am doing right to tell you, but inasmuch as the canes were secured by a forgery I shall certainly tell you all I know of the matter. If you go down to that little valley," and as he spoke he pointed in a direction in the rear of the barn, "you will find a pathway that leads beside the brook almost in a straight line to what we call the ford. It saves between three and four miles to Winthrop, and whenever I walk I take the path. I--" "Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Whitaker! Come on! We'll try it anyway, fellows. We've nothing to lose and everything to gain. Good night, Mr. Whitaker! Thank you for what you've told us," called Will Phelps, as he quickly turned and began to run. Obediently the boys all followed Will as he ran swiftly across the field, and in a brief time they discovered the pathway to which the old minister had referred. There was no conversation now, for the fear in every heart was that they would arrive at the ford too late to avail. Besides, there was the likelihood that the canes would be disposed of before the wagon had gone very far from Mr. Whitaker's house. A multitude of fears possessed them, but they ran swiftly along the path where Will Phelps, eager and strong was leading the way. Not once did they stop for rest. The night air was chilling, and the clouds that swept across the face of the sky did not hide the light of the moon. On and on they sped, steadily maintaining the dogged pace which the leader was setting for them, until at last, well-nigh winded and thoroughly tired by their exertions, they arrived at the place where the pathway joined the road and they knew that Winthrop was not more than three-quarters of a mile away. There they halted, but they had not recovered from the effects of their long run when they perceived a farm wagon, apparently filled with bags, coming down the hill that was near them. CHAPTER XXV ON THE TRAIL As the eager freshmen peered out at the approaching wagon the suppressed excitement threatened to break all bounds. "Let's stop him and get the canes," suggested Hawley in a whisper. "No. What'll be the good of that? It'll be better to follow up the wagon quietly, and then if we can find out where they put the canes, maybe a little later we can get them away without the sophs knowing anything about it. Don't you see we'll be making it all the worse for them." "We don't _know_ that the canes are in the wagon," suggested Foster. "Of course we don't, and it's all the same whether we try to find out now or follow it up and find out a little later." "Phelps is right about it," said Hawley. "If the canes shouldn't be found in the wagon, we would be making fools of ourselves if we stopped it, but if we let it go on and follow it up we'll be all the better." Meanwhile the wagon itself had passed the place where the boys were concealed, and groaning and creaking had begun the ascent of the opposite hill. Only the driver was to be seen, and his appearance and actions were unmistakable. He was a farmer and well advanced in years, and if he was aware of the contest that was being waged between the rival classes in Winthrop it was evident that he had no share in the excitement. "How'll we do it, fellows?" inquired Hawley anxiously. "He'll get away before we get our eyes open, if we don't look out." "Let's follow him," said Will Phelps quickly. "We mustn't go in a bunch, but string out. But we mustn't be so far apart that we can't hear if one of us calls or whistles." "Come on, then," said Foster. "You go ahead, Will, and we'll come along. You're a runner, and if the old fellow begins to start up his horses you can follow him better than any of us can. But we'll have to do our best." Quickly the suggestion was adopted, and Will ran swiftly along the road until he discovered the wagon not far in advance of him. It was moving at the same monotonous pace as when it had passed the hiding place of the boys. Will Phelps, when he came within a hundred yards of the wagon he was following, decreased his own speed and endeavored to keep close to the fences by the roadside, so that he would not be seen by the driver if he should chance to look behind him. They were soon within sight of Winthrop, and the shadowy towers of the college buildings could be discerned in the distance. It was long past midnight, and the only lights that could be seen were those of the twinkling stars and the occasional flash of the moonlight when the broken clouds that were moving across the face of the sky parted sufficiently for the face of the moon to be seen. Suddenly Will was aware that the wagon had stopped at a corner where a road or street that led to the lower part of the village joined the road that led past the college buildings. He darted behind a huge tree that grew close to the roadside, and eagerly peered forth to discover what the next move of the farmer would be. He could see that some one approached the wagon, and after a brief delay climbed up on the seat beside the driver and then the team started on once more. Will was keenly excited by this time, and his suspicions were confirmed that the canes were indeed in the wagon before him. He was eager to follow swiftly, but he quickly decided that it would be wiser to wait until Hawley came up to the place where he himself was waiting and explain to him the change in the direction of the party they were following. The huge form of Hawley soon appeared, and impatiently Will ran out into the road to meet him. "They've turned in here," he said excitedly, "and you must stop here and tell the fellows. I'll run on ahead and find out where the wagon goes." Quickly Will darted across the fields and soon came into the lower road. The wagon could be seen not far in advance of him, and was still moving at a slow pace from which it had not varied since it first had been seen. It was evident that the sophs were either indifferent or absolutely confident, Will could not determine which. For a moment his heart misgave him. What a plight he would be in if it should appear that he and his classmates had been following a purposely designed trick of their rivals. The thought was by no means reassuring, but there was no time afforded for reflection, for the wagon he was following even then turned into a lane that led to a farmhouse and barns that were not far from the road. The climax had almost been reached and it would be soon known what the issue was to be. Will waited now for his classmates to join him. The wagon could not escape, for the lane came to an abrupt end in the yard, and if it should turn back it could not pass the place where he was waiting without being seen. It was not long before Hawley joined him, and, as he approached, Will said: "They've gone down this lane. Somebody was waiting here and has gone with the driver. There may be a good many others down there by the barn for all that we know. What do you think we'd better do?" "There's a haystack out there by the barn," said Hawley, pointing to a stack of some kind that could be seen in the rear of the nearest barn. "If you could only get behind that you could see what was going on." "I can, all right enough. But where will you fellows be? I may need your help if I get into trouble." "I don't know. We won't be far away. Whistle if you want us and we'll make a break for you. Don't let them see you," he added warningly, as without waiting to reply, Will started at once, running swiftly along the ground near the crooked rail fence that extended the entire distance between the main road and the farm buildings. He was convinced that he had not been seen when at last he gained the shelter of the haystack, and, crouching within its shadows, he peered forth at the wagon and the group of four men that were standing near it. He was positive that one was Mott, but his greatest surprise came when he perceived a horse and sleigh in the barnyard which he instantly recognized as the very ones with which Foster and his two classmates had gone to Coventry Center. He reached forward and strove to hear what was being said, for the little group were conversing eagerly but in tones so low that Will was unable to hear a word. He could see what was done, however, for after a brief delay the four men turned to the wagon, several sacks were lifted from their places in the load, and then two other sacks were taken from the wagon and carried by Mott and another man into the barn. Several minutes elapsed before Mott came forth again, and when he did he was alone. The sophomore stopped for a moment with the men, handed some money to the farmer, and then he and the fourth man, whom Will fancied he recognized as another sophomore, climbed into the sleigh and at once started back up the lane, the runners of the sleigh screeching as they passed over the bare places as if they were doing their utmost to alarm the neighborhood and to protest against what was being done. The farmer too, soon followed and passed up the lane, but his departure was of slight interest to Will, who was puzzling himself about the man who had entered the barn with Mott and had failed to reappear. To Will's mind there was but one explanation, and he was eager to confer with his own classmates, but he dared not leave his hiding-place for fear that the man in the barn might come forth and depart without being seen. For a half-hour he waited but the stillness of the night was unbroken. He was becoming chilled and he dared not remain longer where he was. At last he decided to return to the place where he had left his own classmates and report to them what he had seen. Hastily withdrawing from his shelter he ran swiftly across the fields until he came to the corner, and then whistling softly was rejoiced when he perceived his friends rise from the ground in an angle of the crooked fence and advance to meet him. "Is that you, Will?" said Foster in a low voice. "We didn't know what had become of you. What's up? What's wrong?" Will hastily described what he had seen and then said, "I'm dead sure, fellows, that that soph has been left in the barn to watch those canes." "Why didn't you run away with the horse and sleigh?" inquired Hawley. "I did think of trying it. But I made up my mind that even if I should succeed in doing it, it would give the whole thing away. They'd know that we'd found out where they had hidden our canes and there wouldn't be much use in our trying to get them again. Now we know where they are and the sophs don't even know that we know." "You mean you think they don't know that we know," suggested Foster. "I know it!" asserted Will positively. "Now what shall we do?" "Put straight back to the barn, tie up the soph and take the canes away with us," said Hawley promptly. "I've thought of that," replied Will. "But do you think that's the best plan? If we take the canes away we may lose them, for St. Patrick's Day isn't till day after to-morrow, you know. If this soph, I don't know who he is, has been left as guard he'll be relieved, and if they find he's gone and the canes too, why it'll be all the harder for us." "What do you suggest, Phelps?" inquired Hawley. "How will this do? Some one of us can creep back there into the barn and keep watch the same as the soph is doing. He can be relieved in the morning and then some one else can take his place. If anything happens in the barn he'll be pretty likely to know it, and if anything doesn't happen then we can get up a good-sized crowd and go down there to-morrow night and get the canes. We can distribute them among our fellows and then the next morning every fellow in the class can march into chapel with his cane." "Good! Good! That's the idea!" said Hawley warmly. "Who'll go down in the barn and be guard for the night?" "Who's got the most cuts to spare?" inquired Will. "I have," said Foster promptly. "I have taken but four." "Then I should say you were the one to stand guard to-morrow," said Will. "I'll go to-night myself," he added. "Come down just before it's light in the morning, and come to the door in the rear of the barn. Rap three times softly, and then if that doesn't work, whistle, but not too loud." There was some demurring on the part of his classmates, each of whom demanded for himself the privilege of taking the first watch, but Will insisted, and then somewhat reluctantly he was left to make his way back to the barn and all the others soon returned to the dormitories. When Will Phelps arrived at the rear door of the barn he discovered that it was locked on the inside and he was unable to gain an entrance there. He was fearful that to enter by the front door would be but to proclaim his presence, but at last he perceived that there was an entrance by a small door that was partly open above the roof of the little lean-to on the side of the barn. Carefully he climbed up on the roof and cautiously made his way to the door. He peered within but it was dark and at first he was unable to discern anything. He waited until his eyes became somewhat accustomed to the dim light and then saw that there was a bare floor before him and that adjoining it was the haymow. With his utmost care he stepped inside, and his fears increased when he discovered that the loose flooring creaked and groaned beneath his feet. With every step he halted and listened intently. It seemed to the excited freshman that he never had heard such sounds as those boards emitted that night. So slowly and cautiously did he proceed that it seemed to him that hours must have elapsed before he succeeded in gaining the border of the low mow. Even then he halted and listened intently, but not a sound broke in upon the oppressive stillness that pervaded the barn. He next carefully and cautiously stepped over into the mow. A faint glimmer of light came from one corner and there he concluded the ladder must be which led to the floor below. If he could gain a place near that, he assured himself he would be able to know if anything occurred below, and at the same time he himself would be secure from observation. Once more he slowly and with the utmost care began to creep forward, and at last he stretched himself at full length upon the hay and peered down through the opening. It was too dark to permit him to see much and not a sound could be heard. Satisfied that he had been successful he resigned himself to his watch. The long hours dragged on until at last Will found it almost impossible to keep himself awake. Desperately he strove to keep his eyes open, but his feeling of drowsiness increased until at last it overpowered him and the weary freshman was fast asleep. He was rudely awakened by sounds that came from the room below. He sat quickly erect, and though the light was clearer now he at first could not collect his thoughts sufficiently to show him where he was. Quickly, however, as the sounds from below became louder, it all came back to him, and he ran to the ladder and peered through the opening. What he saw evidently startled him, for instantly he threw himself upon the ladder and almost leaped to the floor below. CHAPTER XXVI ST. PATRICK'S DAY The door in the rear of the barn was open and on the floor before it stood Foster and Mott facing each other. Whether or not the sophomore who had been left as a guard was still in the barn Will could not determine, but, without waiting to find out, he almost leaped to the floor below, and before Mott could recover from his surprise he was helpless in the hands of his enemies. It was but the work of a moment securely to bind his hands and feet, and the leading spirit of the sophomore class was soon a helpless captive. Excited though the boys were, the entire adventure was completed in a very brief time, and Will and Foster were both laughing when they gazed at their helpless prisoner. Even Mott smiled as he said ruefully: "You've scored, freshmen. What are you going to do with me?" "Nothing," said Will quickly. Mott drew down the corners of his mouth and then a sudden light appeared in his eyes that caused Will to look keenly at him for a moment. "Come on, Foster," he said simply; "let's put this fellow where he won't do any more harm, at least until after St. Patrick's Day." "Where'll we put him?" inquired Foster. Will turned and looked about him and perceived a small harness room on the ground floor near him, and upon his suggestion the helpless sophomore was placed within it for safe keeping. "Now then, Foster," said Will when he had closed the door of the room, "we've just got to find the place where these canes are hidden. Mott has come here to take the place of the guard that was here last night and nobody knows how long it'll be before some one else comes. Come on, let's get about it." At once the two freshmen began their search. Beginning near the entrance, they examined every bin and peered into every possible place of concealment. Even in the mangers before which the horses were tied they peered and searched, but when they had carefully examined the entire floor they had not been able to discover the place where the coveted canes had been concealed. "What are we to do, Will?" demanded Foster at last. "Let's ask Mott." "He'll never let on." "Try it, anyway." The two boys returned to the harness room and Will at once addressed their prisoner. "Mott," he said, "where are those canes?" The sophomore laughed loudly as he replied, "You certainly are the two most innocent freshmen I have ever struck yet. Perhaps you'd like to have me help you carry them back to the college." "We'll let you go if you'll tell us where they are." "Thanks muchly," replied Mott dryly. "Come on, Will," said Foster. "We can find them ourselves. No use in wasting time here with this fellow. We'll get them ourselves." "You're certain they're here?" laughed Mott. Neither responded to his question, but both left the room and resumed their search. "You don't suppose they have really got those canes somewhere else, do you, Foster? They might be just trying to put us on the wrong track here, you know?" inquired Will. "It's possible, but I don't believe it," said Foster positively. "If that was their game Mott wouldn't be here." "Probably not," assented Will. "Let's begin again. We've no time to waste." The freshmen now began to search in the loft of the barn. They seized the pitchforks that were in the mow, and, thrusting the tines into the hay, they continued their search, working with desperate determination and throwing the hay about them until the entire mow presented the appearance of having been almost completely overturned. But not a trace of the missing canes could they discover. At last, satisfied that their efforts were vain, they ceased and for a moment stared blankly at each other. "No use," said Will despondently. "They've made game of us this time, Foster, just as sure as you live." "We won't give up yet, Will. Of course if the canes are here they were not put where we'd be likely to stumble over them. We've just got to think it out--" Foster stopped abruptly as a voice was heard calling up from below. "I must bid you an affectionate and tearful farewell, freshmen. Keep on with your good work and remember that perseverance conquers everything. Even the best of friends must part--" Foster and Will waited to hear no more, but both plunged down the ladder, but when they had gained the floor below it was to behold Mott speeding up the lane as if he was "sprinting" for life itself. For a moment the surprise and consternation of the two freshmen were so complete that both were speechless. "Why didn't you take after him, Will?" said Foster, who was the first to break in upon the awkward silence. "What are you standing here for?" "No use, Foster," replied Will, shaking his head. "He's got too good a start. I don't see how he ever got loose." "Well, he is loose and that's all there is about it. What'll we do next?" "Find those canes. They're here, I know they are." "Just tell me where they are, will you?" "They won't come to us, that's certain! We've got to look them up. And if we don't find them pretty soon too it'll be the worse for us." Will turned as he spoke and once more opened the lid of a piano box that was standing on the floor near them. The box apparently was filled with oats and they had inspected it before, but as it had not presented any appearance of containing the object of their search they had passed it by and gone on to the loft above. This time, however, Will thrust his arm deep down into the oats and in a moment he almost shouted. "Here's something, Foster! Help me clear away these oats. There's something down in there!" Foster seized the scoop that was near the improvised oat bin and with feverish haste threw the oats up on one side and then said exultantly, "Here's something! Here they are!" Leaning over the box, he drew forth a bundle of canes carefully tied together and partly hidden from sight beneath the oats. "Are they all there?" demanded Will in a hoarse whisper. He hastily inspected the bundle and then exclaimed, "Here's only a part of them, Foster!" "Where some are it's likely there are more," and Will at once resumed his search. His efforts were speedily rewarded by the discovery of another bundle similar to the one that had already been found, and, dropping his scoop, he hastily began to count the canes. "Here they are!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Every last one of them is here!" "Then the sophs must have been to both places where we had them." "Yes, but it's all the better for us. We'll now be--" Foster stopped abruptly as the farmer that owned the buildings appeared in the doorway and for a moment stared blankly at them. "Good morning," said Will cheerfully. "We're here after these canes." "So I see," replied the farmer. "The freshmans didn't find ye out, then?" "It's all right," responded Will glibly. "How much are we to pay you?" "They paid me last night. I guess 'twas 'beout right. I don't want nothin' more." "We've tumbled your hay over more than we thought," said Will, as he thrust a bill into the man's hand. "I don't know 'beout it," drawled the farmer, nevertheless thrusting the money into his pocket. "Putty good pay, but I don't know but I might's well take it." "Of course you're to take it!" said Will eagerly. "All we ask of you now is not to tell anybody--anybody," he added with special emphasis, "that we've taken the canes away. Don't tell any one of it or the whole game will be spoiled." "I'll be as mum as a hitchin' post." Without waiting for any further words the two boys seized the bundles and at once departed from the barn. When they came out into the lane they looked carefully about them in every direction, but no one could be seen and they soon came out into the open road. "What are we going to do with them now?" inquired Foster, as they halted for a moment. "We can't take them back to our rooms," said Will. "No! No! That would never do." "I'll tell you," said Will quickly. "Let's take them down to that old bridge yonder," pointing as he spoke toward a rude bridge that spanned the stream not far away. "All right. Come along, then," responded Foster. Instantly the two boys began to run and in a brief time arrived at the rude structure, and after a hasty inspection they placed the two bundles on the piers beneath the bridge and then covered them with the driftwood that had been cast up on the bank of the stream when its waters had been swelled by the passing storms. When their work was at last completed they departed for Winthrop and arrived just as the final strokes of the bell were given that assembled the students in the chapel. They hastily passed in with the throng of students and were in their seats in time to receive credit for attendance. As they passed out from the chapel when the service was ended they came face to face with Mott and a group of sophomores, who evidently were waiting for their appearance; but as neither Foster nor Will betrayed any emotion by the expression upon their faces it was impossible for the sophomores to perceive whether or not the canes had been discovered. There was no question about their opinions, however, when later in the day it was apparent that the sophomore class was possessed of a feeling of intense excitement. Parties were sent forth in various directions, and there was the keenest interest manifest in the entire college. Will and Foster, however, were too wise to relate their experiences to any except to the three or four leaders of their class; and when night fell, by a circuitous route, and then only after a half-dozen parties had been sent out in other directions to mislead any of their rivals who might be watching their movements, they proceeded to the bridge, secured the canes, and bringing them safely back to the college under the protecting shelter of the darkness, distributed them among the members of the class. Great was the elation of the freshmen when on the following morning they formed in a body near the gymnasium just before the hour of morning prayers in the chapel and then marched to the service every one carrying in his hands one of the coveted sticks. The discomfited sophomores endured in silence the gibes of the students, and the exultant freshmen received the applause that greeted their success with an air that it is to be feared only served to increase the chagrin of their rivals. And Will Phelps and Foster were at once, and by a common though unspoken assent, awarded a place among the leaders of their class for their success. Of the parade that took place that day Will Phelps did not tire of talking for many a week. The assembled crowd of students, townspeople, and visitors, the long line of freshmen in the parade and their grotesque appearance, the stirring music of a brass band at the head of the line, the march to the lower campus where the huge bonfire was kindled, the weird songs and dancing as in dual lines the two lower classes with joined hands leaped and danced about the blazing fire, and then the final consignment to the flames of the huge wooden hatchet that had been carried in the parade, were all incidents that duly impressed him. And when at last the fires burned low and the final song was sung, and it was declared that the hatchet was buried forever and all feelings of animosity between the lower classmen were at an end, the boys returned to their rooms feeling that a well-earned victory had been won. The escapades were doubtless silly, and in after years brought a smile to the faces of the participants when they were then recalled, but nevertheless they had formed a part of the experiences of college life and had brought with them the development of certain qualities of leadership which in other ways and in later days were to play no small part in the lives of Will Phelps and his room-mate. The coming of springtime in Winthrop was always an occasion of general rejoicing. The hills were once more covered with their garments of green and the valleys were beautiful in their verdure. Among the students at Winthrop there was usually a relaxing of effort then, but Will Phelps, though the effort cost him much, still held himself resolutely to his tasks. He had been learning not merely what to study but also how to study, and in his spring vacation his father had explained to him that this was his supreme purpose and desire. If a man did not learn how to work while he was a student in college it was seldom the case that he learned it afterward. And Will had responded. His Greek was still distasteful to him, but he was doing somewhat better and was more content. The crowning ambition in Will's heart as we know was to secure a place on the college track team. And he had been working quietly yet persistently under the guidance of Wagner for the desired end. At last, early in May, came the trial meets of the college when the selections for the team were to be made, and when Will donned his running suit and went down to the track to all appearances he was calmer than his room-mate. But in his heart there was a feeling such as he had never known before. CHAPTER XXVII CONCLUSION It was a noisy crowd of students that assembled at the Winthrop athletic field on that day early in May when the trials for the track team were to be held. Keen as was the interest in baseball the interest in the track team was even keener, for hope was high among the students that a championship team would be turned out and the competition among the eight colleges that composed the league was at fever heat. The most formidable rival of Winthrop was Alden, and, as within the past four years each of the two colleges had won the championship twice, the coming contest would decide the possession of the cup which the association had voted should be held in the permanent possession of the college which had won most of the meets within the limits of the five years. Will Phelps was keenly excited although his movements were very deliberate as he walked about the field clad in his running suit, over which he was wearing his bath robe. His desire to secure a place on the team was so strong that he hardly dared face the possibility of a failure. The disappointments of the year would in a measure be atoned for if only he might win the coveted honor. He had carefully followed the instructions of Wagner, the captain of the team, who though, by his physician's orders was not to compete, was nevertheless deeply interested and for some reason had taken an especially strong liking to Will Phelps. Upon his advice Will had retired early the preceding night and had secured a rest that made him now feel that if ever he was to win, the present opportunity was the supreme one. "Don't do your best in the heats, unless you have to," said Wagner as he approached Will on the field and stopped for a moment to chat with him. "Save your strength for the finals." Will smiled but did not reply. In his present state of mind he was wondering if he could run at any pace that was not his best. The events were being run off now and he was striving to become interested in them. Anything that would call his thoughts away from himself and his own contest was to be desired, he thought. Foster had tried and failed to win a place and Peter John Schenck too had not been successful. Was his own chance better than theirs? He could hardly believe that it was, and yet if determination could aid he knew that his lack, if he should be found wanting, would not be due to that cause. At last the supreme moment arrived and the call for the first heat in the hundred yards dash was heard. Will's heart was beating furiously when he cast aside his bath robe and tossed it to Foster who was waiting to receive it. His room-mate smiled encouragingly but was too wise to speak and Will advanced to the line. He perceived that three others were with him in the heat, but Mott, whom he most feared, was not among the number. That was a source of some consolation, and his hope increased that he might at least win a place in the finals. As the pistol was fired, Will darted forward from the line, but in a moment the runners were recalled and Will was penalized a yard for his undue eagerness. Grimly he took his place this time a yard behind the line and when the start was again made he sped down the track as if he was possessed of the speed of the wind. Easily he was the first to touch the tape, but when unmindful of the cheers of his classmates he turned aside to don once more his bath robe, Wagner approached and shaking his head, laughed as he said, "You forgot what I told you, freshman." "What was that?" "Not to run your best in the heat. You want something left for the finals." "I couldn't help it," said Will grimly. "What was the time?" "Ten, two." Nothing more was said as they all turned to watch the runners in the other heats. Mott with apparent ease won his, and Ogden won the third. The final was to be run off between the three winners and Will stretched himself upon the grass to gain such rest as he could obtain before the supreme test arrived. Other events were now run off and a half-hour elapsed before the final heat was called. "You'll get your place on the team anyway, Will," said Foster encouragingly. "I'm not so sure of that." "I am. I heard Wagner say that three would be taken on the team for the sprints, and even if you come in last you'll be sure of a place." "I don't know. I don't want to come in last." "Don't, then," laughed Foster as he reached forth his hand for his room-mate's bath robe. Once more Will stood on the line and this time there would be no "sneaking," he assured himself. Somehow the keenness of his previous excitement was gone now and he was almost as calm as if he had been a spectator and not a participant in the contest. He was none the less resolved to do his utmost and when the pistol at last was fired he leaped from the mark with every nerve and muscle tense. A silence rested over all as the three runners came swiftly up the track. Will could feel rather than see that he was ahead of Ogden, but Mott was still in advance of him, and do what he might he did not seem to be able to cut down that yard by which Mott was leading. Swiftly the racers sped on and soon Will could see that the end of the course had almost been gained. Only fifteen yards remained to be covered, and then by one supreme effort Will called upon all his reserve powers and with what the college paper afterward described as a "magnificent burst of speed," he cut down Mott's lead and a moment later the two runners struck the tape exactly together. A mighty shout arose from the assembled students and Foster and Hawley both of whom were usually so self-contained ran out and threw their arms about the neck of their classmate. The enthusiasm increased when the time was announced as "ten, one." and Wagner came forward his face beaming and his hand outstretched as he said: "You did it, freshman! I knew you could, and I knew you would." Words of praise had never sounded sweeter in Will's ears. He had won a place on the team and that coveted honor at least was his. His interest in the trials was mostly ended now and he returned to the dressing rooms, where he donned his ordinary garb and then rejoined his fellows. Their congratulations were sweet in his ears and the very appearance of the beautiful valley to him seemed to have changed. He had won and the stimulus of success was his. In the month that followed Will found himself excessively busy. He took his meals now with the team at the training table and every day there was work to be done on the track. And it was hard work too. But the demands were almost forgotten in the elation which filled the heart of the young student. His father's warm words of congratulation were prized most of all, but Will felt that he did not require the caution which his father gave him not to permit his success in athletics to interfere with his work for the classroom. Even "Splinter's" demands had lost a part of their unreasonableness, or so it seemed to Will, and even the detested Greek could be mastered under the glow of success that was his. At last the eventful day arrived when the meet between the colleges was to be held. Will had worked so hard and so faithfully that he was not without hopes of winning some points for his college and he was aware how much they were needed and how eager all the student body was that the cup might come to Winthrop. Mott was the only one who had appeared to be at all envious of him, but as Will had heard that the sophomore had been careless in his training and there had been reports that Mott and Peter John had been drinking heavily again, he felt that he could well afford to ignore the slights. And in his heart he knew that he was sincere when he declared to himself that if he could not win he heartily wished that Mott might, for Winthrop would be the gainer in either event. The team had been taken to the city where the meet was to be held, on the day preceding the contest, and that night at the hotel Will endeavored again to follow the advice of Wagner and secure a good sleep. But his excitement and the novelty of his surroundings and thoughts of the impending meet were too keen to be entirely overcome by the young freshman, and on the following morning his heart was somewhat heavy and his fears increased. When at last the hour arrived when the team, in a huge coach, was taken to the field, a measure of calm had returned to him and as he looked out over the great assembly his interest became intense. Students from the various colleges had been assigned sections in the bleachers and streamers and banners with the huge initial letter of the college emblazoned upon them were much in evidence. The colors of the competing colleges were also to be seen among the spectators and with shouts and cheers and songs to be heard on every side Will felt that this was the supreme moment of his life. He stood gazing at the inspiring sight until he felt a touch on his shoulder that caused him quickly to turn about. "Why, pop!" he exclaimed delightedly as he perceived who it was that had touched him. "I didn't have the remotest idea that you were here." "I had to come to see what my boy would do," replied Mr. Phelps quietly. "I'm afraid you won't see much." "I shall see him do his best, and that's worth the trip." "Come on, freshman!" interrupted Mott approaching. "It's time to dress." Will grasped his father's hand for a moment and then hastened to follow the other members of the Winthrop team who were making their way to their quarters. "Alden is going to win all the sprints," said Mott glumly while they were dressing. "If they're the best runners they will," assented Will who despite his eagerness was now in good spirits. "Wagner has figured it out and says if they do win the sprints they'll take the cup." Will made no response though he knew that if Wagner had indeed said that, then the college would look to Mott and to himself to do their best. No praise would be too high if they should succeed, and no blame too severe if they should fail. And his own determination and desire to win for a moment faltered. What could he in his first great contest hope to do? The appearance of the team on the field was greeted by a wild shout from the Winthrop contingent. The team was cheered and every member of it also was cheered by name. The entire scene was certainly inspiring and Will's determination returned more strongly than before. The first event was the four hundred and forty yard dash in which Alden received first and Winthrop second. In the one hundred and twenty yard hurdles the order was reversed, and so the record continued through the two-twenty, the two-twenty hurdles, the eight hundred and eighty yards run. The field events were also being carried out at the same time and with very similar results. Alden was second in the shot put and Winthrop second in the running high jump while neither scored in throwing the hammer nor in the running broad jump. But again Winthrop was first in throwing the discus, but Alden was first in the pole vault; and so the points scored by each of the two rivals remained the same when at last came the trials in the hundred yards dash, which as we know was the event in which Will Phelps and Mott were entered. The color had fled from Will's face and he was hardly conscious of the shouts or presence of the great assembly when he advanced to the line, for he was to run in the first heat. Thirty-two men were entered for the race and there were to be six heats, only the winners in each to qualify for the finals. "You've nobody to fear here," whispered Wagner encouragingly. "Take it easy." "I'll have to come in first if I get in the finals." "Yes, but you can do it all right." Wagner slipped back and the seven young men took their places on the line. When the pistol was fired Will darted forward and held the lead all the way, touching the tape first of all. Wagner again was there to receive him and as Will fell into his arms he turned quickly and said. "What was the time?" "They'll announce it in a minute," replied Wagner compelling his friend to don his robe. When the time was announced as "ten three," Will's heart sank, but Wagner laughed gleefully as he said, "Good! That's the way to do it. You've got some reserve left." Will Phelps was not so confident, but he turned eagerly to watch the other contestants. Mott won his heat in ten two, each of two heats was won by an Alden man in the same time, and the fifth heat was won by a man from a smaller college of whom no one expected much and who was but slightly feared. The mile run, the two mile run, and the half-mile were run off while the sprinters were waiting for their finals and the excitement became intense when it was known that the score of Winthrop and Alden was exactly the same. Everything now depended upon the result of the finals in the hundred yards dash. "Phelps, you _must_ get it!" whispered Wagner whose face was as pale as that of the freshman. Will did not reply and at once took his place beside his four competitors. "On your marks!" called the starter, and the silence that rested over the field became intense. "Get set!" A sigh seemed to rise from the assembly and all were standing. "Go!" The crack of the pistol was heard and instantly the runners were speeding down the track. The day was warm and Will Phelps could feel that his face was as wet as if he had plunged in the river. Never in all his young life had he exerted himself as then. The tread of the running feet on the track seemed almost like that of one man. On and on they sped, no one looking to the right or left. Whether he was winning or not, Will was unable to determine. He knew that all five were "bunched," for he could feel and hear the others near him. The deafening shouts and the shrill calls and cries sounded faint and dim in his ears. He could see the officials standing near the end of the course--an end that seemed far away for all that the runners were so swiftly approaching. Nearer and nearer the runners drew and the shouts increased in violence. Every one in the assembly was standing erect and leaning forward, breathless with interest. Fifteen, ten, then only five yards remained. With one supreme effort Will darted ahead. He felt the tape, and not knowing whether he had won or not he plunged into the outstretched arms of Wagner. For a moment everything was dim about him and there was a sound as of a roaring in his ears. Then above the din he heard the wild shout of the Winthrop boys and he heard Wagner say, "The cup's ours, Phelps! We've got it! We've won it!" "Was I first?" inquired Will simply. "No, second." "I don't see then. Who did win?" "Crafts from Tech was first and you were second and the Alden man third," said Wagner hilariously. "You put us two points ahead of Alden! You've won your 'W' and we've got the cup!" Before Will could respond a body of the Winthrop boys made a rush upon him and lifting him upon their shoulders advanced to the middle of the field followed by the entire body of their fellow-students. Then in fantastic steps and winding column they marched about the field, singing their college songs and uniting in their college yell for the team and for Phelps again and again. The interested spectators stopped and watched the proceedings until at last the team returned to their dressing rooms and the day was done. On the return to Winthrop Will was seated beside his father, and as they drew near the college town Mr. Phelps, who was not to stop, but was at once going home, said: "Well, Will, what of the year? It's done now." "Yes," responded Will simply. "It's not been so bad." "What about the Greek?" "Oh, Splinter's not half-bad either," laughed Will. "I think I'll go down and see him before I come home." "I should. And you're not sorry that you didn't give up to Greek?" "Not a bit." "And you think winning the 'hundred' to-day is worth it all?" "It isn't that. It's the feeling that I haven't given up. Of course I'm glad to get my 'W' and I was mighty sorry not to get my numerals. But this makes up for it. I'm glad I won out for myself and more for the college. I tell you, pop, Winthrop is the best college in the world!" "And you wouldn't like to leave now?" "Leave? Well, I guess not!" "I hear that Peter John is not to come back," said Mr. Phelps soberly. "Why not?" "I can't say. I don't even know that he is not to return. I have heard it, that's all; but I fancy you know more about it than I." Will was silent till the train was near Winthrop. "Well, Will," said his father, breaking in, "I'm to leave you here. Do you want to know what I value most in your year's work?" "What is it?" "That you've learned how to work. When a man learns that, much of the problem of his life is solved. Some men run from hardness, some endure it, and some overcome it." "It hasn't been so hard." Mr. Phelps smiled but all he said was, "Good-bye, Will, we'll look for you soon at home. I think you've made a good investment this year." "In what?" inquired Will in surprise. But his father only smiled and grasped his son's hand for a moment and soon the train pulled out from the little station; but as long as the crowd of students, noisy, boisterous, happy, could be seen as they moved up the street he watched them with shining eyes. Then as he resumed his seat he thoughtfully said to himself, "Yes, Will has learned it. I did not know for a time whether he would or not. But he has and I don't think Splinter, or Mott, or Peter John, or anything, or any one can take it away from him now." And he resumed the reading of his evening paper, while the noisy train sped on bearing him farther and farther from Winthrop, but the Winthrop college boy was nearer to him all the time. THE END BOOKS FOR BOYS THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS SERIES H. IRVING HANCOCK These intensely active young men, known to their thousands of loyal readers as Dick and Co., lead the vanguard in scholarship as well as in athletic activities. A vigorous breezy spirit of outdoor life permeates the entire series. THE HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS VACATION SERIES H. IRVING HANCOCK Outdoor sports are the keynote of these four wonderful volumes. Led again by the adventurous Dick & Co., you will thrill and chuckle as you live their many adventures and pranks with them. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS CANOE CLUB THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER CAMP THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS FISHING TRIP THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS TRAINING HIKE The Camp and Trail Series Red-blooded stories of woods and waters. Running trap-lines or driving a canoe through treacherous waters. The companionship of dog, gun, and guide and the tantalizing smell of food cooking over a campfire mingling its aroma with the pungent odor of fragrant pines. It's all found in Camp and Trail Series. A BOY TRAPPER Castlemon CHUMS IN THE BIG WOODS Allen CANOE MATES IN CANADA Rathborne CAMP MATES IN MICHIGAN Rathborne The Airplane Boys Series By JOHN LUTHER LANGWORTHY An intensely interesting series for boys who feel the call of the clouds. If you would revel in stirring tales of thrilling adventures along the wind-swept skyways then read the Airplane Boys Series. AIRPLANE BOYS AND THE PHANTOM PLANE AIRPLANE BOYS AMONG THE CLOUDS AIRPLANE BOYS ON THE WING AIRPLANE BOYS FLIGHTS AIRPLANE BOYS The Success Series Here are inspiring stories of real boys. Filled with enthusiasm, resourcefulness and an indomitable determination to overcome all difficulties. Boys who start from the bottom, with their eyes firmly fixed on the president's chair, finally achieve success. TWO BOY PUBLISHERS Chapman YOUNG EXPRESS AGENT Chapman A BUSINESS BOY'S PLUCK Chapman DAREWELL CHUMS IN THE CITY Chapman For sale at all Booksellers or sent Postpaid on receipt of 40 cents. 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30961	----	THE RUSHTON BOYS AT RALLY HALL Or Great Days in School and Out by SPENCER DAVENPORT Author of "The Rushton Boys in the Saddle," "The Rushton Boys at Treasure Cove," etc. Whitman Publishing Co. Racine, Wisconsin * * * * * BOOKS FOR BOYS BY SPENCER DAVENPORT THE RUSHTON BOYS SERIES THE RUSHTON BOYS AT RALLY HALL _Or, Great Days in School and Out_ THE RUSHTON BOYS IN THE SADDLE _Or, The Ghost of the Plains_ THE RUSHTON BOYS AT TREASURE COVE _Or, The Missing Chest of Gold_ * * * * * Copyright, 1916 George Sully & Company Printed by Western Printing & Lithographing Co. Racine, Wisconsin Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A RASH IMPULSE 1 II. THE RUNAWAY 8 III. A NARROW ESCAPE 15 IV. FACING THE MUSIC 22 V. UNCLE AARON RAGES 30 VI. TEDDY'S BANISHMENT 38 VII. THE MISSING PAPERS 45 VIII. A FRUITLESS SEARCH 53 IX. CHASING THE TRAMPS 60 X. BUNK GOES CRAZY 68 XI. THE ROBBERY 76 XII. OFF FOR RALLY HALL 85 XIII. ANDY SHANKS, BULLY 91 XIV. "HARDTACK" RALLY 98 XV. LEARNING THE ROPES 104 XVI. A JOLLY CROWD 111 XVII. TEDDY'S JOKE 118 XVIII. KICKING THE PIGSKIN 125 XIX. THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 133 XX. A RATTLING GAME 147 XXI. A DESPERATE STRUGGLE 155 XXII. ANDY SHANKS GETS BUSY 162 XXIII. THE BLOW FALLS 168 XXIV. A PUZZLING CASE 175 XXV. TO THE RESCUE 182 XXVI. SID WILTON TELLS 190 XXVII. THE BASEBALL TEAM 196 XXVIII. AN EXCITING BATTLE 202 XXIX. ANDY SHANKS "GETS HIS" 218 XXX. THE CAPTURE--CONCLUSION 231 THE RUSHTON BOYS AT RALLY HALL CHAPTER I A RASH IMPULSE "Get back, Jim. It's over your head." The ball had left the bat with a ringing crack that made it soar high into the air toward left field. Jim Dabney, who was playing left, made a hard run for it, but stumbled over a clump of grass, and the ball just touched the end of his fingers. "Wow!" he yelled, wringing his hand, "there's another nail gone." "Never mind your hand, Jim!" yelled the second baseman. "Put it in here. Quick!" Fred Rushton, who had hit the ball, was streaking it for second, and Jim, forgetting his injured hand, picked up the ball and threw it in. Fred saw that it was going to be a tight squeeze and made a slide for the base. The ball got there at almost the same time, and for a moment there was a flying tangle of arms and legs. Then Fred rose to his feet and brushed the dust from his clothes. "Never touched me," he remarked, with a slight grin. "No," agreed Tom Benton, the second baseman. "It was a pretty close call though." He threw the ball to the pitcher and Fred danced about between second and third. "Bring me in now, Jack!" he shouted to Jack Youmans, the batter. "Hit it right on the trademark." Jack made a savage swing but met only the empty air. "Never mind, Jack," called Fred cheerfully. "Better luck next time. What did I tell you?" he added, as the ball, meeting the bat squarely, went whizzing past just inside third. Jim Dabney, who was playing close up, made a clever pick-up and threw it straight as a die for home. Fred had passed third and was legging it for the plate with all his might. But this time the ball had a shade the better of it, and Fred was nabbed just as he slid over the rubber. "Good try, old boy, but you just didn't make it," cried Bob Ellis, the catcher, as he clapped the ball on him. "Sure thing," admitted Fred, "but it was worth taking a chance." There were three out, and the other side came in for its inning. Jim Dabney was all smiles, as he came over to Fred. "How was that for a throw, Fred?" he asked. "Pretty nifty, I call it." "It was a peach," assented Fred. "You got me good and proper and I'm not saying a word. That wing of yours is certainly all right. How's the hand? Did you hurt it badly?" "Only started another nail," answered Jim. "I suppose that will turn black now and begin to come off. That'll make the third I've lost this year. Lucky it was on the left hand, though." "Cheer up, Jim," laughed Bob, "you've got seven nails left." But, obviously, Jim did not need cheering up. His good-natured face was aglow with satisfaction. He had made a good stop and had thrown his man out at the plate. Then, too, he rather gloated over his scars in secret, and would exhibit them on occasion with all the pride of a soldier showing his wounds received in battle. They were so many proofs of his prowess on the diamond. It would be straining a point, perhaps, to call the field on which the boys were playing a "diamond." At the best it was a "diamond in the rough." Half a mile away, on the other side of the village of Oldtown, there was a real baseball field, well laid out and kept in good condition. There was a fine turf infield, a spacious and closely cut outfield and the base lines were clearly marked. The townspeople took considerable pride in the grounds, that were much above the average for villages of that size, and, on Saturday afternoons, almost the whole male population of the town was to be found watching the game and "rooting" for the home team. But on this day the boys were practicing on a lot directly behind the home of Fred Rushton, who was the captain of their school nine. Big stones marked the position of the bases, and the "rubber" at the home plate was a sheet of tin. Although the infield was fairly smooth, the lot further out was rough and clumpy, and it was risky work running for high flies, as Jim had proved to his cost. But it was good practice, and the enthusiasm and high spirits of the boys made up for all defects in the playing field. It is safe to say that no highly paid athlete, prancing over the velvet sward of major league grounds, got so much real fun out of the game as these lads with their makeshift diamond. Most of the boys playing were members of the Oldtown school team, but enough others had been picked up to make a scrub game of seven on a side. Two players had to cover the whole outfield, and each side was minus a shortstop. Even with this handicap, the game had been a good one, and, after one more inning had been played, Fred's side had come out two runs ahead. It was getting late in the afternoon, and the boys, flushed and dusty, had begun to draw on their coats. "Oh, don't go yet, fellows," urged Teddy Rushton, Fred's younger brother. "I haven't had half enough baseball yet. I'm as full of pep as when I began." "Oh, come off," retorted Bob Ellis. "Don't you see where the sun is? It's getting near supper time. It's too late to start another game." "Who said anything about another game?" replied Teddy. "I'm going to do some fungo hitting. Get out there, you fellows, and I'll knock you some flies. Go along, Jim, and I'll take off another nail." "You'd better not," grinned Jim, but scampered out just the same, followed by three or four others, whose appetite for the game, like Teddy's own, had not been fully satisfied. Teddy had a keen eye and a good arm, and there were few boys of his age who could hit the ball harder or send it further. Usually, too, he could gauge the distance and knock a fly so that it would fall almost in the fielder's hands. But to-day the ball seemed to take a perverse delight in falling either too short or too far out, and the boys were kept on the run, with only an occasional catch to reward their efforts. "Have a heart, Teddy!" shouted Jim, red and perspiring. "Put 'em where a fellow can get 'em." "Get a move on, why don't you?" called Teddy in return. "I can't help it if you run like ice wagons. I hit them all right." "Hit!" snorted Jim wrathfully. "You couldn't hit the water, if you fell overboard." A little nettled by the taunt, Teddy looked about him. He caught sight of a stage, drawn by two horses, jogging along the road that ran beside the field. A glint of mischief came into his eyes and he gripped his bat tightly. Here was a chance to prove that Jim was wrong. The stage coach was coming from the railroad station at Carlette, a mile away, where it had been to meet the five-thirty P. M. train. Business had not been very brisk, judging from the fact that the ramshackle old vehicle carried only one passenger, a rather elderly man dressed in black, who sat on one of the side seats with his back toward the boys. A bag of mail was on the front seat alongside the driver, a lank, slab-sided individual, in a linen duster that had evidently seen better days. He held the reins listlessly over the horses, who moved slowly along, as though they were half asleep. Coach and horses and driver were so dead and alive, so Rip Van Winkle-like, that the temptation was almost irresistible to stir them up, to wake them out of their dream. To Teddy, with his native love of mischief, it proved wholly irresistible. "Can't hit anything, eh?" he yelled to Jim. "Just watch me." He took careful aim, caught the ball full on the end of the bat and sent it straight as a bullet toward the coach. Even as he swung, he heard the startled cry of his brother: "Don't, Teddy, don't!" But it was too late. The ball struck the gray horse a glancing blow on the flank and caromed off into the coach, catching the solitary passenger full in the back of the neck. He fell over toward the opposite side, grasping at the seat to steady himself. The effect was electric. If Teddy had wanted action, he got it--got it beyond his wildest dream. The gray horse, stung and frightened by the sudden blow, reared high in the air and threw himself against his companion. The sorrel, catching the contagion, plunged forward. The startled driver tried to hold them in, but they had gotten beyond him. The frenzied brutes rushed on down the hill, the old coach bumping and swaying wildly behind them. Dazed and scared, the author of the mischief dropped his bat. Horror stole into his eyes and his face showed white beneath its coat of tan. The horses were running away! CHAPTER II THE RUNAWAY At the point where the coach was moving when Teddy's hit caused all the trouble the road wound down hill at a gentle incline. A few rods further on, however, it became steep, and here it was the custom of every careful driver to gather up the reins and press his foot on the brake, to keep his wagon from crowding too closely on the heels of his horses. If old Jed Muggs, the driver of the coach, had been able to get his charges under control before they reached the steeper portion of the hill, he might have saved the day. But he had had very little experience with runaways, and it had never entered his mind that the sober old team he drove would ever have spirit enough to take the bit in their teeth and bolt. That they might some day drop in their shafts and die of old age would have struck him as likely enough. But here they were, running like colts, and the shock of it was too much for him. He grabbed wildly at the reins that had been hanging loosely over the horses' backs. "Stop! Whoa, consarn yer!" he yelled, half standing up as he sawed wildly with the reins. "Burn yer old hides! what in Sam Hill's got inter yer? Whoa, whoa!" He was agitated through and through, and his wild yells and feeble handling of the reins only made the frightened brutes go faster and faster. Inside the coach, the passenger was holding on for dear life, as the coach bumped and swayed from side to side of the road. "Stop them, pull them in!" he shouted, and put out his hand to grasp Jed's arm. The driver shook him off with a savage snarl. "Leave me alone," he snapped. "What d'yer suppose I'm doin', encouragin' 'em?" Streaming out behind the runaways came the boys, blazing with excitement. Most of them at first had seen only the funny side of the incident. They had howled with delight at the sight of the "old plugs," as they irreverently spoke of Jed's horses, rearing up into the air like frisky two-year-olds, and the frightened antics of Jed himself had added to their amusement. It was all a huge joke, and they chuckled at the thought of the story they would have to tell to those who had not been there to see the fun. Jim Dabney was fairly doubled up with laughter. "Take it all back, Teddy," he shouted. "You're some hitter, after all." "Jiminy, look at those scarecrows dance!" exclaimed Jack Youmans. "Who'd ever think those old has-beens had so much ginger in 'em," commented Tom Davis. But boys as a rule, though thoughtless, are not malicious, and the laughter stopped suddenly when they saw that the joke might end in a tragedy. Fred, alone of all the boys, had seen from the first this danger. Quicker witted than the others, he had thought of the hill that lay before the runaways. But his shout of warning to Teddy had come too late to stop that impulsive youth, and now the damage was done. "This way, fellows!" he shouted, as he took a short cut across the field in an effort to get to the horses' heads. If he had been able to do this, the other boys, coming up, could have helped to hold them. But the distance was too great, and when he reached the road the team was twenty feet ahead and going too fast to be overtaken by any one on foot. Behind the others pounded Teddy, the cause of it all. How he hated himself for yielding to that impish impulse that had so often gotten him into trouble! Now, all he could think of was that somebody would be killed, and it would be his fault and his alone. His heart was full of terror and remorse. "I've killed them!" he kept repeating over and over. "Why did I do it? Oh, why did I do it?" There was not a spark of real malice in Teddy's composition. He was a wholesome, good-natured, fun-loving boy, and a general favorite with those who knew him. His chief fault was the impulsiveness that made him do things on the spur of the moment that he often regretted later on. Anything in the form of a practical joke appealed to him immensely, and he was never happier than when he was planning something that would produce a laugh. When Teddy's brown eyes began to twinkle, it was time to look for something to happen. He was a born mimic, and his imitation of the peculiar traits of his teachers, while it sent his comrades into convulsions of laughter, often got him into trouble at school. Notes to his parents were of frequent occurrence, and he was no sooner out of one scrape than he was into another. When anything happened whose author was unknown, they looked for Teddy "on general principles." Sometimes this proved unjust, and he had the name without having had the game. More often, however, the search found him only too certainly to be the moving cause of the prank in question. His fourteen years of life had been full of stir and action, both for him and all connected with him, and nobody could complain of dullness when Teddy was around. Still, he was so frank and sunny-natured that everybody was fond of him, even those who had the most occasion to frown. He was a rogue, but a very likable one. Fred Rushton, his brother, a year older than Teddy, was of a different type. While quite as fond of fun and full of spirits, he acted more on reason and good judgment than on impulse. As in the instance of the batted ball, where Teddy had seen only the fun of making the horses jump, Fred had thought of the runaway that might follow. Teddy was the kind who would make a leap and take a chance of getting away without a broken neck. Fred, while quite as ready to take the leap if it were necessary, would first figure out where he was going to land. A deep affection bound the two boys together, and Fred was kept busy trying to get Teddy out of old scrapes and keeping him from getting into new ones. At school, Fred was a leader both in study and sports. He was one of the best scholars in his class and it was his ambition to graduate at its head--an ambition that was in a fair way to be realized. In the field of athletics, his unusual strength, both of body and will, made him easily the first among his companions. Tall, strong, self-reliant, with clear gray eyes that never flinched at any task set before him, the other boys admitted his leadership, though he never made any conscious claim to it. He shone in football as the fastest and cleverest fullback that the school had known for years, and he had well earned his position as captain and pitcher of the baseball team. With the boys trailing on in the rear, the coach had now nearly reached the bottom of the hill, and was gathering speed with every jump of the frightened horses. A man rushed out from a house beside the road and grabbed at the bridle of the gray, but was thrown to the ground and narrowly escaped being trodden under foot. On and on they went, until they were close to the little river that ran along at the foot of the hill. A bridge, about twelve feet in width, crossed the river at this point, and along this Jed tried to guide the horses. But just before they reached it, the passenger, who evidently feared that the team would crash into the railing, took a flying leap over the side of the coach and plunged head first into the river below. The stage took the bridge, escaping the rails by a miracle. On the other side, the path curved sharply, and the team, keeping on blindly, brought up in a mass of bushes on the side of the road. The shaft snapped, and the driver was thrown over the horses' heads and landed in a thicket, badly scratched but otherwise unhurt. Two of the boys, who had now come up, rushed to the heads of the trembling horses, and, with the aid of the driver, got them under control. The others, including Fred and Teddy, ran to the assistance of the man in the water. He had come up, spluttering and snorting, but unharmed, except for the fright and the wetting. His hair was plastered over his face and his black clothes clung tightly to his angular frame. The river was not deep at this point, and he waded to the bank, where many eager hands were outstretched to aid him. He felt that he presented a most undignified appearance, and, although, of course, thankful for his escape, he was angry clear through. He looked up, and for the first time they clearly saw his face. A new horror came into Teddy's eyes. He stepped back, startled, and his legs grew weak under him. "It's--it's Uncle Aaron!" he stammered. CHAPTER III A NARROW ESCAPE Modesty was not one of Teddy's strong points, but just then he had a most violent desire to fade gently out of sight. He had not the slightest wish to be "in the limelight." Never had he been more eager to play the part of the shrinking violet. He tried to slip behind the other boys who came crowding around. But, even though partly blinded by the water that streamed over his face, the sharp eyes of his uncle had recognized him. "So it's you, is it?" he asked ungraciously. "I might have known that if there was trouble anywhere you'd be mixed up in it." Fred, ever eager to shield Teddy, came forward. "Why, Uncle Aaron!" he exclaimed. "I'm awfully sorry this happened. Just wait a minute and I'll hustle round to get a rig to take you----" "Happened!" broke in the shrill voice of his uncle. "Happened!" he snorted again, his wrath rising. "This thing didn't just happen. Something made those horses run away, and I want to know just what it was. And I'm not going to be satisfied till I find out," the man went on, glaring suspiciously from one to the other of the boys until he finally settled on Teddy. But Teddy just then was intently studying the beautiful sunset. Good-natured Jim Dabney tried, right here, to make a diversion. "The horses must have got frightened at something," he ventured hopefully. "Yes," said Jack Youmans, following his lead, "I could see that they were awfully scared." "You don't say so!" retorted Uncle Aaron, with withering sarcasm. "I could guess as much as that myself." And the two boys, having met with the usual fate of peacemakers, fell back, red and wilted. "Gee, isn't he an old crank?" muttered Jim. "That's what," assented Jack. "I'd hate to be in Teddy's shoes just now." To tell the truth, Teddy would gladly have loaned his shoes to any one on earth at that moment. "Come here, Teddy," called his uncle sharply, "and look me straight in the eye." Now, looking Uncle Aaron straight in the eye was far from being Teddy's idea of pleasure. There were many things he would rather do than that. There had been many occasions before this when he had received the same invitation, and he had never accepted it without reluctance. It was a steely eye that seemed to look one through and through and turn one inside out. Still, there was no help for it, and Teddy, with the air of an early Christian martyr, was slowly coming to the front, when suddenly they heard a shout of triumph, and, turning, saw Jed Muggs hold up something he had just found on the floor of the coach. "Here it is!" he cried; "here's the identical thing what done it!" And as he came shambling forward he held up, so that all could see it, the ball that had been only too well aimed when it had hit the gray horse. Jed was a town character and the butt of the village jokes. He had been born and brought up there, and only on one occasion had strayed far beyond its limits. That was when he had gone on an excursion to the nearest large city. His return ticket had only been good for three days, but after his return, bewildered but elated, he had never tired of telling his experiences. Every time he told his story, he added some new variation, chiefly imaginary, until he at last came to believe it himself, and posed as a most extensive traveler. "Yes, sir-ree," he would wind up to his cronies in the general store, as he reached out to the barrel for another cracker, "they ain't many things in this old world that I ain't seen. They ain't nobody kin take me fur a greenhorn, not much they ain't!" For more years past than most people could remember, he had driven the village stage back and forth between Oldtown and Carlette, the nearest railway station. He and his venerable team were one of the features of the place, and the farmers set their clocks by him as he went plodding past. Everybody knew him, and he knew the past history of every man, woman and child in the place. He was an encyclopedia of the village gossip and tradition for fifty years past. This he kept always on tap, and only a hint was needed to set him droning on endlessly. Jed's one aversion was the boys of Oldtown. He got on well enough with their elders, who humored and tolerated the old fellow. But he had never married, and, with no boys of his own to keep him young in heart, he had grown crankier and crustier as he grew older. They kept him on edge with their frequent pranks, and it was his firm conviction that they had no equals anywhere as general nuisances. "I've traveled a lot in my time," he would say, and pause to let this statement sink in; "yes, sir, I've traveled a lot, and I swan to man I never seen nowhere such a bunch of rapscallions as they is in this here town." Then he would bite off a fresh quid of tobacco and shake his head mournfully, and dwell on the sins of the younger generation. Now, as he hobbled eagerly up to the waiting group, forgetting for the moment his "roomatics," he was all aglow with animation. His loose jaw was wagging and his small eyes shone like a ferret's. "Here's what done it," he repeated, in his high, cracked voice, as he handed the ball to his partner in the accident. "I knew them horses of mine wouldn't run away for nuthin'." "Nobody ever saw them run before," Jack Youmans could not help saying. "You shet up!" cried Jed angrily. "They was too well trained." Aaron Rushton took the ball and examined it carefully. "I found it in the corner of the coach under the seat," volunteered Jed. "It wasn't in there when we started. I kin stake my life on that." "This explains the blow I got on the back of the neck," commented Teddy's uncle. "The ball must have hit one of the horses first, and then glanced off into the coach. Were you boys playing ball, when we went past?" he asked, turning to Fred. "Yes, we were," answered Fred. "That is, we weren't playing a regular game. We'd got through with that and were having a little practice, batting flies." "Why weren't you more careful then?" asked his uncle sharply. "Don't you see that you came within an ace of killing one or both of us? Who was doing the batting?" Jim and Jack loyally looked as though they were trying their hardest to remember, but could not feel quite sure. "Yes," broke in old Jed, "who was doin' it? That's what I want to know. 'Cos all I got to say is that it'll cost somebody's father a consid'able to make good the damages to the coach and the hosses. The pole is snapped and the sorrel is actin' kind o' droopy." A smothered laugh ran around the group of boys, whose number had by this time been considerably increased. No one in Oldtown had ever known either sorrel or gray to be anything else than "droopy." Jed transfixed the boys with a stony stare. He had, at least, the courage of his convictions. "Yes, sir-ree," he went on, "them hosses is vallyble, and I don't kalkilate to be done out of my rights by nobody, just becos some fool boy didn't have sense enough to keep from scarin' 'em. Somebody's father has got to pay, and pay good, or I'll have the law on 'em, by ginger! Come along now. Who done it?" "Jed is right, as far as that goes," said Mr. Aaron Rushton. "Of course, it was an accident, but it was a mighty careless one and somebody will have to make good the damage. Now, I'm going to ask you boys, one by one----" Teddy stepped forward. His heart was in his boots. The game was up and he would have to face the consequences. He knew that none of the other boys would tell on him, and he would be safe enough in denying it, when the question came to him. But the thought of doing this never even occurred to him. The Rushton boys had been brought up to tell the truth. "I'm sorry, Uncle Aaron," he said, "but I'm the one that hit the ball." CHAPTER IV FACING THE MUSIC There was a stir of anticipation among the boys, and they crowded closer, as Teddy faced his angry relative. "Jiminy, but he's going to catch it!" whispered Jim. "You bet he will. I wouldn't like to be him," agreed Jack, more fervently than grammatically. His uncle looked at Teddy sourly. "I'm not a bit surprised," he growled. "From the minute I saw you on the bank I felt sure you were mixed up in this some way or other. You'd feel nice now, if you'd killed your uncle, wouldn't you?" Poor Teddy, who did not look the least like a murderer and had never longed to taste the delights of killing, stammered a feeble negative. "Why did you do it?" went on his merciless cross-examiner. "Didn't you see the stage coming? Why didn't you bat the other way?" The culprit was silent. "Come," said his uncle sharply, "speak up now! What's the matter with you? Are you tongue-tied?" "You see, it was this way," Teddy began, and stopped. "No," said his uncle, "I don't see at all." "Well," Teddy broke out, desperately, goaded by the sarcasm to full confession, "I was batting flies to the fellows, and one of them said I couldn't hit anything, and I wanted to show him that he was wrong, and just then I saw the coach coming, and I took aim at the gray horse. I didn't think anything about his running away--I'd never seen him run hard, anyway--and--and--I guess that's all," he ended, miserably. "No, it ain't all, not by a long sight!" ejaculated Jed, who had been especially stung by the slur on his faithful gray. "Not much, it ain't all! So, yer did it on puppose, did yer? I might have s'spicioned from the fust thet you was at the bottom of this rascality. They ain't anything happened in this town fur a long time past thet you ain't been mixed up in. "I'm mortal sure," he went on, haranguing his audience and warming up at the story of his wrongs, "thet it was this young varmint thet painted my hosses with red, white and blue stripes, last Fourth of July. I jess had time to harness up to get to the train in time, when I found it out, and I didn't have time to get the paint off before I started. And there was the people in Main Street laffin' fit ter kill themselves, and the loafers at the deepo askin' me why I didn't paint myself so as to match the hosses. It took me nigh on two days before I could get it off, and the hosses smelt of benzine fur more than a week. Ef I could a ketched the feller what done it, I'd 'a' taken it out of his hide, but I never had no sartin proof. Howsumever, I knowed pooty well in my own mind who done it," and he glared vindictively at Teddy. But Teddy had already done all the confessing he cared to do for one day, and the author of Jed's unwilling Fourth of July display was still to remain a mystery. Far more important to Teddy than Jed's threats was the wrath of his uncle, who stood looking at him with a severity before which Teddy's eyes fell. "And you mean to tell me," said Mr. Aaron Rushton slowly, "you have the nerve to stand there and tell me that you actually aimed at that horse--that you deliberately----" "No, not deliberately, Uncle Aaron," interrupted Fred, who had been trying to get in a word for his brother, and now seized this opening. "He didn't think of what he was doing. If he had, he wouldn't have done it. He didn't have any idea the horses would run away. Teddy wouldn't hurt----" "You keep still, Fred," and his uncle turned on him savagely. "When I want your opinion, I'll ask you for it. If you weren't always making excuses for him and trying to get him out of scrapes, he wouldn't get into so many. "Not another word," he went on, as Fred still tried to make things easier for Teddy. "We'll finish this talk up at the house. I want your father and mother to hear for themselves just how near this son of theirs came to killing his uncle." "I'll see if I can get a rig of some kind to carry you up," volunteered Fred. "Never mind that," answered his uncle shortly. "It isn't far, and I don't want to wait. Bring that valise that you'll find in the coach along with you. I want to get into some dry things as soon as possible. Lucky it isn't a shroud, instead of regular clothes," and he shot a glance at Teddy that made that youth shudder. "As to the damage done to the coach and horses," Mr. Rushton said, turning to Jed, who had been watching Teddy's ordeal with great satisfaction and gloating over what was still coming to him when he should reach home, "you need not worry about that. Either my brother or I will see you to-morrow and fix things up all right." "Thank yer, Mr. Rushton," mumbled Jed, as he mentally tried to reach the very highest figure he would dare to charge, with any hope of getting it. "I knowed you would do the right thing. I'm only sorry that you should have so much trouble with that there young imp," and he shook his head sorrowfully and heaved a sigh, as though he already saw ahead of Teddy nothing but the gallows or the electric chair. Nor could he forbear one parting shot at that dejected youth. "Don't forget, young man, thet you may have to reckon with Uncle Sam yet," he hinted, with evident relish, as the party prepared to move away. "It ain't no joke to interfere with the United States mail and them thet's carryin' it. The padlock on that mailbag was all bent and bunged up when the stage smashed up against that tree. Course, I ain't sayin' what may come of it, but them gover'ment folks is mighty tetchy on them p'ints. They've got a big prison at Leavenworth and another at Atlanta where they puts fellers that interferes with the mails in any way, shape or manner. Oh, I know all about them places. I've traveled a good deal in my time, and----" But by this time, the uncle and nephews were well on their way up the hill, and Jed had to save the rest of his discourse for his cronies that evening at the general store. The Rushton home stood on a beautiful elm-shaded street just beyond the field where the boys had been playing ball. It was a charming, up-to-date house, capacious and well arranged, and furnished with every comfort. A broad, velvety lawn stretched out in front, and towering elms threw their cool shadows over the roadway. Around three sides of the house ran a hospitable veranda, with rugs and rattan furniture that made of it one large outside room. Tables, on which rested books and magazines, with here and there a vase of flowers fresh cut from the garden, showed that the inmates of the house were people of intelligence and refinement. Mansfield Rushton, the boys' father, was one of the most prominent citizens of Oldtown. He was a broker, with offices in a neighboring city, to which he commuted. His absorption in his business and his interest in large affairs left him less time and leisure than he would have liked to devote to his family. He was jovial and easy-going, and very proud of his two boys, to whom he was, in fact, perhaps too indulgent. "Boys will be boys," was his motto, and many an interview, especially with Teddy, that ought, perhaps, to have ended in punishment, was closed only with the more or less stern injunction "not to do it again." His wife, Agnes, was a sweet, gracious woman, who, while she added greatly to the charm and happiness of the household, did not contribute very much to its discipline. She could be firm on occasion, and was not as blind as the father to what faults the boys possessed. Although each one of them was as dear to her as the apple of her eye, she by no means adopted the theory that they could do no wrong. Like most mothers, however, she was inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt, and it was not hard to persuade her that they were "more sinned against than sinning." The Rushton system of household management, with love, rather than fear, the ruling factor, was not without its critics. The boys' uncle, Aaron, some years older than his brother Mansfield, and wholly different in disposition, had been especially exasperated at it. On his occasional visits to Oldtown he never tired of harping on his favorite proverb of "spare the rod and spoil the child," and his predictions of Teddy's future were colored with dark forebodings. To be sure, he had never gone so far as to prophesy that Teddy's mischief would ever come near killing any one. And yet, that was precisely what had happened. And as Aaron Rushton toiled up the hill the discomfort he felt from his wet clothes was almost forgotten in the glow of satisfaction that at last he had proved his theory. He would show Mansfield and Agnes that even if he was a bachelor--as they had at times slyly reminded him--he knew more about bringing up boys than they did. The unsuspecting parents were sitting on the veranda, waiting for the boys to come in to supper. The table was spread and waiting, and Mr. Rushton had once or twice glanced impatiently at his watch. "What on earth is keeping those boys?" he exclaimed. "Oh, here they are now. But who's that with them? Why, it's Aaron! Great Scott! What's the matter?" he cried, as he sprang up excitedly. Mrs. Rushton uttered a little shriek as her eyes fell on the three figures entering the gateway. CHAPTER V UNCLE AARON RAGES It was no wonder that both were startled, for the little group coming up the walk showed that something far out of the ordinary had happened. It was a surprise in the first place to see Aaron Rushton at all, as, contrary to his usual custom when he paid a visit to Oldtown, he had not notified them that they might expect him. But to see him in such a plight as this was altogether beyond their experience. He was prim and precise in every detail of his clothes, and his sense of personal dignity was very strong. Neatness was a passion with him, and, in his regulated bachelor existence, this had grown upon him with the years. But now, as he walked between the two boys, he presented an appearance that was almost grotesque. He was without his hat, which had floated down the stream and had not been recovered. His hair was plastered down on both cadaverous cheeks, his shirtfront was a mass of pulp, and his wet clothes clinging closely to him brought into full relief every bony angle of his figure. One leg of his trousers was torn from the knee to the ankle. His feet sloshed in his shoes with every step, and a wet trail marked his progress from the gate to the porch. On each side of him walked one of the boys, Fred staggering under the weight of a big suit case, while Teddy carried nothing but a guilty conscience. But probably his burden was the heavier of the two, and he would gladly have changed loads with his brother. Under other circumstances, the pair on the veranda would have been unable to restrain their laughter. But Aaron was not a man to take a joke, and, besides, they did not know as yet but that he had received some hurt more serious than a wetting. They hurried down the steps to meet him. "Why, Aaron, what on earth has happened?" asked Mr. Rushton, as he grasped the clammy hand of his brother. "Can't you see?" snarled Aaron ungraciously. "I've been in the river. It's a wonder I'm here to tell you that much." "In the river!" gasped Mrs. Rushton. "How did you get there?" "How do you suppose?" growled Aaron. "Think I went in swimming with my clothes on? I fell in, or rather, I jumped in to save my life, when Jed Muggs' horses ran away." "Ran away!" exclaimed Mr. Rushton. "I never heard of their doing anything like that before. What made them run away? Did you get hurt?" "Nothing but my feelings and my clothes," said Aaron. "But if you want to know what made them run away, ask that precious son of yours there." And he shot a vicious glance at Teddy, who colored as the eyes of his father and mother turned toward him. "Teddy!" exclaimed Mrs. Rushton. "What did he have to do with it?" "What didn't he have to do with it, you mean. He had everything to do with it. He hit one of the horses with a baseball--aimed deliberately at him, mind you--and the horses took fright and ran away. They came within an ace of killing the driver, and, as it is, you'll have a pretty penny to pay for the damage to the coach and horses. As for me, I might have been killed in the smash-up, if I hadn't had the gumption to jump before we came to the bridge." "Oh, Teddy," moaned Mrs. Rushton, "how could you do a thing like that?" "Go into the house, sir," commanded his father sternly. "I'll attend to your case later." Teddy obeyed with alacrity, glad to escape for the moment from the sharpness in his father's voice and the sadness in his mother's eyes. His despondency was lightened somewhat by the savory smells from the kitchen. He made his way there, to see what they were going to have for supper. It was behind the regular time, and he was ravenously hungry. Appetizing odors came from the dishes, already taken up and ready to be conveyed to the dining-room. "Um-yum," he gloated. "Chicken--and green peas--and strawberries--and peach pie. Bully!" The colored cook, Martha, who was whipping up some cream for the strawberries, turned and saw him. "Laws sakes, honey, wut's keepin' the folks? I'se just tuckered out tryin' to keep things hot." "It's Uncle Aaron," explained Teddy. "He's just come." "Umph,", sniffed Martha, none too well pleased. She had no liking for unexpected company, and least of all for Uncle Aaron, whom she disliked heartily. Martha was an old family servant, who had been with Mrs. Rushton from the time of her marriage. She was big and black and good-natured, although she did not hesitate to speak her mind at times when she was ruffled. She was devoted to her master and mistress, and they, in turn, appreciated her good qualities and allowed her many privileges, letting her run her end of the house largely to suit herself. Long before this she had come to regard herself as one of the family. She had dandled and crooned over the boys as babies, and, as they had grown up, she had become almost as fond of them as the parents themselves. They always knew where to get a doughnut or a ginger cake when they came in famished, and, though at times they sorely tried her patience, she was always ready to defend them against any one else. And the one reason more than any other why she detested their Uncle Aaron was because he was "allus pickin' on dem po' chillen." That the "pickin'" was only too often justified did not weigh at all in Aunt Martha's partial judgment. "Here dey cum, now," she said, as she heard footsteps in the hall. "Get out of my way now, honey, and let me serve de supper. Goodness knows, it's time." "I tell you what it is, Mansfield," Aaron Rushton was saying, "you've simply spoiled those boys of yours. You've let the reins lie loose on their backs, and they're going straight to perdition. And Agnes is just as bad as you are, if not worse. What they need is a good hickory switch and plenty of muscle behind it. If they were my boys, I'd let them know what's what. I'd put things in order in jig time. I'd show them whether they could run things as they liked. They'd learn mighty quick who was boss. I'd----" "Yes, yes, Aaron, I know," said his brother soothingly. "I feel just as bad about this as you do, and I'll see that Teddy pays well for this mischief." "Mischief!" mimicked Aaron angrily. "That's just the trouble with you folks. You excuse everything because it's simply 'mischief.' Why don't you call it crime?" "Now, Aaron, that's too much," cried Mrs. Rushton, bristling in defence of her offspring. "It was an awful thing to do, of course, but Teddy didn't realize----" then, seeing the retort trembling on Aaron's lips, she went on hastily: "But go right up to your room now, and get a bath and change your clothes. Mansfield will get you some things of his to put on, and I'll have supper waiting for you when you come down." And Aaron, still rumbling like a volcano, was led to the upper regions, where the splashing of water shortly after told of a bath more grateful than the involuntary one he had taken an hour before. Mrs. Rushton, with tears in her eyes, turned to Fred, in the lower hall. "It's just awful," she said. "Tell me, Fred, dear, how it all happened." "Uncle Aaron makes too much of it, Mother!" exclaimed Fred, who had had all he could do to keep still during his uncle's tirade. "Of course, it might have been a bad accident. But you know just as well as I do that Teddy wouldn't have done it for all the world, if he had thought anybody would get hurt. The boys were teasing him about hitting the ball straight, and, as luck would have it, Jed's team came along just that minute. It just struck Teddy that here was something to aim at, and he let fly. Of course, there was only one chance out of ten of hitting the horse at all, and, even if it had hit him, it might have only made him jump, and that would have been the end of it. But everything went wrong, and the team ran away. Nobody felt worse about it than Teddy. If you'd seen how white he looked----" "Poor boy!" murmured Mrs. Rushton softly. Then, recollecting herself, she said a little confusedly: "Poor Uncle Aaron, I mean. It must have been a terrible shock to him. Think what a blow it would have been to all of us, if he had been killed!" "Sure, it would!" assented Fred, though his voice lacked conviction. "But he wasn't, and there's no use of his being so grouchy over it. He ought to be so glad to be alive that he'd be willing to let up on Teddy. I suppose that all the time he's here now he'll keep going on like a human phonograph." "You mustn't speak about your uncle that way, Fred," said his mother reprovingly. "He's had a great deal to try his temper, and Teddy is very much to blame. He must be punished. Yes, he certainly must be punished." "There's one thing, too, Mother," went on Fred, determined to put his brother in the best light possible, "Ted might have lied out of it, but he didn't. Uncle Aaron put the question to the boys straight, or rather he was just going to do it, when Teddy spoke up and owned that he was the one who hit the ball." "Bless his heart," cried Mrs. Rushton delightedly, pouncing on this bit of ammunition to use in Teddy's behalf when the time came. Fred went to his room to wash and brush up, and a few minutes later the family, with the unexpected guest, were gathered about the table, spread with the good things that Martha had heaped upon it. Last of all, came Teddy. Usually, he was among the first. But a certain delicacy, new to him, seemed to whisper to him to-night that he would do well not to thrust himself obtrusively into the family circle. Perhaps, also, a vague desire to placate the "powers that be" had made him pay unusual attention to his face and nails and hair. He was very well groomed--for Teddy--and he tried to assume a perfectly casual air, as he came down the stairs. Martha caught sight of him from the kitchen, and shook her head ominously. She had heard enough to know that storm signals were out. "Dat po' chile!" she mourned, "he sho am goin' like a lam' to de slo'ter!" CHAPTER VI TEDDY'S BANISHMENT Teddy slipped in like a ghost. That is, as far as noise was concerned. If he could also have had the other ghostly quality of being invisible, it would have suited him to a dot. He drew out his chair and was about to sit down, when his father lifted his hand. "Stop!" he said, and there was a tone in his voice that was not often heard. "You don't sit down at this table to-night." Teddy stared at him, mortified and abashed. With all eyes turned toward him, he felt as though he would like to sink through the floor. "I mean it," said his father. "Go straight to your room and stay there. I'll have something to say to you later on. But before you go, I want you to apologize to your Uncle Aaron for the danger you put him in this afternoon." Teddy turned toward his uncle, and the sour smile he saw on the latter's thin lips made him almost hate his relative. "Of course, I'm sorry," he blurted out sullenly. "I told him so, down at the bridge. He knows well enough, that I didn't mean----" "That will do now," interrupted his father. "There's no need of adding impudence to your other faults." Teddy took his hand from the back of the chair and started for the hall, after one despairing glance at the table. "But, Father----" ventured Fred. "Wouldn't it be enough to make him go without dessert?" interposed Mrs. Rushton. "Can't you let him have at least a piece of bread and butter? The child's health, you know----" "Well," hesitated Mr. Rushton. But he caught sight of the sarcastic grin on Aaron's face. "No," he went on more firmly, "he can't have a thing. It won't hurt his health to go without his supper for once. No, nothing at all!" "Except what Agnes or Fred may slip to him later on," put in Aaron, with a disagreeable smile. "Mansfield's wish is law in this house, and Fred would not go against his father's will," answered Mrs. Rushton, with a coldness that for a moment silenced her brother-in-law and wiped the smile from his face. Old Martha, over in one corner, glowered with indignation. "Cantankerous ole skinflint," she muttered under her breath. "Dey ain't never nuffin' but trouble when dat man comes inter dis house. Sittin' dere, stuffin' hisself, while dat po' lam' upstairs is starvin' ter def. I on'y hopes one of dem chicken bones sticks in his froat. It'd be do Lo'd's own jedgment on 'im." But Martha's wishes were not realized, and Aaron finished his supper without suffering from any visitation of Providence. In fact, he had seldom enjoyed a meal more. It was one of Martha's best, and, to any one that knew that good woman's ability in the culinary line, that meant a great deal. Then, too, Teddy, was in disgrace, and the discomfort he had suffered that afternoon was in a fair way to be atoned for. He was not by any means willing to let it rest at that, and he figured on putting another spoke in the wheel of that young man's fortunes. But, if Aaron had enjoyed his meal, nobody else had. Mr. Rushton was wondering whether he had not been too severe. Mrs. Rushton, on the verge of tears, was sure he had. And Fred, who had been thinking all the time of poor Teddy, agreed with her. That morning, their home had been one of the happiest in Oldtown. To-night, every inmate was thoroughly miserable, except their guest. Why was it, Mrs. Rushton wondered, that trouble always came with Aaron? Never had he come except to her regret, and never had he left without a sigh of heartfelt relief on the part of every member of the family. He was a shadow on the hearth, a spectre at the feast. He was not without good qualities, and plenty of them. In the community where he lived, he was highly respected. He was upright and square-dealing, and nobody could say that Aaron Rushton had ever wilfully done him a wrong. But, though everybody esteemed him, there were few who really liked him. His was not a nature to inspire affection. He was too rigid and severe. The "milk of human kindness" had either been left out of his composition, or, at best, it had changed to buttermilk. Whenever one brushed against him, he was conscious of sharp edges. He was as full of quills as the "fretful porcupine," and always ready to let them fly. With young people especially, he had little sympathy. Although as far apart as the poles in many things, he and Jed Muggs were absolutely at one in this--their utter disapproval of boys. Fred and Teddy had always felt in his presence that they ought to apologize for being alive. But, if Aaron did not go so far as that, he at least resented the fact that they were so very much alive. Their noise offended him, and their pranks irritated him. Their boisterousness got on his nerves. The bringing up of the boys had always been a bone of contention between Aaron and their parents. If their birth, in Aaron's view, had been a misfortune, the way they were reared was nothing less than an outrage. He never tired of storming at what he regarded as the lax and careless way in which the boys were allowed to do largely as they pleased. He magnified and distorted their boyish scrapes, until he had really convinced himself that they were headed straight for destruction, unless brought up with a round turn. As a matter of fact, with all their faults, there were no finer boys in Oldtown. Mr. and Mrs. Rushton, although conscious that they were perhaps a little too easy going, had always defended their methods good-naturedly. What especially irritated Aaron was their calm assumption that he did not know what he was talking about, because he had no children of his own, and their sly thrusts at the perfection of "bachelors' children" made him "froth at the mouth." To-night, though, he had rather the advantage. So he had been an old crank, had he? He hadn't known what he was talking about! He had made too much of the boys' little foibles! Well, what did they have to say now, now that through their younger son's tomfoolishness, his pigheadedness, his criminal carelessness, his--there were so many good words that Aaron hardly knew which to choose, but lingered lovingly over them all--he had come within a hair's breadth of causing his uncle's death. Perhaps now they'd listen to his opinions with the respect they deserved. The argument was with him for once, beyond a doubt. He had the whip hand, and he fairly reveled in his opportunity. In his heart, he was almost thankful to Teddy for having given him this advantage over the parents. They, on their part, were sad and mostly silent. They had really been greatly shocked by the serious results that might have followed this latest prank of Teddy's. They realized, however, the lack of malicious motive behind the act, and they knew that Aaron was failing to take this into account as much as he ought to have done. They were at a disadvantage, too, from the fact that Aaron was their guest, and Mr. Rushton's brother. If they defended Teddy too strongly, it would seem to be making light of Aaron's danger and possible death. So, with almost a clear field before him, their guest used his advantage to the full, and rumbled on to his heart's content. Mrs. Rushton, however, did what she could. "You must admit, Aaron," she ventured, "that Teddy might have lied about it, but didn't. He didn't let you think that somebody else had done it, but owned up, even before you asked him. Give him that much credit, anyway." "Ye-e-s," admitted Aaron slowly. He was a truthful man himself, and respected the quality in others. "Yes," he repeated, "that was all right, as far as it went. But," he went on, as though regretting his momentary weakness in making any concession to a criminal of the deepest dye, "what good would his telling the truth have done, if I'd been lying at the foot of the hill with a broken neck? Answer me that." As poor Mrs. Rushton could not think of any real benefit that could have come to Aaron under such unfortunate conditions, she was forced to abandon the attack, leaving the enemy in possession of the field. CHAPTER VII THE MISSING PAPERS Cheered by his victory in this skirmish, Aaron Rushton went on: "I tell you what it is, Mansfield, what the boys need is to go to some good boarding school, where they'll be under strict discipline and have to toe the mark. They've a soft snap here, and they know it. You let them run the whole shooting match." "Nothing of the kind, Aaron," protested Mansfield. "I don't believe in the knock-down and drag-out system of bringing up children, but, all the same, the boys always mind when I put my foot down." "When you put your foot down!" sneered Aaron. "How often do you put it down? Not very often, as far as I've been able to see. They twist you and their mother around their little fingers. "A boy's a good deal like a horse," he continued. "Any horse can tell just from the feel of the reins how far he dares to go with his driver. Now, what your boys need to feel is a tight rein over their backs that'll make 'em feel that their driver isn't going to stand any nonsense. They don't have that feeling at home, and it's up to you to put them where they will feel it." "It might be out of the frying pan into the fire," objected Mr. Rushton. "There are many boarding schools where the boys do just about as they like." "Not at the one I'm thinking about," rejoined Aaron. "Not much, they don't! When Hardach Rally tells a boy to do anything, that boy does it on the jump." "Hardach Rally," inquired his brother, "who is he?" "He's a man after my own heart," answered Aaron. "He's one of the best disciplinarians I've ever met. He has a large boarding school on Lake Morora, about a mile from the town of Green Haven, the nearest railway station. I reckon it's about a hundred miles or so from here. It's a good school, one of the best I know of. Rally Hall, he calls it, and under his management, it's made a big reputation. If I had boys of my own--thank Heaven, I haven't--there's no place I'd sooner send them." Mr. Rushton and his wife exchanged glances. "Well, Aaron, we'll think it over," his brother said, "But there's no special hurry about it, as they couldn't start in till next fall, anyway. In the meantime, I'll write to Dr. Rally and get his catalogue and terms." "It'll be the best thing you ever did," remarked Aaron. He yawned and looked at his watch. A surprised look came into his eyes. "Why!" he exclaimed, "it must be later than that." He looked again, then put it up to his ear. "Stopped," he said disgustedly. "I haven't let that watch run down for five years past. And it hasn't run down now. That's some more of Teddy's work. I must have jarred it or bent a wheel or something when I went over into the river." "Let me have it," said Mr. Rushton, holding out his hand. "I'm pretty handy with watches and perhaps I can get it started." Aaron handed the timepiece over. It was a heavy, double-cased gold watch, of considerable value, and he set a great deal of store by it. It was of English make, and on the inner case was an engraving of the Lion and the Unicorn. Under this were Aaron's initials. His brother shook the watch, opened it, and made several attempts to set it going, but all to no purpose. "I guess it's a job for a jeweler," he said at last regretfully. "Of course, I'll pay whatever it costs to have it fixed." "By the time you get through settling with Jed Muggs, you won't feel much like paying anything else," retorted Aaron, "Give me the watch and I'll take it down town in the morning and leave it to be mended. Chances are it'll never be as good again. "I'm dead tired now," and again he yawned. "If you folks don't mind, I guess I'll be getting to bed." They were only too glad to speed him on his way. Nobody ever attempted to stop him, when he was ready to retire. It was the one thing he did that met with everybody's approval. His brother went up with him to see that everything had been made ready for his comfort, and then, bidding him good-night, came back to his wife. He smiled at her whimsically, and she smiled back at him tearfully. "Been a good deal of a siege," he commented. "Hasn't it?" she agreed. "But, oh, Mansfield, whatever in the world are we going to do about Teddy?" He frowned and studied the points of his shoes. "Blest if I know," he pondered. "The young rascal has been in a lot of scrapes, but this is the limit. I don't wonder that Aaron feels irritable. Of course, he rubs it in a little too much, but you'll have to admit, my dear, that he has a good deal of justice on his side. It was a mighty reckless thing for Teddy to do. "I wonder," he went on thoughtfully, "if perhaps we haven't been a bit too lax in our discipline, Agnes. Too much of the 'velvet glove' and too little of the 'iron hand,' eh? What do you think?" "Perhaps--a little," she assented dubiously. Then, defensively, she added: "But, after all, where do you find better boys anywhere than ours? Fred scarcely gives us a particle of trouble, and as for Teddy"--here she floundered a little--"of course, he gets into mischief at times, but he has a good heart and he's just the dearest boy," she ended, in a burst of maternal affection. "How about that boarding school idea?" suggested Mr. Rushton. "I don't like it at all," said Mrs. Rushton. "I simply can't bear to think of our boys a hundred miles away from home. I'd be worrying all the time for fear that something had happened to them or was going to happen. And think how quiet the house would be with them out of it." "I know," agreed her husband, "I'd feel a good deal that way myself. Still, if it's for the boys' good----" But here they were interrupted by a commotion on the stairs, and as they rose to their feet, Aaron came bouncing into the room. His coat and vest and collar and tie were off, but he was too stirred up to bother about his appearance. He was in a state of great agitation. "What's the matter?" they asked in chorus. "Matter enough," snarled Aaron. "I was just getting ready for bed, when I thought of some papers in the breast pocket of my coat. I just thought I'd take a last look to make sure they were all right, but when I put my hand in the pocket, the papers weren't there. What do you make of that now?" and he glared at them as though they had a guilty knowledge of the papers and had better hand them over forthwith. "Papers!" exclaimed Mrs. Rushton, her heart sinking at this new complaint. "What papers were they?" "I hope they weren't very valuable?" said Mr. Rushton. "Valuable!" almost shrieked Aaron Rushton. "I should say they were valuable. There was a mortgage and there were three notes of hand and the transcript of a judgment that I got in a court action a little while ago. I can't collect on any of them, unless I have the papers to show. I'm in a pretty mess!" he groaned, as he went around the room like a wild man. "We'll make a careful search for them everywhere," said Mrs. Rushton. "They must be somewhere around the house." "House, nothing!" ejaculated Aaron. "I know well enough where they are. They're down in the river somewhere, and I'll never clap eyes on them again. They must have fallen out of my pocket when I jumped. Oh, if I just had the handling of that imp"--and his fingers writhed in a way that boded no good to Teddy, if that lively youth were luckless enough to be turned over to his uncle for punishment. "I can't tell you how sorry I am, Aaron," his brother assured him. "We'll have a most careful search made at the place where the accident happened, the first thing to-morrow morning. I'll also put up the offer of a reward in the post office. The papers are not of much value to any one except you, and if somebody has found them, they'll be glad enough to bring them to you. In the meantime, we'll take one more look about the house." But the search was fruitless, and, at last, Aaron, still growling like a grizzly bear, went reluctantly to his room to await developments on the morrow. In the meantime, Teddy, the cause of it all, although cut off from the rest of the household, had shared in the general gloom. He was devotedly attached to his father and mother, and was sincerely sorry that he had so distressed them. He would have given a good deal if he had never yielded to his sudden impulse of the afternoon. Fred had spent most of the evening with him, and had done his level best to cheer him up. He had succeeded to some extent, but, after he had left him and gone to his own room, Teddy again felt the weight of a heavy depression. It must be admitted that not all of this came from conscience. Some of it was due to hunger. He had never felt so hungry in his life. And it seemed an endless time from then till breakfast the next morning. He had just turned out his light, and was about to slip into bed when he heard a soft knock on his door. He opened it and peered out into the dark hall. "It's me, honey," came a low voice. "Take dis an' don't say nuffin'." The "dis" was a leg of chicken and a big cut of peach pie! The door closed, and old Martha went puffing slowly to her room in the attic. "Ah doan't care," she said to herself defiantly. "Ef it wus right fer de ravuns ter take food ter de prophet 'Lijuh in der wil'erness, et's right fer me ter keep mah po' lam' frum starvin'. So, dere, now!" CHAPTER VIII A FRUITLESS SEARCH There were no traces left the next morning of Martha's stealthy visit. The chicken bone had gone out of the window, but all the rest had gone where it would do the most good. And Teddy had slept the sleep of the satisfied, if not exactly the sleep of the just. Breakfast was served at an unusually early hour, as there was a great deal to be done to right the wrong of the day before, and it was very important that the boys get an early start in the search for Uncle Aaron's missing papers. He himself had little hope of finding them. If they were in the river, which seemed to him most likely, they might have been carried down the stream. And, even if they were found, they might be so spoiled by the soaking that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to make them out. In any event, it meant for him a lot of trouble, and he was in a fiendish temper, when, after a sleepless night, he came downstairs. He responded gruffly to the greetings of the others, and favored Teddy with a black stare that showed that he had not forgiven him. "What have you got up your sleeve for to-day?" he growled. "Some more mischief, I'll be bound." "I'm going to look for your papers," answered Teddy promptly, "and I won't stop until I find them." His mother shot him a bright glance at the respectful reply, which rather took the wind out of Aaron's sails. "Humph," he muttered. "Talk is cheap." But he became silent and devoted himself to the breakfast, which Mrs. Rushton, with Martha's help, had made unusually tempting in order to coax him into good humor. "Now," said Mr. Mansfield Rushton when they had finished, "your Uncle Aaron and I are going down to the village. He's going to leave his watch to be repaired, and I've got to see Jed Muggs and settle with him for the damage to his coach and horses"--here he looked sternly at Teddy, who kept his eyes studiously on the tablecloth--"from the runaway. I'm going, too, to put up a notice in the post-office, offering a reward to any one who may find and return Uncle Aaron's papers. "As for you boys, I want you to get some of the other boys together and go over every foot of ground down near the river, where the accident----" "_Accident!_" sneered Aaron contemptuously. "Where the accident happened," went on Mr. Rushton, taking no notice of the interruption. "Look in every bush on both sides of the road. Slip on your bathing suits under your other clothes, and if you can't find the papers on land try to find them in the water. "In most places it isn't so deep but what you can wade around. Get sticks and poke under the stones and in every hole under the bank. In places where it's over your heads, dive down and feel along the bottom with your hands." "But do be careful, boys," put in Mrs. Rushton. "I'm always nervous when you get where the water is deep." "Don't worry, Agnes," were her husband's soothing words. "Both of them can swim like fish, and now they've got a chance to do it for something else than fun. "And mind, Teddy," he added, "it's up to you to get busy and make good for your own sake, as well as Uncle Aaron's. I haven't yet decided"--here Aaron grinned, unpleasantly--"just what I shall do to you for what happened yesterday, but I don't mind telling you that if you come home with those papers it's going to be a mighty sight easier for you than if you don't. Now get along with you," addressing both boys, "and make every minute tell." The Rushton boys hurried about, put on their bathing suits under their other clothes, and hastened from the house, eager for action. They were glad to get out of the shadow of Uncle Aaron, and, besides, the task they had before them promised to be as much of a lark as a duty. "I'll pick up Jack and Jim as I go along, and you skip around and get Bob," suggested Fred. "Probably we'll find some other fellows down by the bridge, and they'll be glad enough to help us do the hunting." Teddy assented, and soon had whistled Bob out of the house. "Hello, Teddy," was Bob's greeting. "You're still alive, I see. What did that old crab do to you last night?" "Nothing much," said Teddy cheerfully. "So far, I've only had to go without my supper. Didn't go altogether without it, though," and he poured into Bob's sympathetic ears the story of the pie and the chicken. "Bully for Martha," chuckled Bob. "She's the stuff!" "You bet she is!" echoed Teddy heartily. "But let's hurry now, Bob," he went on. "Fred and the other fellows are down at the bridge by this time, and we've got a job before us." The two boys broke into a run and soon overtook the three other boys, who were looking carefully among the bushes on each side of the road as they went along. This they did more as a matter of form than anything else, for it was hardly likely that the papers had been dropped this side of the bridge. It was almost certain that they had left Aaron's pocket at the moment he had made his flying leap into the stream. In that case, they would be either in the bushes on the bank or in the water itself. It was barely possible, too, that they had fallen in the coach, when the blow of the ball had brought Aaron to his knees. If that were so, they might have been jarred out of the coach on the further side of the road, when it had smashed into the trees. So when the boys reached the neighborhood of the bridge, the search began in earnest. The boys scattered about under the direction of Fred, who gave each one a certain section to search over. "Now, fellows," he urged, himself setting the example, "go over every foot with a fine-tooth comb. We've simply got to get those papers, or home won't be a very healthy place for Teddy." Apart from their liking for Teddy, the boys were excited by the idea of competition. To be looking for papers that meant real money, as Fred had carefully explained to them, seemed almost like a story or a play. Each was eager to be the first to find them and stand out as the hero of the occasion. But, try as they might, nobody had any luck. They reached and burrowed and bent, until their faces were red and their backs were lame. And at last they felt absolutely sure that the papers were not on either side of the stream. There remained then only the river itself. "Well, fellows," summed up Fred, finally, "it's no go on land. We've got to try the water. Here goes." And, stripping off his outer clothes, he dived in, to be followed a moment later by Teddy. "Gee, that water looks good," said Jim enviously. "I wish I'd thought to bring my bathing suit along." "So do I," agreed Jack, as he looked at the cool water dripping from the bodies of the brothers. "Well, what if we haven't!" exclaimed Bob. "Don't let's stand here like a lot of boobs. We can take off our shoes and roll our pants almost up to our waists. Then we can wade along near the edge, while Fred and Teddy do their looking further out in the river." It was no sooner said than done, and they were soon wading along in the shallower parts, each armed with a long stick, with which they poked into every place that they thought might give results. Fred and Teddy dived and dived again, keeping under water as long as they could, and feeling along the river bed. They kept this up until they were nearly exhausted, and had to go to the bank to rest. "It isn't our lucky day," said Fred, puffing and blowing. "I'm afraid the river doesn't know anything about those papers." "I hate to go home without them," said Teddy, as visions of Uncle Aaron flitted across his mind. "Oh, well, you fellows have certainly worked like truck horses," remarked Bob, "but if they're not there you can't get them, and you might as well make up your minds to it." "Phew, but I'm hot!" complained Jim. "Say, fellows, how would some of those peaches taste?" and he cast a longing look toward a peach orchard, across the way from where they were resting. "How would they taste?" repeated Jack, as he followed the direction of Jim's glance. "Yum-yum." "There's a lot of big mellow ones lying on the ground," went on Jim, whose mouth was watering more and more. "They'll only rot, anyway, so what's the matter with our getting a few? They're no good to Sam Perkins, and they'd certainly do us a whole lot of good." Fred and Teddy were hurrying into their clothes. "We want to keep a sharp lookout for Sam," cautioned Fred. "He's got a new dog whip, and he said that if he caught any boy in his orchard, he was going to skin him alive." "He's got to catch us first," said Teddy. "Let's take a chance." They took it. Another moment, and they were over the fence. CHAPTER IX CHASING THE TRAMPS The Rushton boys and their chums crouched low in the shadow of the fence, and took a careful look around. All of them knew the violent temper of Mr. Sam Perkins, and none of them wanted to make the acquaintance of that famous dog whip he had recently bought at the village store, loudly declaring at the same time the use he expected to make of it. But five sharp pairs of eyes could see nothing to cause alarm. A sleepy silence brooded over the orchard, and it looked as though Sam must be busy at some other part of his extensive farm. "I guess it's all right," said Fred, in a cautious whisper. "Cricky, look at those beauties!" exclaimed Jack Youmans, as he pounced upon a luscious peach that lay within a foot of him. The others quickly followed his example, and there was soon no sound except the munching of jaws, as they satisfied their first hunger for the delicious fruit. There was no need to pluck them from the trees, as there were plenty lying on the ground. And since these were doomed to rot in time, the consciences of the boys did not disturb them much. Still, they knew they were trespassing, and at first they kept a keen lookout. Nothing happened, however, and gradually their caution relaxed, and they strayed farther and farther from the road into the heart of the orchard. Suddenly, a fierce barking made them jump and sent their hearts into their throats. They looked behind them, and saw a big dog rushing toward them. He was between them and the fence, and shut off escape in that direction. "It's Sam's dog, Tiger!" ejaculated Bob, his face growing pale. "Quick, this way!" cried Fred, grasping the situation at a glance. "Let's make for the barn. It's our only chance." They were not more than two hundred feet from a big red barn, which had two entrances, one of which faced them. The one at the further end was closed, but the one to which the boys were nearer was open. They ran with all their might, a wholesome fear lending wings to their feet. There were many stories abroad about the ferocity of Tiger, whose name seemed to fit his nature. Only a week before, he had taken a piece out of a man's leg, and Sam Perkins had more than once been in danger of lawsuits on account of the dog's savage disposition. But the farmer was ugly himself, and, instead of trying to curb the brute, seemed to glory in its reputation. "I ain't a-goin' to muzzle him," he would say, when people complained that the dog was dangerous. "All any one has to do is to keep off my grounds, and he won't get hurt." The dog was gaining at every jump, but the boys had a good start, and the distance to the barn was short. They covered it in fast time, and almost fell inside the door. Fred and Bob had just time to swing it shut and slip the bar in place, when Tiger hurled himself against it. It was a close call, and for a minute or two they lay there, panting and unable to speak. The hay scattered on the floor had deadened the sound of their footsteps, as they piled in, and, in the silence of the big barn, the only sound came from their own gaspings for breath. "Oh!" Jim was beginning, when Fred lifted his hand and put his finger on his lips as a signal to keep still. "S-sh," he whispered. "I thought I heard some one speaking over there," and he pointed to a distant corner of the barn where fodder for the cattle was stored. "Who can it be?" whispered Teddy in return. "Do you think it can be Sam? If it is, we're done for." "No, it isn't Sam," was Fred's guarded reply. "If it were, he'd come to see what Tiger's barking about. Let's creep over there and take a look." As silently as Indians, the boys wormed their way across the floor. The only light came from the cracks in the side of the barn, and they had to use great care not to bump into anything that might betray their presence. Suddenly, Fred, who was leading, stopped. "Wait," he breathed. "I just got a look at them. There are two of them there, and they look to me like tramps. Stay here a minute." They halted, while he crept on a little farther, until, through a small opening in a stall, he could get a better view. He glued his eye to the opening and studied more closely the two strangers. His first guess, that they were tramps, proved to be correct. Both had all the marks of vagrants. Their clothes were ragged and dirty, their hair long and uncombed, and their faces were covered with scraggy beards. One was tall and lank, and seemed to be the leader of the two. His eyes were little and close together. He had no socks, and his toes showed through his ragged shoes. His only other clothing was a torn shirt, opened at the throat, and a pair of old trousers held up by one suspender. Up near his temple was an ugly scar, that looked as though it had been made by a knife. His companion was shorter and stockier. His clothes were on a par with those of his "pal," and he looked equally "down and out." A partly emptied bottle stood on the floor beside them, and their flushed faces and the glassy look of their eyes told what had become of most of its contents. "I tell you, I heard something," the shorter of the two was saying. "You're woozy," answered the other. "It's only the dog a-barkin'. He's treed a squirrel, or he's diggin' out a woodchuck, or somethin'." But, true to the laziness that had made them what they were, neither took the trouble to go to see what the disturbance was about. "So you think we can get away with that job all right?" asked one, evidently resuming a talk that had been interrupted. "Sure thing," said the other. "Why, it's a cinch. A blind man can do it. I took a squint at the place this mornin', an' it's like taking candy from a baby." Fred strained his ears to listen. But the men had dropped to a lower tone, and, try as he might, he could only catch a word here and there. Once when the tall man raised his voice a trifle, he heard the phrases "apple tree" and "side window." But this did not give him any clear idea of what was meant, nor did the shorter man's grunt of "dead easy" help him out. He beckoned to his companions, and, one by one, they crept up to take a look at the tramps. Teddy had just taken his turn, when they were startled at hearing a gruff voice, which they knew only too well, speaking to the dog. "What in thunder's the matter with yer, Tige?" A frantic outburst of barking was the response. "It's Sam!" murmured Teddy. "Now we're in for it!" exclaimed Bob, and his voice was shaky. "Keep perfectly still," whispered Fred. "He can't get in through that door, anyway. He'll have to come round to the other door, and the minute he does, we'll take down the bar from this one and bolt for the fence." "Sumthin' doin', eh!" exclaimed the farmer, as he tried the door. "I might have known that dog wouldn't have brought me over here fur nuthin'. Come along, Tige," and the boys heard him running along the side of the barn to the other door. The tramps too had heard the farmer, and sprang to their feet, confused and panic-stricken. Another instant, and the door flew open, and Sam Perkins rushed in, with Tiger at his heels. Coming from the bright sunlight into the twilight of the barn, the farmer peered around, not seeing clearly for a moment. But the tramps saw him plainly enough, as they saw also the pitchfork in his hand, and they made a rush past him for the open air. Taken by surprise, Sam was almost upset, and they took full advantage of the chance. A howl of pain showed that Tige had nipped the taller one, but he shook the dog off and ran after his companion, who was making a desperate effort to break the record for speed. Pulling himself together with a shout of rage, Sam joined in the chase. Fred slipped the bar from the door, and pushed it open. "Now's our chance, fellows!" he shouted. "Sam'll never catch them, and he'll be back here in a minute. Let's beat it while the going's good." He set the pace, and they needed no urging to follow close on his heels. All reached the fence and leaped over it. And not till they found themselves on the other side, did they dare to breathe. "Jiminy!" gasped Bob, "that was a narrow squeak!" "A miss is as good as a mile," panted Jim. "We didn't get here a minute too soon, either," said Teddy. "See, there's Sam coming back, now." "He's not much of a sprinter," commented Jack, as the heavily built farmer came lumbering back, muttering angrily to himself. "No," assented Jim, "and it's lucky for those tramps that he isn't. But Tige had a little better luck," he added, as the dog came trotting beside his master, holding in his mouth a patch of cloth that he had torn from one of his enemies. "Chewing the rag, as usual," chuckled Bob. "They make a sweet pair, don't they?" Sam caught sight of them and came over, scowling. "What are you boys hanging round here for?" he asked suspiciously. "We were watching you chase the tramps," answered Fred. "Did you catch them?" "None o' yer business," snarled Sam. "You certainly ran fine," said Bob admiringly. "I love to see you run, Mr. Perkins." "I'm goin' to see _you_ run in a minute," growled the farmer. "Here, Tige." But as the boys were not anxious to pursue the conversation, they made a more or less dignified retreat, and Sam, with a parting malediction on all tramps and all boys, went off towards his house. CHAPTER X BUNK GOES CRAZY "Hang it all!" exclaimed Teddy, as the Rushton boys and their chums came near their homes. "I hate to own up that we didn't find those papers." "It is too bad," admitted Bob. "But you did the best you could, and if they're not there, you can't help it." "I can see the look on Uncle Aaron's face," said Teddy. "That sort of I-told-you-so look that makes you wish you were big enough to lick him." "You sure do stand well with that uncle of yours," laughed Jim. "Yes," assented Teddy gloomily, "I stand like a man with a broken leg." "Oh, brace up," chirped Jack. "We had the peaches anyway." "Bother the peaches!" exclaimed Fred. "I'd give all the peaches in the world just to lay my eyes on those papers." "Sam Perkins at one end of the road and Uncle Aaron at the other," brooded Teddy. "I sure am up against it!" But the confession of failure had to be made. The boys had cherished a faint hope that somebody in town might have found the papers, and that when they got back at noon, Uncle Aaron might have recovered them. But although he had been downtown most of the morning and had inquired everywhere, there had been not the slightest trace of them, and he had returned tired and angry. "Rampagin' roun' like de bery Ole Nick," was the way Martha described him, when she had a moment alone with Teddy. "It sho duz beat all, how de good Lo'd lets people like him cumber de earf." His greeting was about as genial as Teddy had expected. But he had steeled himself for that and could stand it. What disturbed him much more was the distress his mother felt and the chilly disapproval of his father. The latter had settled with Jed Muggs that morning for the damage caused by Teddy. Jed had named an excessive price, but Mr. Rushton had been in no mood to haggle and had paid him what he asked. But it was not this that kept him silent and preoccupied. He was seriously debating with himself whether he would do well to take Aaron's advice. The boarding school idea had set him thinking. He wanted to do the very best thing for the boys, and he was worried by the thought that perhaps he had been too easy and indulgent. Several days passed, while he was pondering the matter. Gradually the atmosphere cleared, and the household began to go on as usual. Even Uncle Aaron lost some of his crankiness and seemed at times to be "almost human." And then, just as things were going along nicely, Teddy, once more, as Fred sorrowfully put it, had to "spill the beans." It was a very warm morning, and most of the family were out on the porch trying to get what air there was. Teddy had occasion to go upstairs, and had to pass the door of his uncle's room. The latter had an appointment to meet a little later on, and, as it was an important one, he had arranged to dress with more care than usual. His clothes, including a new white vest, were laid out neatly on the bed, near his writing desk. But what especially caught Teddy's eye, was a sheet of fly-paper, laid on a small table close beside the desk. Such things were a novelty in the Rushton home. There was no need for them, because every window and door was carefully screened during the hot weather, and Martha was death to any unlucky fly that happened to wing its way inside. But Uncle Aaron was so fidgety and nervous that even a solitary insect buzzing around kept him awake at night, and, at his request, Mrs. Rushton had secured the sticky sheet that now lay glistening on the table. It must have been Teddy's evil genius that caused Bunk, the house cat, to come strolling past the door at just that moment. He was so sleek and lazy and self-satisfied that Teddy was strongly tempted to shake him out of his calm. He hurried down to the kitchen, found a piece of meat on one of the breakfast dishes that Martha was clearing up, and ran upstairs again. Bunk was still there, putting the last touches on his toilet. His smooth fur, washed and rewashed, shone like silk. "Here, Bunk," called Teddy coaxingly, holding the bit of meat just above the little table. The confiding Bunk looked up lazily. Then his eyes brightened. He measured the distance, jumped and came down with all four paws on the sticky fly paper. With a yowl of surprise and fright, he tried to free himself from the mess. He used his head to get it away from his feet, and only succeeded in smearing his face and shoulders. At times he would get one foot loose, only to get it stuck again when he tried to free another. In less time than it takes to tell, he was a yellow, sticky mass. Thoroughly panic stricken, he took a flying leap to the desk, upsetting a bottle of ink in his course and landed on the bed, where he rolled over and over on the white vest and other clothes so carefully laid out by Uncle Aaron. Teddy was almost as scared as the cat. He dashed after him, grabbing at the paper, getting some severe scratches in the process, and finally yanked it away. As for Bunk, he dashed out of the room like a yellow whirlwind. Fred, who had heard the racket, came running upstairs and found Teddy standing aghast at the mischief he had caused. The older brother took in the situation at a glance. "Quick," he urged, "get out of the window. They'll be up in a minute." The kitchen extension was just under the window of the room. Teddy lifted the screen and dropped to the roof. From there it was only twelve feet to the ground and he made the drop in safety. No one saw him but Martha, and that faithful soul could be depended on to keep silent. Mr. Mansfield Rushton had already left for the city, but Mrs. Rushton and Uncle Aaron came hurrying up the stairs. The former was in a flurry of excitement, which increased materially when she looked into Uncle Aaron's room and saw the awful wreck that had been made of it. "Oh, whatever in the world has happened now?" she gasped. As for Aaron, he could hardly speak at all. He was speechless with rage, as he picked up his clothes and handled them gingerly. "Spoiled, utterly spoiled," he spluttered. Then, he caught sight of Bunk in one corner of the hall. "It's that confounded cat," he shouted, as he made a kick at him that missed him by a hair. "He got tangled up in the fly paper and carried it all over the room." But just then he saw the bit of meat that had tempted the unwary Bunk. He picked it up and looked hard at it. "Um-hum," he muttered, and the steely look came into his eyes. He turned sharply on Fred. "Where's Teddy?" he asked. "He doesn't seem to be around here anywhere," replied Fred. "I'll see if I can find him downstairs." And he went down with alacrity, but carefully refrained from coming up again. He remembered that he must see Bob Ellis at once. He opened the front door and passed swiftly round the corner. "He'll find him," growled Aaron bitterly. "Oh, yes, he'll find him! You won't see either of those boys till lunch time. "I tell you, Agnes," he went on fiercely, "one of those young scamps is just as bad as the other. Teddy starts the mischief and Fred does all he can to shield him." "You don't know yet that Teddy had anything to do with it," protested Mrs. Rushton, in a tone which she tried to make confident, but with only partial success. "No, of course not," he answered sarcastically, "he's never to blame for anything. All the same I'll bet my life that he and nobody else is at the bottom of this. How did this meat get up here, if somebody didn't bring it?" "Perhaps the cat brought it up," suggested Mrs. Rushton desperately. Then, feeling the weakness of her position, she went on hurriedly: "But now, I must get busy and clear up this awful mess. Give me those clothes, and Martha and I will fix them up right away." But though the damage to the clothes was soon repaired, storm clouds were still hovering over the household when Teddy came in to lunch. He loafed in with an elaborate pretense of unconcern. Nothing was said at first, and he was beginning to hope when Uncle Aaron suddenly blurted out: "What's the matter with your hand?" Though startled, Teddy lifted up his left hand. "Why, I don't see that anything's the matter with it," he replied, holding it out for examination. "I mean the one you're hiding under the table," went on Aaron stonily. "Oh, that one?" stammered Teddy. "Why, it's scratched," he added brightly, as he studied it with an expression of innocent surprise. There was a dead silence. Teddy, not caring to look anywhere else, kept gazing at his hand, as though it were the most fascinating object in the world. "Oh, Teddy!" moaned his mother. And then Teddy knew that the game was up. "Honestly, Mother," he stammered, "I didn't mean to--that is I meant to make the cat jump on the fly-paper, but I didn't think he'd----" Here was Uncle Aaron's cue. "Didn't think!" he stormed. "Didn't think! If you were my boy----" And here he launched into a tongue lashing that outdid all his previous efforts. It seemed to Teddy an age before he could escape from the table, carrying away with him the echo of Uncle Aaron's final threat to have it out with his father when he came home that night. It was the last straw. Mr. Rushton's indecision vanished at the recital of Teddy's latest prank. Before he slept that night he had written to Dr. Hardach Rally, asking for his catalogue and terms, intimating that if these proved satisfactory, he would send his two boys to Rally Hall. CHAPTER XI THE ROBBERY The answer came back promptly. In addition to the catalogue and pictures of the Hall and grounds, Dr. Rally wrote a personal letter. It was in a stiff, precise handwriting that seemed to indicate the character of the man. He would be very glad to take the Rushton boys under his care. He thought he was not exaggerating when he said that the standard of scholarship at Rally Hall was not exceeded by any institution of a similar kind in the entire state. Their staff of instructors was adequate, and their appliances were strictly up to date. There was a good gymnasium, and the physical needs of the boys were looked after with the same care as their mental and moral requirements. But what he laid especial stress upon was the discipline. This came under his own personal supervision, and he thought he could promise Mr. Rushton that there would be no weakness or compromise in this important particular. "That's the stuff!" broke in Uncle Aaron, gleefully rubbing his hands. "What did I tell you? Hardach Rally is the one to make boys mind." Fred and Teddy failed to share his enthusiasm, and Mrs. Rushton shivered slightly. But, taken as a whole, the letter met the views of Mr. Mansfield Rushton, and when the family council broke up, it was definitely settled that the boys should go to Rally Hall. Old Martha was "dead sot," as she put it, against the whole plan. "Ain' no good goin' to kum uv it," she grumbled to herself, as she jammed her hands viciously into the dough. "House'll seem like a graveyard wen dose po' boys get shunted off ter dat ole bo'din' school. Like enuf dey won't giv' um half enuf ter eat. An' all on 'count uv dat ole w'ited sepulker," she wound up disgustedly. But Uncle Aaron, wholly indifferent to Martha's views even if he had known them, was in high feather. He had carried his point, and, in the satisfaction this gave him, he became almost good-natured. He could even allow himself a wintry smile at times, as he reflected that the boys--the "pests," as he called them to himself--were to get a taste of the discipline that their souls needed. "He'll show them what's what," he chuckled. "He'll either bend 'em or break 'em. I know Hardach Rally." As for Fred and Teddy themselves, they hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. They loved their home and their parents, and then, too, they hated to leave their boy friends with whom they had grown up in the home town. But, on the other hand, there was the attraction of new sights and places and all the adventures that might come to them. It was another world into which they were going, and it was not in boy nature that they should not be thrilled by the prospect of "fresh fields and pastures new." But before the time came for their departure, Oldtown had a sensation that turned it topsy-turvy. The village store was robbed! The first thing the boys knew about it was when they heard a whistle under their windows that they recognized as that of Jack Youmans. They stuck sleepy heads out to see what had brought him there at that early hour. "Hurry up, fellows!" he cried excitedly. "Get your clothes on and come down. There's something doing." "What is it?" they asked in chorus. "Never you mind," answered Jack, swelling with a sense of his importance. "You get a move on and come down." They slipped into their clothes and in less than three minutes were down beside him. He made them beg a little before he finally gave up his secret. "The store was robbed last night," he said importantly. "The store!" exclaimed the boys. There was no need of specifying, as there was only one store in Oldtown of any importance. "How did it happen?" asked Fred. "Did they get much?" questioned Teddy. "They don't know yet," replied Jack to both questions. "A fellow came past our house a little while ago, and he called to my dad, who was working in the garden, that when Cy Briggs went to open up, he found that the front door was already open and everything inside was all scattered about. He can't tell yet just how much was stolen, but the safe was broken into and everything in it was cleaned out. Cy is awful excited about it, and they say he's running around like a hen with her head cut off. Get a wiggle on now, and let's get down there." The boys could not remember when anything like a robbery had happened before in the sleepy little town, and they were all afire with excitement. The family was not up yet, but the boys did not wait for breakfast in their eagerness to be on the scene of the robbery. A hasty raid on Martha's pantry gave each of them enough for a cold bite, and, eating as they went along, and running most of the way, they were soon in front of the village store. The news had traveled fast, and there was an eager crowd already gathered. All sorts of rumors were about, and in the absence of any real news as to the robbers, one guess was as good as another. The only thing about which there was no doubt at all was that the robbery had occurred. The open safe and tumbled goods were sufficient proofs of that. Cy Briggs, who had run the store for forty years, and had never had a robbery or fire or anything to disturb the regular order of things, was so flustered that he had not yet been able to find out the extent of his loss. One or two of the cooler heads were going over the stock with him, while the others clustered on the broad porch in front and waited for developments, keeping up a constant buzz of questions and conjectures. No one had heard any unusual noise the night before. The village constable, who constituted the entire police force of Oldtown, had made his usual round about ten o'clock, and, as a matter of form, had tried the door. But it had been securely fastened as usual, and there had been nothing to rouse his suspicion. Apart from two or three traveling men who had come in with Jed Muggs, and were now staying at the one hotel, nobody had seen any outsiders. The whole thing was a mystery, and this was increased by the discovery that while the door had been found open, showing that the thieves had come out that way, they must have found some other means of entrance. The door had been fastened by a bolt, which Cy had pushed into the socket the last thing before leaving. This had not been broken, as it would have been, if the robbers had forced their way in from the front. Cy himself had gone out of a back door, which he had locked, carrying the key away with him, and this door was found still locked when he came that morning to open up. "Well, Cy, how about it?" was the question from a dozen voices, as the old storekeeper, grizzled and flushed, came out on the porch. "How much did you lose?" "Don't know yet," Cy answered, wiping his forehead with a huge bandana handkerchief, "but I reckon it'll figger up to close on three or four hundred dollars' wuth." A hum of excitement rose from the crowd. To the boys especially, this seemed an enormous amount of money. "That's a right smart sum, Cy," remarked a sympathetic listener. "What was it they got away with?" "Money, mostly," mourned Cy. "The goods in the store wasn't bothered much. Reckon they was lookin' only for cash. Then, too, they've cleaned out a co'sid'able of jewelry and watches. Some of 'em I was gettin' ready to send away to the city to be repaired, and others had come back mended, but the customers hadn't called for 'em yet." Catching sight at that moment of Fred in the crowd, he added: "One of them watches was your Uncle Aaron's. It was a vallyble one and I feel wuss over that than almost anything else. I know he set a heap of store by it." "Uncle Aaron's watch!" gasped the boys. It was a knock-down blow for them, especially for Teddy. Was he never to get away from that miserable runaway? If it had not been for that, the watch would not have been injured, and at this very moment it might have been reposing in his uncle's capacious pocket. Now the "fat was in the fire" again. The chances were that the watch would never be seen again by the rightful owner. "I'm the hoodoo kid, all right!" he groaned. "It sure is hard luck," sympathized Jack. "Brace up, Teddy," urged Jim. "They may catch the fellows yet." "Swell chance!" retorted Teddy to their well-meant sympathy. "Even if they do, they won't get the watch back. Those fellows will make a beeline to the nearest pawnshop, and that'll be the end of it." "I wish we could have caught them at it," said Fred savagely. "If they'd only been working when we came past last night." "What time last night?" asked Cy, pricking up his ears. "About eleven o'clock, I guess," answered Fred. "Teddy and I had been over to Tom Barrett's house. He's just got a new phonograph, and we went over to hear him try it out. He had a lot of records, and it was pretty late when we came away." "And yer didn't see anything out of the way when you come past?" went on Cy. "Not a thing. We didn't meet a soul on the way home." Just then there was a stir inside the store, and the constable, Hi Vickers, came to the door. "Come here a minute, Cy," he said. "I bet I've found out how those fellers got into the store." As many as could crowded in after him as he led the way to a little side window. "They got in here," he said triumphantly. "But that's locked," said Cy. "Sure it is," explained Hi, "but they could have locked it again after they got in, couldn't they? One thing certain, they've unlocked it first from the outside. See here," and the constable showed where the blade of a heavy knife had left marks on the frame. It had evidently been thrust between the two halves of the window to push back the fastening. "There you are," he said. "You see, they clum that apple tree right alongside the winder and----" "Say!" broke in Fred, as a thought came to him like a flash of lightning, "I bet I know who the robbers were." All eyes were turned on him in surprise. "It was two tramps that I saw round here a few days ago," continued Fred. "A lot of us fellows were in Sam Perkins' barn, and we heard the tramps talking. They didn't see us, but we saw them. We couldn't hear all they said, but I did hear them say something about an 'apple tree' and 'side window' and something being 'dead easy.' I'd forgotten all about it till just now. But there's the apple tree and the side window, and that must have been what they were talking about." "By gum, it wuz!" assented Hi. "Tell us what the fellers looked like." "One of them was a good deal taller than the other," said Fred, trying to recall their appearance. "They were both ragged and dirty. And, oh, yes! the tall one had a scar up near his temple, as if he had been stabbed there some time." "Well," commented Hi, "that may help a lot. We know now what we've got to look for. I'll telephone all along the line to the other towns to be on the lookout for them, and some of us will hitch up and drive along the different roads. They can't have got very far, and we may get 'em yet." Later on, as the boys were on their way home, Jim chuckled. "What are you laughing about, Jim?" asked Bob. "I was just thinking," Jim replied, "that it was mighty lucky they didn't ask Fred how he happened to be in Sam Perkins' barn." CHAPTER XII OFF FOR RALLY HALL As Teddy had clearly foreseen, all that had happened before was as nothing, when Uncle Aaron learned that his cherished watch was gone, probably forever. He stormed and raged and wondered aloud what he had done that he should be saddled with such a graceless nephew. It was in vain that Mr. Rushton offered to make good the money loss. "It isn't a matter of money," he shouted. "I've had that watch so long that it had come to be to me like a living thing. I wouldn't have taken a dozen watches in exchange for it. Big fool that I was ever to come to Oldtown." All the amateur detective methods of the village constable ended in nothing. And as day after day passed without news, it began to be accepted as a settled fact that the culprits would never be found. One happy day, however, came to lighten the gloom of Uncle Aaron. And that was the day that the Rushton boys said good-by to Oldtown and started for Rally Hall. "Thank fortune," he said to himself, "they're going at last! A little longer and I'd be bankrupt or crazy, or both." But if Uncle Aaron was delighted to have them go, nobody else shared that feeling, except Jed Muggs. That worthy was in high glee, as he drove up to the Rushton home on that eventful morning, to take them and their trunks to the railroad station at Carlette. Although he had made a pretty good thing, in a money way, out of the accident, charging Mr. Rushton a great deal more than would have made up the damage, he had by no means forgiven Teddy for the fright and the shock he had suffered on that occasion. The Fourth of July incident of the painted horses, of which he firmly--and rightly--believed Teddy to have been the author, also still "stuck in his crop." The old coach and horses swung up to the gate, and Fred and Teddy came out. They had had a private parting with their parents, and now the whole family, including Bunk, had come out on the veranda to see them off. Mr. Rushton was grave and thoughtful. Mrs. Rushton was smiling bravely and trying to hide her tears. Uncle Aaron looked perfectly resigned. Old Martha was blubbering openly. The trunks were strapped on and the boys jumped inside the coach. Jed climbed to the driver's seat, chirruped to his horses and they were off amid a chorus of farewells. Those left behind waved to them until they were out of sight. But in the last glimpse that the boys had of the old home, they saw that their mother was sobbing on her husband's shoulder, while Martha's apron was over her face. They themselves were more deeply stirred than they cared to show, and for some time they were very quiet and thoughtful. They chanced to be the only passengers that morning, and Jed, having no one else to talk to, turned his batteries on them. "So you're goin' to leave us, be you?" he remarked, chewing meditatively on a straw. "Yes," answered Teddy, the light of battle coming into his eyes, "and we hate to tear ourselves away from you, Jed. You've always been such a good pal of ours." "It breaks us all up to leave you," chimed in Fred, "and we wouldn't do it if it weren't absolutely necessary. I don't know how you are going to get along without us." "A heap sight better than I ever got along with yer!" snapped out Jed. "I won't be lyin' awake nights now, wonderin' what rascality you kids will be cookin' up next." "And this is all the thanks we get for trying to make things pleasant for you all these years!" exclaimed Teddy, in mock despair. "The more you do for some people, the less they think of you," and Fred shook his head mournfully. "I tell you young scalawags one thing, and that ain't two," Jed came back at them. "Ef it hadn't be'n fer me, you two might be behind the bars this blessed minit. "I ain't never writ ter the gover'ment yit, about you interferin' with the United States mail," he went on magnanimously. "Yer pa and ma is nice folks an' I don't want ter make no trouble fer them. Perhaps I oughtn't ter hush the matter up, me bein', as yer might say, a officer of the gover'ment when I'm carryin' the mails"--here his chest expanded--"an' maybe the hull matter will come out yet and make a big scandal at Washington. Yer actually busted up gover'ment prope'ty. That padlock on the mail bag wuz bent so that I had ter git a new one----" "Yes," interrupted Fred, "father said that he paid you a dollar for that." "I've seen those same padlocks on sale in the store for twenty-five cents," added Teddy. "That's neither here nur there," said Jed hastily. "The nub of the hull thing is that if it hadn't been fer me, yer might be doin' the lock step in Atlanta or Leavenworth, or some other of them gover'ment jails. How would yer like that, eh? And wearin' stripes, an' nuthin' but mush and merlasses fer breakfast, an' guards standin' around with guns, an'----" But what other dismal horrors might have been conjured up by Jed will never be known, as at that moment they came up alongside the railroad station at Carlette, and more pressing things demanded his attention. "Great Scott, Teddy!" exclaimed Fred, as they jumped down, "the whole gang is here!" Sure enough, it seemed as though all the juvenile population of Oldtown had turned out to give them a royal send-off. They ran up to the boys with a shout. "It's bully of you fellows to walk all this distance to say good-by," said Fred, and Teddy echoed him. "We'd have come up to the house," explained Bob Ellis, "but we knew you'd have a whole lot to say to your own folks, and we didn't want to butt in." "We're all dead sore at your leaving the town," said Jim. "It won't seem like the same old place with you fellows out of it." There was a general chorus of assent to this from the other boys. "We hate to leave the old crowd, too," said Fred. "But, of course, we'll be back at holidays and vacation times. I only wish you fellows were going along with us." "That would be great," agreed Jack. "But no such luck for us." "I don't know how we're going to fill your place on the football and baseball teams," mourned Tom Barrett. "We'll be dead easy for the other teams now." "Don't you believe it!" said Fred heartily. "You'll find fellows to take our places that will be better players than we ever dared to be." "Nix on that stuff!" said Jim. "You know well enough that you put it all over every other fellow in town." The locomotive whistled at the nearest crossing, and a moment later the train came into sight. There was a perfect hubbub of farewells, and amid a chorus of good wishes that fairly warmed their hearts, the boys swung aboard. Even Jed thawed out enough to wave his hand at them in semi-friendly fashion. "I'll keep it dark," he called after them, "that is unless the gover'ment gits after me, on account of----" But the rest was lost in the rattle of the train. The Rushton boys were off at last. CHAPTER XIII ANDY SHANKS, BULLY The train was a long one, consisting of seven cars, beside the smoker, but, as the homeward rush after summer vacations was in full swing, it was pretty well filled, and the boys found it hard to get two seats together. It was only after they had gone through the first three coaches, that they saw their opportunity. About the middle of the fourth car, a back had been turned so that two seats faced each other. Only one passenger was occupying this space, a large overgrown boy, about sixteen years old. His face was heavy, and his loose mouth and protruding eyes gave him a most unpleasant expression. A traveling cap was pulled down part way over his eyes, and he looked up from under the peak of this with a cold, piggy stare, as the boys paused beside the seats. Filling up the rest of the seat beside him was a raincoat and a tennis racket. On the seat facing him he had deposited a heavy suit case, that filled it from end to end. Fred and Teddy stood beside him for a moment without speaking, taking it for granted that he would take his suit case from the seat and put it on the floor. He did nothing of the kind, however, and continued to gaze at them insolently. The surprise that Fred felt at first was rapidly giving place to a different feeling, but he restrained himself, and asked, pleasantly enough: "Beg pardon, but would you mind putting your suit case on the floor, so that we may have the seat?" "Of course, I'd mind," came the ungracious answer. "There are plenty of other seats in the train, if you'll only look for them." A red flush began to creep up Fred's neck, which to any one who knew him would have been a danger signal. But he put out a hand to restrain Teddy, and answered patiently: "Perhaps there may be, though I haven't been able to find them, but I just happen to want this one," and he pointed to where the suit case was resting. "Nothing doing!" sneered the other. "Guess again!" Fred came of fighting stock. One of his ancestors had fought in the battle of Kings Mountain, and another had scoured the seas under Decatur in the War of 1812. He had been taught to keep his temper under restraint and never to provoke a quarrel. But he had been trained also never to dodge trouble if it came his way in any case where his rights or his self-respect were involved. Like a flash, he grasped the heavy suit case and put it on the floor, its owner giving a howl as it came down on his toes. At the same instant, Teddy swung the back of the seat so that it faced the other way, and the boys dropped into it. The rage of the flabby-faced youth was fearful. He started to his feet, his eyes popping from his head in his excitement. "You--you----" he spluttered. "I'll----" "Well," replied Fred, turning and looking him straight in the face, "what'll you do?" Before the resolute glow in Fred's eyes, the bully weakened. "You'll find out what I'll do," he mumbled. "I'll--I'll get you yet." "All right," remarked Fred calmly. "You can start something whenever you like. I'll be ready for you. No car seat hog can try any such game with me and get away with it." The fellow slumped back in his seat, mouthing and muttering. Nor was his defeat made less bitter by noting the smiles of approval with which the other passengers greeted the incident. "Good work, son," laughed a grizzled old farmer, sitting across the aisle. "That's the way to take the wind out of his sails." "What you got to say about it?" growled Andy, glaring at him. "Whatever I choose to," was the answer, "and there'll be plenty more to say if you give me any of your impudence." Andy subsided, but for the rest of the journey his little eyes glowered with rage as he kept them fixed on the boys in front. "He's a sweet specimen, isn't he?" chuckled Teddy. "I'd hate to have to live under the same roof with him," answered Fred, little thinking that for the next nine months they would have to do just that thing. "Starting off with a scrap the first thing!" laughed Ted. "Wonder what mother would say to that?" "I think she'd say we did just right," answered Fred, "and I'm dead sure that father would." Nothing further happened to mar the pleasure of their journey. The country through which the train was passing was entirely new to the boys, and, in the ever changing panorama that flew past the windows, they soon became so absorbed, that they almost forgot the existence of their unpleasant fellow-traveler. "Green Haven the next stop!" sang out the brakeman. "Here we are," said Fred, as the boys began to gather up their traps. A little quiver of excitement ran through their veins. They were on the threshold of a new life. It was the most momentous step they had ever taken. With a clangor of the bell and hissing of steam, the train slowed up at the station. Green Haven was a smart, hustling little town, much larger than Oldtown. There was a row of stores stretching away from the station, quite a pretentious hotel, and the spires of three churches rose above the maples that bordered the village streets. There was the hotel bus drawn up beside the depot, and alongside this a much larger one, used by the students in going to and from Rally Hall, which was a little more than a mile from the town. "Quite a crowd of people getting off here," commented Fred, as he stepped into the aisle of the car. "Yes," answered Teddy. "Hello, the bully is gone!" he exclaimed, as he glanced at the seat back of him. "Sure enough," rejoined Fred. "There he goes, now," and he indicated the rear door of the car, through which their ugly neighbor was just disappearing. "I wonder if he lives in Green Haven," said Teddy. "If he does, we may run across him once in a while." "Something pleasant to look forward to," laughed Fred, as they stepped down to the station platform. There was a large crowd of young fellows at the station, and there was a noisy interchange of greetings, as others stepped from the train. Everybody seemed to know everybody else, and the boys felt a little forlorn, as they looked over the gay throng and saw no face that they knew. They were making their way toward the bus, when a tall, manly young fellow, who had been watching them, came to meet them. His keen grey eyes were kindly and humorous, and he wore a friendly smile that made the boys warm to him at once. "I don't know how good a guesser I am," he laughed, as he held out a hand to each, "but I'll bet you fellows are going to Rally Hall." "Guessed it right, the first time," smiled Fred, as he and Teddy grasped the extended hands. "Good," was the answer. "Then we're fellow sufferers, and we'd better get acquainted right away. Melvin Granger is my handle. What are the names you fellows go by? "Brothers, eh?" he went on, when the boys had introduced themselves. "That's dandy. It won't be half as lonesome for you at the start as it would be if either of you came alone. Still, there's a bunch of good fellows here, and it won't be long before you'll feel at home. I think you'll like them, most of them, that is. Of course, there is, here and there, an exception----" He paused just here to nod carelessly to a passer-by. "How are you, Shanks?" he said indifferently. The boys followed the direction of his glance, and Teddy clutched Fred's arm. "Why!" he exclaimed, "that's the fellow we had the scrap with on the train." "Scrap," repeated Granger, laughing. "Well, I don't wonder. Scrap is Andy's middle name. He," and his eyes twinkled, "he's one of the 'exceptions' I just mentioned." CHAPTER XIV "HARDTACK" RALLY "Well," commented Fred, as they made their way toward the bus which was filling up rapidly, "I'm glad that he's the exception and not the rule. A very little of him will go a good way with me." "Yes, that's a case where 'enough is plenty,'" assented Granger. The Rushton boys' bags were slung into a wagon standing alongside the bus and their trunks followed. Then the lads took the only seats remaining in the bus, the door slammed to and they were on their way to Rally Hall. The students inside were in high spirits, and as the Rushton boys looked around at their companions they were ready to believe Melvin Granger's statement that they were all around good fellows. Brown as berries from their summer outings, full of the zest of living, their bright eyes and boisterous laughter showed that they were kindred spirits to the newcomers. "I don't see our grouchy friend here with the rest," Fred remarked, as he looked around. "Not with the common herd," grinned Melvin. "There he goes now," as they heard the honk of a horn, and an automobile swept by, leaving a cloud of dust behind it. In the driver's seat, holding the wheel, was their acquaintance of the train, while slumped down beside him was a smaller youth, with little, shifting eyes and a retreating chin. The fellows in the bus looked at each other understandingly. "Andy and his valet," one of them remarked. "Yes," replied Granger, to the unspoken question in the eyes of the brothers, "he's got an auto of his own. Keeps it in a garage down in the village." "To tell the truth," he went on, "that's half the trouble with Shanks. He has more money than is good for him. His father's a millionaire they say--got a big woolen mill somewhere down in Massachusetts. But if he knows how to make money, he doesn't know how to bring up a boy. Andy's the only son, and his father lets him have all the money he wants, and doesn't ask him what he does with it. He's always been allowed to have his own way, and it's only natural that he should think he owns the earth. And that's one of the reasons he wanted to have four seats to himself in the train this morning, even if some one else had to stand." "One of the reasons, you say. What are the others?" asked Fred. "Well, I guess the others must be set down to Andy's unfortunate disposition," laughed Granger. "There are other fellows here who have rich fathers, but they're good fellows just the same." "Was that really his valet who was in the auto with him?" asked Teddy. "No," replied Melvin, with a smile, "that's only the name the fellows gave to Sid Wilton. He plays second fiddle to Shanks. He's always at his beck and call, and ready to fetch and carry for him. He jumps through the hoop and rolls over and plays dead whenever Andy gives the word. "But here we are now," the other youth went on, as the bus turned from the road into a broad avenue, shaded by elms and maples. "Behold, gentlemen and fellow citizens," he jested, "the far-famed institution of learning known as Rally Hall!" The boys leaned out eagerly to see what would be their home for many months to come. Before them rose a massive building, three stories in height, made of pressed brick and with white granite facings. A wing at right angles to the main building on each side, gave it the form of three sides of a square. A wide flight of stone steps led to the main floor, which was devoted to class rooms and the offices of the institution. On the second floor were the dormitories, varying in size, and containing from eight to twelve beds each. The rooms of the principal and teachers occupied the greater part of the third floor, while a section in the left wing was set apart for the janitor and the other employees of the school. Before the building stretched a large campus, covering several acres. Most of it was lawn, although it was interspersed with bits of woodland. On one side of it was a large frame building, used as a gymnasium, and immediately adjoining was the athletic field. This was very large and was kept in superb condition. There were a number of tennis courts, but the major part was reserved for baseball and football. A full-sized diamond was surrounded with smooth turf that shone like green velvet, though browning a little in places under the September sun. A half mile running track encircled the whole field. Directly in front of the Hall, at the foot of the gently sloping campus, lay Lake Morora. It was about two miles in length by three-quarters of a mile wide and was dotted by several tiny islands. It was the most beautiful body of water the boys had ever beheld, and they fell in love with it at once. "My! isn't it a peach?" murmured Teddy. "It sure does make a hit with me!" agreed Fred emphatically. "It's a dandy, all right," was Granger's comment, "and the fellows have no end of fun on it. But come along now," he added. "You'll have plenty of time later on to ask 'what are the wild waves saying?' But just at present, we'd better hunt up old Hardtack." "Hardtack?" asked Fred wonderingly. "Sure!" grinned Granger, "the boss of this shebang." "Oh!" exclaimed Fred, a light breaking in upon him, "you mean Dr. Hardach Rally?" "Dr. Hardach Rally," said Melvin, with mock solemnity, "is the very man I mean. "Naturally," he went on, "I don't call him 'Hardtack' to his face. It wouldn't be exactly healthy to do it." "Hardtack," chuckled Teddy. "Wouldn't Uncle Aaron have a fit if he knew the fellows called him that?" "The name fits pretty well, too, I guess," laughed Fred. "From what we've heard, he must be a terror." "Oh, I don't know," rejoined Granger. "He isn't exactly a cooing dove in disposition, and if a fellow tries any monkey business, he comes down on him like a thousand of brick. Still, he's not such a bad kind after all. He's pretty severe, and he won't stand for a shirk or a crook. But if a fellow's white and tries to do the square thing, he'll get along and not find Hardtack too hard to digest." By this time they had mounted the steps, and Granger, who had taken an instant liking to the boys and had made himself their "guide, philosopher and friend," led the way to the private office of the head of Rally Hall. A gruff "come in" was the answer to his knock, and they entered the study. It was a large square room with a polished hardwood floor. Behind the flat mahogany desk sat Dr. Hardach Rally. He was lean and spare and above middle height. He wore a pair of horn spectacles through which peered a keen, uncompromising pair of eyes. He gave the impression of a stern man, but nevertheless a just one. "Good afternoon, Granger," he said stiffly, and his eyes rested inquiringly on the two boys. "Good afternoon, Dr. Rally," replied Granger. "These friends of mine are Fred and Teddy Rushton. I met them at the railroad station." Dr. Rally shook hands with the newcomers and asked them to be seated. Then Granger excused himself and with a whispered "see you later" hurried from the room. CHAPTER XV LEARNING THE ROPES The boys sat there, silently studying the new "master of their fate," and wondering how they would get along with him. He, in turn, looked them over carefully. Then he leaned forward and took some papers from his desk. "I was expecting you," he said, glancing at two letters he held in his hand. "Your father wrote me that you would reach here to-day. "I have also here a letter from your uncle, Mr. Aaron Rushton," he went on. "He is a very close friend of mine, and I gather that it was through his suggestion that your father decided to send you here." Fred murmured an assent, while Teddy's heart sank, as he tried to imagine what Uncle Aaron had said about him in the letter. Dr. Rally sat up straight in his chair. It was significant that it was not an easy revolving chair, but as stiff and perpendicular as the doctor himself. "The matter of your studies and assignment to classes," Dr. Rally continued, "will be looked after by Professor Raymond, my chief assistant. I will send you to him in a moment. But first, I want to say one word. "The discipline of the school is strict, and it must be obeyed. Sometimes"--here he glanced at Uncle Aaron's letter and then let his gaze fall on Teddy, who squirmed inwardly--"a boy comes here who thinks that he is going to run the school. He never makes the same mistake a second time. That is all." He gave the boys directions how to find Professor Raymond, and they found themselves out in the hall, surprised at the briefness of the interview, but relieved that it was over. "Say!" exclaimed Fred, "he didn't have so much to say, after all." "He didn't talk very much, if that is what you mean," corrected Teddy, who was unusually thoughtful, for him, "but he said a good deal." "I wonder what Uncle Aaron told him in his letter," mused Teddy. "I'll bet he just skinned me alive." "Oh, well, don't you care," Fred consoled him. "Your cake is dough with Uncle Aaron, and I suppose it will always, unless he finds his watch and papers." "Do you suppose he ever will?" asked Teddy, for at least the hundredth time, and rather wistfully. "We'll keep on hoping so, anyway," replied Fred. "But here's the room the doctor told us to go to." They found Professor Raymond to be a young man, alert and vigorous and full of snap. He was very friendly and cordial, and the boys liked him from the start. He examined the boys as to the point that they had reached in their studies, and carefully looked over the reports they had brought from their teachers in the Oldtown school. These proved exceedingly satisfactory. Fred's work had been really brilliant, while Teddy, despite his love of mischief, had held a very creditable rank in his studies. The professor assigned them to their classes and gave them all necessary directions as to the hours of study and times for recitations. Then he consulted a slip he took from his desk. "I'm going to put you boys in Dormitory Number Three," he said finally. "There are ten beds in there, and just two have been left vacant. I'll give directions for your trunks and bags to be sent up there, and you can unpack and get your things arranged in the wardrobe and locker that stand at the heads of your beds. By the time you get rested and freshened up, it will be nearly time for supper." Dormitory Number Three, they found to be a very large and airy room in the front of the building on the second floor, and commanding a splendid view of the lake. There were ten single beds, with ample space between them, and at the head of each was a wardrobe and locker. At the foot was a washstand with all the necessary appliances. The dormitory was intended for sleeping purposes only. On the floor below, there were special study rooms, where the boys were supposed to prepare their lessons for the next day's recitations. Fred and Teddy had just begun to wash, when Granger came through the door like a whirlwind. "Well, by all that's lucky!" he exclaimed. "So Raymond's put you in here, has he? I was hoping he would. Now that's what I call bully!" "That's what we call it, too, if this is your dormitory," said Fred, who had seldom formed so strong a liking for any one on such short acquaintance. "I've slept here for the last two years," replied Melvin, "and I think it's the best dormitory in the whole school. Look at the view from here." His sweeping gesture took in the lake, rippling in the glow of the western sun. "It's a pippin, all right!" assented Fred. "It sure is!" echoed Teddy. "And we've got a ripping lot of fellows in here, too," went on Melvin. "All of them are the real goods. There isn't a snoop or a sneak in the bunch. All of them are old timers, except two fellows that came in two days ago. One of them is named Garwood, who comes from out West somewhere. The other is Lester Lee from somewhere down on the coast of Maine. I don't know much about them yet, but I like them first-rate from what I've seen of them so far. I think we're going to be a regular happy family, as soon as we get going, and I'm mighty glad you fellows are going to be in the crowd." Nobody was gladder than Fred and Teddy themselves. Although they had not confessed it, even to each other, they had felt a sort of dread of the first few days at school. They had not known but what it might take weeks before they could establish their footing and begin to feel at home. Yet here it was only a few hours, and this friendly, big-hearted boy had taken them right in, as cordially as though he had known them for years. If they were to suffer from loneliness or homesickness, it would not be Melvin Granger's fault. "Here come some of the fellows now," he said, as a noisy group burst into the room and began to make use of wash basins and towels. "I won't stop to introduce you now. The supper gong will ring in about five minutes, and they'll be breaking their necks to get ready in time. When we get up here again after supper and study hours, I'll trot them all out, and they can tell you the sad stories of their lives." As he had predicted, the splashing of water and brushing of hair were interrupted a few moments later by the clanging of the gong that told a hundred or more hungry boys that supper was ready. There was no need of a second summons, and with a last hasty touch to their incomplete toilets, they came trooping into the immense dining-room that covered an entire floor in one of the wings. There were eight long tables, at the head of each of which was one of the teachers. Dr. Rally sat apart, in state, with his family, at a private table in one corner of the room. For this, all the boys inwardly thanked their stars. Not one of them would have cared to eat under the direct glare of the head of the school. Fred and Teddy were glad to find that they had been assigned to the table over which Professor Raymond presided. Melvin, too, was at the same table, a little higher up. The food was plentiful and well cooked, and although Fred and Teddy would not have minded having one or two of the dainties that old Martha was so adept in preparing, it was plain that her prophecy of their early death from starvation was not going to be fulfilled. They made a most satisfactory meal, marred only by the fact that Teddy's piece of pie was devoured by some unknown neighbor while he was talking to Fred. He was game, however, and not being able to swallow the pie, swallowed his resentment, making a mental vow to get even, if he should ever discover the culprit. A half an hour for rest and recreation followed the supper. Then the bell rang for a study period of two hours. At the end of this time work was over for the day, and the boys sought their dormitories to do as they chose till bedtime. All lights were to be out by ten o'clock. The boys came into Number Three with a clatter and a bang. When they were all there, Melvin lifted his hand to hush the racket. "Hi, there, you fellows," he shouted. "Keep still for a minute. I want to say something." The tumult subsided, as the boys came crowding around him. "Gentlemen," he said, with mock dignity--"I know I flatter you, but no matter--I want to introduce you to two new roommates, Fred and Teddy Rushton." CHAPTER XVI A JOLLY CROWD There was a general bow and smile on the part of all, as the boys acknowledged the introduction, and then Melvin became more personal: "You have here before you," he said to the Rushton boys, assuming the air and tone of a "barker" at a seaside show, "the most gorgeous collection of freaks ever gathered under one tent. Positively, gentlemen, an unparalleled aggregation of the most astonishing wonders of nature now in captivity, assembled by the management without regard to expense from all quarters of the civilized and uncivilized world. So remarkable, gentlemen, are these specimens of the animal world that they have even been taught to walk, talk and eat like human beings. Some have even gone so far as to say that they _are_ human, although this opinion is not maintained by those who know them best. "And what do I charge you, gentlemen, for gazing at this mammoth collection of monsters and missing links? Do I charge you a half a dollar? I do not. Do I even ask you for a quarter? I do not. Do I even set you back to the extent of a dime? I do not. Do I even extract from your vest pocket the humble jitney? No, gentlemen, a thousand times, no! "This amazing show is free, gentlemen, absolutely free, free as the air, free as the sunshine, free as good advice, free as----" He ducked, just as a pillow flew past his head. "Jo-Jo, the dog-faced boy, did that," he explained; "whenever he hears me say 'free' he thinks it means that he's to be free with me. But I don't mind, because he never hits anything." There was a general laugh, and Granger abandoned his showman's attitude. "This is Billy Burton, the sweet singer of the Wabash," he said, indicating a stocky youth with a shock of red hair. "We call him the Indiana Nightingale, because he's so different. You ought to hear him sing 'We Give the Baby Garlic, So that We Can Find Him in the Dark!' The sentiment's so strong, it brings tears to your eyes." "You're pretty good at music yourself, Mel," retorted Billy. "I?" said Melvin in surprise. "Why I don't know one note from another. I don't think I could play a jewsharp or a hand-organ. What kind of music am I good at?" "Chin music," replied Billy. Melvin was fairly caught, and the boys howled. "You got me that time, Billy," Melvin cried. "But, talking of music, here's the real goods in that line," and he laid his hand on the shoulder of an olive-skinned Italian boy, with delicate features and large dark eyes. "This is Tony Dirocco," he went on; "Tony's a count or some other high muckamuck in his own country, and he's studying here while his father is at Washington on some diplomatic business or other. But Tony doesn't care half as much about books as he does about music. Say, when he gets hold of a violin he fairly makes it talk. Real high brow stuff, you know, operas and things like that, the kind that goes right up and down your spine and takes your heart out by the roots. Just wait until he gives us one of his concerts all by himself." Tony shook hands with a shy smile, and the boys made up their minds that they were going to like him immensely. "Now for our Spanish athlete," said Granger, "the man who 'throws the bull.' This is Slim Haley," and he nodded toward a fat chubby fellow who must have weighed close to two hundred pounds. His broad face was wreathed with smiles, and his eyes twinkled with fun, as he came forward. "This puny infant," went on Melvin, "can tell the most wonderful stories you ever heard, and tell them with such an innocent air that sometimes you almost believe him. He's got Baron Munchausen skinned a mile. He was telling me one to-day about a rabbit, and I sat watching him, expecting every minute to see him choke." "Oh, come off, Mel," laughed "Slim." "You see," he said, turning to the boys, "the trouble with Mel is that he hasn't imagination enough to understand anything he hasn't seen himself. Now that story of the rabbit----" "Let's hear it, and judge for ourselves," suggested Fred. "Why, it was like this," said Slim. "It was out in the Western League, and they were having a close game of ball. It was in the ninth inning, with two men out and one run needed to win. "The man at the bat, one of the best sluggers on the team, soaked the ball good and plenty on a line to centre field. It hit a rabbit, who was browsing near the centre field fence. Of course it scared him, and he came streaking in and reached second base just before the batter. "Down the line went the rabbit toward third, with the batter legging it right after him. The rabbit touched third and then, frightened at the crowd in the bleachers just behind third, it turned around and scooted for the home plate. It crossed the plate with the batter right at its heels, just as the ball was thrown in. But although the batter touched the plate just before the ball got there, the umpire called him out." "I don't see why," interrupted Teddy. "Of course there was a big kick about it," said Slim smoothly, "but the decision went, just the same. The umpire said the rabbit paced the runner and made him run faster than he otherwise would, and so he got to the plate before the ball." There was a dead silence, while the boys watched Slim, as though they expected the fate of Ananias to overtake him. Fred coughed significantly. "You see," said Slim mournfully, to Granger, "he doesn't believe it either. You've poisoned his mind against me. You've taken away my reputation. Why, if you don't believe it," he went on, in pretended indignation, "I can take you out there and show you the very grounds where the thing happened! I can show you the very base that the rabbit touched! I can show you the bleachers where the crowd sat that frightened the rabbit! If the rabbit's alive still, perhaps I can show you the rabbit! If----" "That'll do," said Melvin solemnly. "The court finds you guilty, and condemns you to twenty years of truth-telling." "That's a cruel and unusual punishment," put in Billy Burton, "and the Constitution forbids that kind." "I'm only making the punishment fit the crime," answered Melvin. "I'm ashamed of you, Slim. Now you go way back and sit down, while I introduce the rest of these infants." The remaining "infants," so disrespectfully alluded to, were duly made known to the boys in a similar jovial way. There was Ned Wayland, who was introduced as the heaviest batter on the baseball team, and Tom Eldridge, who had kicked the deciding goal in their last game of football with a rival school. Finally, there were Lester Lee and Bill Garwood, of whom Melvin had less to say, because they had just come, and he knew them hardly better than he did the Rushton boys themselves. But Fred and Teddy felt from the start that there was something in these newcomers that attracted them strongly. Bill Garwood, they found, was a quiet, reserved youth, who gave one the impression of latent force. His eyes that looked straight into theirs were clear and frank, and there were the tiny wrinkles beneath them that come from looking off into far spaces. On the ranch at Snake River from which he came, he had lived far from neighbors, and he seemed a little shy and awkward amid the abounding life at the Hall. But, underneath his quiet exterior, one felt that he had sterling qualities and in case of trouble would be a good friend to have at one's back. Lester Lee impressed them with equal favor. He was tall and lean, and his face was as bronzed as a sailor's. This did not surprise the boys when they learned that he had lived in the lighthouse at Bartanet Shoals on the coast of Maine. He was jolly and full of fun, and had a magnetic way with him that put him on cordial terms with the boys at once. When at last they were undressing, seated on their adjoining beds, Fred turned to Teddy, who had just given a low chuckle. "What's the joke?" he asked. "I was thinking that the joke was on Uncle Aaron," replied Teddy. "How's that?" "Why, he thought he was punishing us by having us sent here," answered Teddy, "and I'll just bet that we're going to have the best time of our lives." "Provided we don't have a run in with Andy Shanks," suggested Fred, yawning. "Yes," said Teddy thoughtfully, "we've got to look out for that fellow." "I don't think he knows we're here yet," continued Fred. "He didn't seem to see us when he spoke to Granger this afternoon." "He'll find it out soon enough," remarked Teddy, "and when he does, look out for squalls." And the squalls were not long in coming. CHAPTER XVII TEDDY'S JOKE Two weeks went by with amazing swiftness, and it looked as though Teddy's prediction was going to be realized. Certainly, so far, they were having, in Fred's words, "a whale of a time." All the newness and rawness had worn off, and they felt as fully at home at Rally Hall, as they might have felt in months, if they had started under less favorable conditions. All the boys in their own dormitory had learned to like them thoroughly, and among the rest of the boys outside they were general favorites. There were, to be sure, a few exceptions. And chief among these were the bully, Andy Shanks, and his toady, Sid Wilton, together with two or three others who hung about Shanks, because of his money and the "good times" he could give those who sought his favor. Andy, in the crowd at the station, had not seen the boys get off the train and enter the bus. So that he was entirely taken aback, when, on the following day, he had come face to face with them on the campus. He stepped back with an ugly sneer. "So you're here, are you?" he whipped out. "No," said Fred coolly, "I'm somewhere else." "None of your lip now!" snarled Shanks, thrusting out his jaw and putting his pasty face close to Fred's. "I'm not used to taking back talk from any fellow in this school." "You'd better get used to it then right away," was the retort, "because I give it to you straight that you're going to get plenty of it, if you come fooling around me. And I give you the tip to steer clear of me, if you don't want to get something besides talk." The bully was clearly at a loss to know what to do, when he found his bluff called in such a determined manner. He had been used to having things largely his own way. His money was accountable for this, in part, and then, too, he was much larger and stronger than most of the boys in the school. He measured Fred with his eye from head to foot, and what he saw did not serve to increase his confidence. Fred was tall and muscular, and Andy saw again in his eyes the fighting look that had cowed him in the train. Still it was hard for him to believe that, when the test came, this newcomer would not back down as most of the other boys had done. Besides, quite a crowd of the fellows had come up now, scenting a fight in prospect, and it would ruin his reputation among them if he retreated now before them all. "I've a good mind to give you a thump in the jaw," he growled. "Don't hesitate on my account," said Fred politely. The snicker that came from the crowd at this remark maddened Andy. "I won't," he shouted, and made a move to strike. Like a flash, Fred shed his coat. "Come on then," he cried, "and I'll give you the licking that you're aching for." There was a delighted stir among the other fellows, as they formed a ring around the two. Their sympathies were all with Fred, although few expected him to win against the bully of the school. Only one voice was lifted for Shanks. "Soak him, Andy," piped up the shrill voice of Sid Wilton, his toady, whom most of the boys disliked even more than they did Andy, if that were possible. But Andy, at that moment, was not showing any great eagerness to "soak" his antagonist. If Fred had flinched in the slightest degree, he would have been upon him. But as he looked into the flashing eyes that met his defiantly, the "yellow streak" that is in most bullies began to show in Andy. His pallid face grew whiter and a blue tinge showed about his lips. With the eyes of all upon him, however, he saw no way of retreat, and began to take off his coat. It was noticeable, though, that he did this with great deliberation. Suddenly a look of relief came into his eyes as he saw an approaching figure. "Here comes Professor Raymond," he said, trying to put into his words a tone of disappointment. "We'll have to put this off till some other time. Mighty lucky for you, too, or I'd have done you up good and proper," he flung at Fred, all his courage returning when there was no longer any demand for it. "Let's go down to the gymnasium and have it out there," suggested Fred. But Andy pretended not to hear. He slipped on his coat hurriedly, and, in company with Sid Wilton, strolled off in one direction, while most of the boys scattered in the other. Professor Raymond sauntered up to a little group, composed of Fred, Teddy, Billy Burton and "Slim" Haley. His keen eye took in the flushed face of Fred and the air of suppressed excitement among the others. He guessed pretty well what had been about to happen, and, knowing Andy for what he was, he had little doubt as to who had provoked the row. In his secret heart he would not have been at all sorry to have that young cub get the whipping he richly deserved. Still, of course, he could not tolerate any breach of the rules of the school, which strictly forbade fighting. He paused and looked keenly from one to the other. "Any trouble, boys?" he asked. "No, sir," answered Fred respectfully, "that is, not yet." "Nor at any other time, I hope," said his teacher. "Remember, boys, no fighting." But he did not pursue the matter further, and, after chatting a moment, went on, with a little smile upon his lips. In his own college days he had been the lightweight champion of his class. There was good red blood in Professor Raymond. "That 'not yet' was a good one," grinned Billy Burton. "I see a whole lot of trouble coming in the near future." "I shouldn't wonder," answered Fred, who was firmly convinced in his own mind that Andy would still force him to give him the thrashing that he needed. "And I guess that most of the trouble will be for Andy," said Slim. "Did you notice how he tried to crawfish just now? And how glad he was to see the prof coming? It was a life-saver for Andy." "Yes," laughed Billy, "he reminded me of two fellows that got into a fight. Half a dozen men rushed in, crying, 'hold them, stop them.' The fellow who had been getting the worst of it hollered out: 'That's right, boys, five of you hold him. One'll be enough to hold me.'" "It sure wouldn't have needed many to hold Andy back," chuckled Slim. As the days passed on, however, the affair simmered down and perhaps would have died a natural death, if a bit of mischief on Teddy's part had not revived it. Andy, one day, brought out on the campus a placard, on which was written "Kick me." A bent pin at the top enabled him to fasten it to the coat of some unsuspecting boy. Then Andy would give him a vigorous kick, and when the victim protested, would show him the invitation. Under ordinary conditions it would only have been a harmless joke, and would have been taken in good part. But Andy's vicious nature and love for causing pain made him kick so hard and cruelly that his victims felt rage and resentment. But as he carefully chose only the smaller boys, they did not dare to retaliate. But after a while they were all on their guard, and the brave Andy, seeing no more worlds to conquer, laid the placard on a bench and forgot it. Teddy caught sight of it, and the impulse seized him to give the bully a taste of his own medicine. He slipped up behind him and fastened the card to his coat amid the awestruck silence of those who saw him. Bill Garwood, who had seen with indignation what Andy had been doing, promptly accepted the invitation. He swung his foot and it landed fair on Shanks, who turned with a roar of rage. "What did you do that for?" he howled. "Because you asked me to," said Bill, deftly unhooking the placard and showing it to him. "Ted Rushton put that on you," shrilled Sid Wilton, who came hurrying up. "I saw him do it." Bill was husky, while Teddy was smaller, and Shanks, true to his nature, reached for what seemed to him the easier game. Teddy stoutly stood his ground, but before the bully could reach him, Bill Garwood's hand was on his collar, his knuckles boring deep into his neck. "No, you don't," he said, as he yanked him back. "What kind of a sport are you, anyway? You've been kicking these fellows twice as hard as I kicked you, but the minute you get a taste of it, you go off the handle. And anyway, if you want to do any fighting why don't you pick out a fellow of your size? I'm about your size. Do you get me?" There was no doubt of his meaning, and his perfect readiness to stand by his meaning was so evident, that Andy concluded discretion to be the better part of valor. He turned away sourly, shooting a look at Teddy, which, if looks could kill, would have left him dead upon the spot. For both Fred and Teddy a storm was brewing. CHAPTER XVIII KICKING THE PIGSKIN Letters kept coming every week to the Rushton boys from the family at home. Mr. Rushton's, although less frequent than his wife's, were always bright and jolly, and seldom came without enclosing a check, which helped to cover the cost of many a midnight spread in the dormitory, when the boys were supposed to be in bed. Their friends were a unit in declaring that Mr. Rushton was a "real sport." Those of Mrs. Rushton came oftener, and were full of loving expressions and anxious advice to wear proper clothing and avoid rough sports and be careful about getting their feet wet. Although her chicks were no longer under her maternal wings, she brooded over them every moment, and was counting the days till they returned to her. She often referred to Uncle Aaron, and the boys were sorry to learn that there was still no trace of the missing watch and papers. He had offered a reward and advertised widely, but had never received even a hint of their whereabouts. "Old Hi Vickers is a swell detective--I don't think," sighed Teddy, after reading the latest letter. "I blame myself, partly, for the loss of the watch," remarked Fred regretfully. "I ought to have told somebody right away about those tramps hanging around. Then they might have been rounded up and chased out of town before they had a chance to break into the store." "You're not to blame for anything," said Teddy bitterly. "I'm the person that caused all the trouble. If I'd only had sense enough not to plug Jed's horse that day, this whole thing wouldn't have happened. If a prize were offered for ivory domes, I'd win it, sure." "Of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these--it might have been," quoted Tom Eldridge, who usually had something pat in the poetical line for all occasions. "Lay off on the spouting stuff, Tom," said Ned Wayland, "and you fellows stop your grizzling and come down to the football field. It's a dandy afternoon for practice." It was a wonderful October day, with a crisp breeze coming from the lake that moderated the warmth of the sun, and the boys were stirred by the thrill of youth and life that ran through every vein. It was too much for Tom, despite the sarcasm with which his previous effort had been greeted, and he burst out: "There is that nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air----" He dodged a pass that Ned made at him. "Let me alone," he chortled. "Don't you see that I can't help it?" "The lyric joys that in me throng, Seek to express themselves in song." The other lads gave it up. "A hopeless case," murmured Ned, shaking his head sadly. "Yes," mourned Fred. "And he used to be such a nice fellow, too, before he went bughouse." "You rough necks are jealous," grinned Tom. "You'd have tried to discourage Shakespeare, if you'd been living then. "Lucky for the world, you weren't living then," he went on. "For that matter you're not living now. You're dead ones, but you don't know it." They were still trying to think up a sufficiently cutting response when they came in sight of the football field. It was an animated scene. A dozen or more boys in their football togs were running over the field, while many more crowded round the side lines as spectators. There was a dummy, at which some of the players were throwing themselves in turn to get tackling practice. Others were running down under punts, and still others were getting instructions in the forward pass. The game with the Lake Forest School, one of their principal rivals, was now only two weeks off, and the boys were working for dear life to get into form. They had a good team, although three of their best players of the year before had not returned to school this fall. Teddy was a little too light for the heavy work required in football, although he would have made a good quarter-back, where quickness is more necessary than weight. But that position was already filled by Billy Burton, who was doing capital work, so that there seemed no opening for Teddy. He consoled himself by the determination to make the shortstop position on the baseball team the following spring. But Fred was husky enough to fill any position, either in the line or the back field, and he had been picked out by Melvin Granger as a "comer." Melvin was the captain of the team and played centre. He was always on the lookout for any one who could strengthen the team, and had promptly spotted Fred as first-class material. "Ever play football?" he had asked him, the day after his arrival at Rally Hall. "A little," answered Fred modestly. He was averse to boasting and did not add, as he might have done truthfully, that he had been, far and away, the best player in his school league. "What position have you played?" asked Melvin, interested at once. "Oh, I've played left end and right tackle at different times, but I've had more experience at fullback than anywhere else." "Great!" exclaimed Melvin. "Welcome to our fair city. We've got a lot of good players for almost every other position on the team, and, if one gets hurt, we don't have much trouble in finding a substitute from the scrubs, which is almost as good as the regular. But in the fullback job there's only one first-class fellow, and that's Tom Eldridge, who's playing it now. Tom's a dandy, but he might get hurt at any time, and we'd have hard work to find any one who could fill his shoes. "Of course," he went on, "there isn't any vacancy now, and the boys who have been here longest will be given first chance. But, to hold his position, he'll have to prove that no one of the new fellows is better than he is. You won't mind playing on the scrubs at the start, will you?" "Not a bit," answered Fred stoutly. "I'll go in there and work my head off just the same as if I were on the regular team." "That's the talk," cried Melvin. "That's the spirit I like to see. And I can see right now that Tom will have all he wants to do to hold his job." So Fred had gone in on the scrub. There had not been as much chance for practice as usual, as there had been an unusually large number of rainy days that fall, but already he had loomed up as by far the best player among the substitutes. He was right in line for promotion. And this afternoon his chance came, sooner than he had expected. The playing had been unusually spirited, and the scrubs had been giving the regulars all they could do to hold their own. At last, however, the first team had got the ball down within ten feet of their opponents' line, and the ball had been passed to Tom Eldridge for one determined attempt to "get it over." The scrubs braced savagely, but Tom came plunging in like a locomotive. There was a wild mix-up as his adversaries piled up on him, and when the mass was untangled, Tom lay on the ground with a badly sprained ankle. He tried to rise, but sank back with a groan. They lifted him up, and he stood on one foot, with his arms on their shoulders. Professor Raymond, who had the oversight of athletic sports, came hurrying up and examined the injury. All were immensely relieved when they learned that there were no bones broken, but became grave again when the professor said that the sprain was a bad one and would probably lay Tom up for a couple of weeks. "Just before the Lake Forest game, too!" exclaimed Ned Wayland. "I tell you, it's tough." "We're goners now!" moaned Slim Haley. "Not by a jugful," put in Tom, between whom and Fred the rivalry had been of the most generous kind. "I never saw the day when I could play better football than Fred Rushton. He'll play the position to the queen's taste." "Nonsense," said Fred. "You can put it all over me, Tom. I'm awfully sorry you got hurt." Professor Raymond insisted that Tom should be carried at once to the school, where he could have his injured ankle attended to properly. The boys cheered the lad as he was taken away, and then Granger turned to Fred. "You take his place, Fred," he said, "and show these fellows from Missouri what you can do." And Fred showed them. He was a little nervous at first as he felt all eyes following him, but, in the excitement of the game, this wore off, and he played like a fiend. He was here, there and everywhere, dodging, twisting, running like a deer, bucking the line with a force that would not be denied. Twice he carried the ball over the line for a touchdown, and before his onslaughts the scrubs crumpled up like paper. It was some of the finest playing that Rally Hall had ever seen, and when the game was ended, he was greeted with a tempest of cheers. He had "made good" beyond a doubt. "Fred, you played like a wild man!" said Melvin, as they were walking back to the Hall after the game. "You're all to the mustard. Keep it up and we'll lick Lake Forest out of their boots!" CHAPTER XIX THE MAN WITH THE SCAR A few days later Teddy came rushing up to Fred on the campus, his face aglow with excitement. "Say, Fred," he gasped, "I saw one of them to-day!" "One of whom?" asked Fred. "The tramps that looted Cy Brigg's store," responded Teddy. "You don't mean it!" exclaimed Fred, catching his brother's excitement. "Are you sure? Where did you see him? How do you know he was one of them?" "By the scar on his face," answered Teddy. "You remember the tall one who looked as if some one had stabbed him up near the temple? I'm sure he's the same one we saw in Sam Perkins' barn." "Wasn't the other fellow with him?" asked Fred. "No, he was all alone this time. I was coming up from the post office with Lester Lee when I caught sight of him near the railroad track. He looked tough and slouchy, but not as ragged as when we first saw him." "Yes," interrupted Fred, "he's had money since then." "I thought there was something about him that reminded me of some one," went on Teddy, "but it wasn't till after I'd passed him that it came over me who he was. Then I turned around to go after him, with the idea of having him arrested. But he had just gone over the tracks in front of a freight train. The train was a long one and we had to wait several minutes on this side before it got by. Then it was too late. We hunted all over, but couldn't see anything of him." "That was hard luck," said Fred regretfully. "Of course," resumed Teddy, "he wasn't trying to get away, because he'd never seen me before, and didn't know that I'd ever seen him. He must have turned a corner somewhere and then melted out of sight. Maybe I wasn't sore! Think what a satisfaction it would be to telegraph to Uncle Aaron that we'd got the fellow who stole his watch." "It's certainly tough," assented Fred, "to come so close to him and just miss getting him. I'll 'phone down right away to the constable at Green Haven, and tell him to be on the lookout for the fellow." "Tell him there's a reward out for him," suggested Teddy. "That'll make him keep his eye peeled." Fred telephoned at once, and received the assurance that the fellow would be arrested if found, and held as a suspicious character until the Oldtown authorities could send for him. And the next day, the boys themselves, together with a number of their friends, spent all their spare time searching in that part of the town where the tramp had disappeared. "It's no use, I guess," remarked Fred at last, as they turned back from the outskirts of the town. "He may be miles away by this time." "Getting ready to break into some other store, perhaps," suggested Teddy. "The loot he got in Oldtown won't last him forever." "There's a pretty tough looking customer going down that lane," exclaimed Bill Garwood, as they came to a corner in a poor part of the town. The boys followed his glance and saw a tall, roughly dressed man slouching along a hundred yards away and making toward the open country. He was alone and seemed to be in no hurry. "It's the same fellow we saw yesterday," said Teddy excitedly. "I'm sure of it. How about it, Lester?" "It surely looks like him," replied Lester Lee. "The same walk and the same clothes and--yes, the same face," as the man gave a careless look behind him. "You get down to the constable's office, quick, Teddy," directed Fred. "Run every step of the way. Tell him we've got this fellow located. We'll try to keep him in sight until you get back. Hustle." Teddy was off like a shot. But the tramp seemed to know that something was in the air. He looked around again and then quickened his pace. The boys, too, walked faster, and, noting this with another backward glance, the man in front made certain that they were following him with a purpose. What that purpose was he did not know, but his guilty conscience told him that it might be for any one of half a dozen offences. At the first corner he turned sharply, and when the boys reached it, they saw him loping along at a pace that carried him rapidly over the ground. The houses had thinned out, and there was no one to intercept him as he made for the woods that lay a little way ahead. "Oh, if Teddy were here with the constable," exclaimed Fred, in an agony of apprehension, as he saw the prey escaping. They all broke into a run, and, as they were younger and fleeter, they were soon at the fellow's heels. His whiskey sodden body could not keep up the pace, and as they neared him, he stopped running and turned about savagely. "What are you fellows chasing me for?" he snarled, a dangerous light in his eyes. "What are you running away for?" countered Fred. "None of yer business," the fellow growled. "Now you git, or I'll split yer heads," he snapped as he drew an ugly looking blackjack from his pocket. For an instant the boys hesitated. Then Fred had an inspiration. "That's the man, Constable," he cried, looking over the fellow's shoulder. "Nab him." The man turned in alarm to see who was behind him, and at the same instant Fred dived for his legs in a flying tackle that brought him to the ground. It was a splendid tackle, but the man was big and heavy, and, as they struck the ground, his knee drove into Fred's chest and knocked the breath out of him. In another second, the other boys could have launched themselves upon the tramp, and their united strength would have been able to hold him down until the arrival of the officer. This had been Fred's idea when he had made the tackle. But his mind worked so much more quickly and his action had been so swift, that they did not at once grasp the situation. And when they did, it was too late. The tramp, desperate now, got on his feet and rushed at them with his blackjack. Before that deadly weapon they scattered. The next instant, he was running toward the shelter of the woods. Fred still lay gasping for breath, and, not knowing how badly he might have been hurt, his chums rushed to help him to his feet. He was white and shaken, but had sustained no injury beside the temporary loss of breath. In a few minutes he was as good as ever. But by this time the tramp had made good his escape. Presently Teddy came up with the constable and a careful search of the woods was made. But it was all to no purpose. "Hard luck, old scout," condoled Lester, "but that flying tackle of yours was a dandy." "That knee of his was better," mourned Fred. "It knocked me out good and proper." "You threw an awful scare into him, anyway," laughed Bill. "I'll bet he's running yet." "He can't always get away with it," prophesied Teddy. "That's twice. The next time will be the third time and out." They got back to the school tired and vexed. But their thoughts were turned in another and a welcome direction by a tip given them by Slim Haley on their return. "Big feed on," he whispered. "Ned Wayland's uncle sent him a ten-dollar gold piece for his birthday, and Ned has blown nearly all of it for a spread in the dormitory to-night." "Best news I've heard since Hector was a pup," exulted Teddy. "Ned's the real goods," said Fred. "I wish he had a birthday every month." It was hard for the occupants of Dormitory Number Three to keep their minds on their lessons during the study period that followed supper, and it was with a whoop and a bang that they rushed into their quarters, when the gong released them from further work that night. "On with the dance, let joy be unrefined," sang out Teddy, as he flung a pillow at Billy Burton. "You mean un_con_fined," corrected Billy. "I mean just what I said," replied Teddy. "I know the bunch of lowbrows I'm talking to." "Where have you stacked the eats, Ned?" asked Tom Eldridge, who, though his ankle was still weak, found his appetite as good as ever. "In here," replied Ned, throwing open his wardrobe door and displaying a host of things that made their mouths water. "Wow, what a pile!" exclaimed Lester Lee. "It won't be a pile long, when you cormorants get at it," said Tom. "He counted them at break of day, And when the sun set, where were they?" he quoted. "Officer, he's in again," said Melvin. "It takes more than a sprained ankle to keep Tom off the poetry stuff," laughed Fred. "Nothing less than an axe will do the business." "How did you get all this fodder up here?" asked Slim. "I gave Jimmy, the laundryman, half a dollar for the use of his hand cart," explained Ned, "and he sent his boy up with it, with directions to wait down on the other side of the gymnasium. Then I slipped out between supper time and study period, and smuggled them in without any one's seeing me. The janitor nearly caught me, though. Big Sluper was just turning into the corridor as I got the last thing in and shut the wardrobe door." "We want to look out for Beansey, though," he warned them. "He's monitor this week, and you know how strict he is." "Beansey," as the boys called him, because he came from Boston, was a monitor and assistant instructor. He was very lank and solemn, and extremely precise in his manner of speech. In the matter of discipline, he was almost as severe as Dr. Rally himself, and the boys sometimes referred to him as "Hardtack's understudy." "Who cares for Beansey?" said the irrepressible Teddy. "If he comes, we'll sic the cheese on him. It smells strong enough to down him. What kind is it, Ned? Brie, Roquefort, Limburger?" "It is pretty strong," admitted Ned. "When I ordered it from the grocer, he turned to one of his clerks and said: 'Unchain Number Eight.'" The laugh that followed was interrupted by a warning: "Lay low. Here he comes now." "Beansey" came in with measured step and walked slowly through the dormitory. His sharp eyes took in everything, but there was nothing to awaken distrust, even in his suspicious soul. All the boys were busily engaged in getting ready for bed, and frequent yawns seemed to indicate that they would be only too glad to get there. As the door closed behind him, there was a smothered chuckle of exultation. "He won't be round now for another hour," said Tom, "and what we can do in an hour will be plenty." "You bet!" said Bill Garwood. "Just watch our smoke." They slipped the bolt on the door to avoid a sudden surprise. Then they dragged the clothing and mattress off one of the beds, and made a table of the springs. On this they piled, indiscriminately, the things brought from the wardrobe, gloating over the evidence of Ned's generous provision for the "inner man." "Say!" exclaimed Fred, "why didn't you clean out the whole store while you were about it?" "Some feast," commented Melvin. "Cheese and pickles and sardines, and pies and chocolates, and ginger ale and soda water, and cake and jelly, and grapes and----" "Shut up, Mel, and get busy, or you'll get left," said Slim, as he speared a bunch of sardines, an example which the rest needed no urging to follow. The various good things disappeared like magic before the onslaught of ten hungry boys, and one would have thought, to see them eat, that they had just been rescued after days in an open boat without food or water. And not till the last crumb had disappeared did they lie back in all sorts of lazy attitudes, like so many young anacondas gorged to the limit. "That old Roman, Lucullus, or whatever his name was, who used to give those feasts, didn't have anything on you, Ned," said Tom. "You've got him skinned to death." "Who's all right, fellows?" asked Fred. "Ned Wayland!" came the unanimous shout. "And now," said Melvin, "it's up to Billy Burton to give us a song. Tune up, Billy." "Great Scott!" protested Billy, "haven't you fellows any feelings at all? It's cruelty to animals to ask me to sing after such a feed as that." But they persisted and Billy finally obliged with what the boys called a pathetic little ballad, entitled: "I Didn't Raise My Dog to be a Sausage." It met with such approval that he gave as an encore: "Mother, Bring the Hammer, There's a Fly on Baby's Head." This "went great," as they say in vaudeville, but despite uproarious applause, the "Sweet Singer of the Wabash" declared that that was his limit for the night. "A story from Slim!" cried Teddy, and, "A story! A story!" clamored the other boys. "Ah, what's the use," said Slim, with a gloom that the twinkle in his eyes belied. "You wouldn't believe it, anyway." "I would," said Melvin solemnly. "Cross my heart and hope to die if I wouldn't." "Well," began Slim cautiously, "there was a fellow up in Maine once that was spending the winter with a pal of his, trapping in the woods. They were about twenty miles off from the nearest town, and every month or so one of them would have to go to town to lay in a stock of provisions. "This was a good many years ago, and the wolves were very thick in this part of Maine up near the Canadian border. That winter had been colder than usual, and, as the ground was covered with snow, the wolves were unusually fierce and hungry. "One day, this fellow I'm telling you about, hitched up his team to the sleigh and drove to town, as their stock was running pretty low. He was kept in town longer than he had expected, and it was late in the afternoon when he started back for his cabin in the woods. "He had gone about half way, when he heard behind him the howl of a wolf. Then other wolves took it up, and, looking back, he saw some black specks that kept getting bigger and bigger. He whipped up his horses, and they did the best they could, because the wolves frightened them just as much as they did the driver. But they had traveled a good many miles that day, and the wolves kept getting nearer. "The man had some flour and bacon and other things in the sleigh, and he kept throwing these out as he went along, hoping it would stop the wolves until he could reach his cabin. But he soon found that this was no go, and they'd surely get him, unless he tried something else. "The only things left in the sleigh now were an empty hogshead, a cask of nails and a hatchet. "By this time, he had reached a small lake that he had to cross. It was frozen solid, with ice several feet thick. "By the time he had driven into the middle of this, the wolves were close behind and coming fast. He jumped out of the sleigh and cut the traces, so that the horses might have a chance to get away. Then he threw the nails and hatchet and empty hogshead out on the ice. He turned the hogshead upside down, crept in under and let it down over him. He hadn't any more than done this, before the wolves were all around him. "But he was safe enough for the time. He had the little cask of nails to sit on, and he was sure that he could hold the hogshead down so that they couldn't overturn it. "They came sniffing around and trying to stick their paws under, and suddenly that gave him an idea." Here Slim looked slyly out of the corner of his eye at his companions. They were listening breathlessly, hanging on every word. "He took the hatchet," Slim resumed, "and broke open the cask of nails. The next time a paw came under he drove a nail through it, fastening it to the ice. He did this to the next and the next, until there was a circle of paws under the hogshead. Then he chopped off the paws and the wolves limped away howling. "Then he slid the hogshead along to a smooth place in the ice, and did the same thing all over again. There seemed to be no end of wolves, and he kept moving on from place to place till all his nails were used up. "At last, he didn't hear any more noise, and, lifting up the edge of the hogshead, he saw that it was morning, and all the wolves were gone. He got out, and made his way on foot to the cabin, where he found that the horses had got home safe, and his friend was just setting out to look for him. They went back together and counted the paws, and there were just----" He paused a moment. "How many?" asked Billy Burton. "Seven thousand nine hundred and ninety-six," said Slim impressively. Then, as the boys gasped, "seven thousand nine hundred and ninety-six," he repeated firmly. They rose to smite him. "Of all the yarn spinners this side of kingdom come!" burst out Ned Wayland. "There you go," protested Slim plaintively, "you're always pickin' on me. "It does seem quite a lot," he admitted judicially, "but if it wasn't true, why should they give those exact figures, seven thousand nine hundred and ninety-six? It shows they were conscientious and careful. Now, a liar might have said eight thousand and let it go at that. He might have----" Just then there came a knock at the door. CHAPTER XX A RATTLING GAME The lights went out in a second. "Great Scott!" whispered Melvin. "It's Beansey. I didn't think it was anywhere near time for him to be around again." Again came the knock, a little more impatient and imperative this time. "Open the door," came a voice that they had no difficulty in recognizing as that of "Beansey" Walton. The boys huddled together, scarcely venturing to breathe. "Who is there?" drawled out Melvin, in a voice that he tried to make as sleepy as possible. "It's me, Mr. Walton," was the response. Melvin had an inspiration. "Not on your life!" he shouted. "You're one of those lowbrows from Number Two trying to play a trick on us. Mr. Walton wouldn't say: 'It's me.' He'd have said, 'It is I.' Now, go 'way and let us sleep. We're on to you, all right." There was a moment of awful silence and then they heard the steps of their visitor going softly and swiftly down the hall. The boys were nearly bursting with laughter at Melvin's audacity, and when they felt sure that it had really succeeded, they broke out in a roar. "And it worked!" shrieked Slim, rolling over and over. "By jiminy, it really worked! Mel, you're a genius. I take off my hat to you." "You covered yourself with glory that time, old man," said Fred, as soon as he could speak for laughter. "Beansey will never get over it. Can't you see his face, as he faded away down the hall? The fellows in the other dormitories will be green with envy when they hear about it." "It was nip and tuck," grinned Melvin. "I just took a chance that Beansey would rather let us go than to own up that he'd made a slip in grammar. But even now, we're not safe. He might think it over and come back. Let's get a hustle on and remove these evidences of crime." In three minutes more, everything was set to rights, and the boys slipped in between their covers, theoretically to sleep, but actually to lie awake and chuckle for a long time, at the way they had "put one over" on the monitor. The day for the football game with Lake Forest was rapidly drawing nearer. Under the steady practice and hard work through which Granger put his team, it was swiftly rounding into shape. Although at first the other boys had the advantage over Fred of having played a long time together, and of knowing just what to expect from one another in any crisis of the game, his quick mind and keen ambition soon put him on a level with them in that respect, and he had developed into one of the mainstays of the team. None had appreciated this more than Tom Eldridge, whose place Fred had taken at fullback, but there was not a trace of envy in the way he stood around the side lines, leaning on a stick, and applauding every brilliant play of his successor. "You're a star, Fred," he said to him one day after an especially sparkling bit of strategy. "You can play rings around the Lake Forest fullback. And he's no slouch, either." "You must put me on to his style," said Fred; and together they worked out a scheme of offence and defence that they hoped would bring victory to Rally Hall. There was a good deal of anxiety as the day of the game drew near. The last time the elevens had met, Lake Forest had won by two touchdowns, and it was reported that they were fully as fast this year. "They've got a cracking good team and no mistake," admitted Melvin. "They're a bit heavier than we are in the line, but I think we have it on them in the back field. But it'll be a fight for blood from the first kickoff, and I don't look for a big score, whichever side wins." Professor Raymond, who himself had been a crack player on his own college eleven, worked hard to get the team into first-class shape. He had been much worried by the accident to Tom, but, as he watched the work of Fred, he soon reached the conclusion that the team had been strengthened rather than weakened. So that it was with strong hopes of a successful outcome that Rally Hall went into the fight on the day of the great game. It was a beautiful day, with just enough snap and coolness in the air to make it perfect for football. The game was to take place on the Rally Hall grounds, and Big Sluper, the janitor, with his assistants, had outdone themselves in getting the gridiron into fine condition. Long before the time set for the game, a great crowd had gathered. Of course, every member of the school was there, ready to yell for his favorites, and, in addition, everybody in Green Haven who had a drop of sporting blood in his veins had journeyed out to see the gridiron battle. Lake Forest had sent down a large crowd of rooters with the team, and while, of course, they were in the minority, they were chock full of enthusiasm, and prepared to make up in noise what they lacked in numbers. "How do you feel, Fred?" asked Melvin, as they were getting into their togs. "Like a fighting cock," replied Fred, doing an impromptu jig. "If I felt any better, I'd be afraid of myself." "Great!" said Melvin. "I feel the same way myself. We'll sure bring home the bacon." "Here they come!" There was a roar of greeting, when the Lake Forest team trotted out and began passing and falling on the ball. But the roar became thunderous when the Rally Hall boys came into view. "They're sure giving us a royal send off," commented Billy Burton, "and it won't do to disappoint them. We've simply _got_ to win." The Lake Forest captain won the choice of goals, and Rally Hall therefore had the kickoff. Amid a breathless silence, Fred measured the distance, gave a mighty swing and sent the ball sailing down toward the enemy's goal. Adams, their left end, made a good catch, but before he could run back with it, Billy Burton downed him in his tracks. The team lined up for the scrimmage on Lake Forest's forty-yard line, and the game was fairly on. It soon became apparent that the teams were very evenly matched, and that neither would have a walkover. Back and forth they surged, neither able to make a definite gain, though most of the time it was in Lake Forest's territory. Each of the teams had the ball in turn, only to lose it before the fourth down could be made, so stubborn was the resistance. Melvin, at centre, stood like a rock against the enemy's charges, while Billy, at quarter, reeled off the signals as steadily as a clock. Slim Haley, with his great bulk, was a tower of strength at right guard, and Madison and Ames did some savage tackling. Fred, at full, did the work of two ordinary players, and was ably helped by Thompson and Wayland, the two halfbacks. But neither side scored, and it began to look like a goose egg for each, for the first quarter. It was two minutes from the end of the quarter, and the ball was within thirty yards of the Lake Forest goal. Ensley, the enemy's left halfback, had the ball, but in his eagerness to advance it, he fumbled it, and Billy Burton pounced upon it like a hawk. Like lightning, he passed it to Fred, who dropped back for a kick. The enemy's line bore down upon him, but too late. He lifted the ball into the air, and it soared like a bird above the bar between the posts. The Lake Forest rooters looked glum, and the home team's supporters went wild with joy. Just then, the whistle blew, and the quarter ended, with the score three to none, in favor of Rally Hall. "Some class to that kick, Fred!" cried Melvin, while the rest of the team gathered around and patted him on the shoulders. "I never saw a cleaner goal from field." "All we've got to do now is to hold them down, and the game is ours," exulted Ned Wayland. But "holding them down" was no easy task. The lead they had gained put their opponents on their mettle, and they fairly ran amuck in the second quarter. By successive rushes, they worked the ball down the field. At the ten-yard line, the Rally Hall boys braced, and the enemy lost the ball on downs. A fake forward pass, splendidly engineered by Billy and Fred, would have saved the day, but Ned, who received it, slipped, just as he turned to run. The ball dropped from his hands, and Burns, of the Lake Forests, grabbed it on the bound and went over the line for a touchdown. "Five points for Lake Forest!" yelled one of their rooters. "Six points, you mean," shouted his neighbor. "Wake up." "Why, I thought a touchdown counted five," was the answer. "It used to, but under the new rules it counts for six." "So much the better! We need every point we can get," the other chuckled. "See, there's another one to the good," as Burns kicked the goal. "Hurrah! That's the way to do it!" "Now keep it up, Lake Forest!" "Hurrah! hurrah!" It was now the visitors' turn to cheer. They shook their rattles, blew their horns, danced up and down and yelled like madmen. CHAPTER XXI A DESPERATE STRUGGLE "We've got our work cut out for us," said Melvin grimly, as, after their brief rest, the teams lined up for the third quarter. "Don't worry, Mel, we've just begun to fight," was Fred's reassuring answer. The fighting blood of both teams was up now, and they scrapped like wildcats for the slightest advantage. Twice during the period, Fortune seemed about to smile on the home team, but each time the smile faded into a frown, and the hearts of their supporters went down into their boots. Once, on the Lake Forest thirty-yard line, the home boys tried out a trick play that Professor Raymond had taught them. The ball was passed to Fred, apparently for him to make a drop kick. But instead of doing this, he started to skirt the end. The opposing halfback thought that this was a fake to draw in the end. He hesitated to come in, therefore, and in the meantime Fred kept on running behind the scrimmage line, until the halfback did not dare to wait any longer, as it seemed to be a dead sure thing that Fred was going to circle the end. In the meantime, Melvin had had time to get down the field, and Fred turned about swiftly, just as the halfback reached out for him, and sent the ball like a shot to Melvin. It was a pretty play, and nine times out of ten would have got by, but just as it had almost reached Melvin's outstretched hands, Barton, the opposing left tackle, touched it with the tips of his fingers, just enough to deflect it from its course. Ensley grabbed it, and it was Lake Forest's ball. "What do you think of that for luck?" growled Slim disgustedly. "They're sure getting all the breaks," agreed Billy. "Never mind, fellows!" sang out Melvin. "Buck up. We'll beat them yet." But the gloom of the Rally Hall rooters became still deeper a few minutes later, when a beautiful drop kick of Fred's that was going straight for the goal was blown by a puff of wind just enough to graze the post on the wrong side. There was no more scoring in that period, and the quarter ended with Lake Forest still in the lead. "Now, fellows," said Melvin, as they came out to do or die in the last quarter, "it's our last chance. Go at them and rip up their line. Go through them like a prairie fire. We won't try drop kicking. Even if we got a goal from the field, they'd still be ahead, and the time's too short to make two of them. The only thing that'll do us any good is a touchdown. We _must_ win! Hammer the heart out of them! Tear them to pieces!" And the boys responded nobly. They charged hard and played fast. They plunged into the lines of their opponents like so many wild men. Every member of the team played as though the victory depended on him alone. Down the field they went, in one desperate raging charge that carried all before it. Only once did they fail to make their distance, and even then they got the ball back promptly. But time was on the enemy's side. They fought back savagely and contested every inch. Six, eight, ten minutes went by, while the ball was traveling down the field, and when the teams faced each other, pale, panting, covered with dust and sweat, on Lake Forest's ten-yard line, only three minutes of playing time remained. All the spectators now were on their feet, yelling wildly, and the tumult was fearful. "Brace, fellows, brace!" screamed Eggleston, the Lake Forest captain. "Throw 'em back! Don't give an inch!" Melvin selected Fred for the final plunge. "Go to it, old scout," he said. "This is the third down. For heaven's sake, make it." Fred's eyes were blazing. "Watch me," he said. Billy made a perfect snap to Melvin, who passed the ball to Fred like a flash. Haley and Ames made a hole between left guard and tackle, and Fred, with lowered head, plunged in like a battering ram. The whole team piled in after him, and when at last he was downed, he had gained six yards of the coveted space. Dizzy and bruised, he rose to his feet. "We've got 'em going!" yelled Melvin. "One more does it!" "Hold 'em, boys, hold 'em!" shouted Eggleston. "This is their last down." "Rushton! Rushton! Rushton!" the stands were shouting. "They're counting on you, you see," said Melvin. Fred's muscles grew taut, and he braced for one final effort. Once more the ball was passed, and, like a thunderbolt, he went into the line between centre and guard. The whole Lake Forest team threw themselves upon him, but there was no stopping him. Ploughing, raging, tearing, he went through them and over the line for a touchdown! "Look at that!" "Great work! Hurrah!" Rally Hall had won the game in the last minute of play! The stands went crazy, and after the goal had been kicked, making the final score ten to seven, the crowd swept down over the field, hoisted Fred upon their shoulders and marched up and down yelling like Indians. It was all he could do to get away from them and to the shower baths and dressing rooms of the gymnasium. Here he met with another ovation from the team itself. They were all in a state of the highest delight and excitement at winning the game that had seemed so surely lost, and they insisted on giving him the chief credit for the victory. "Nonsense," he protested, "I didn't do a thing more than any one else. It takes eleven men to win a football game." Professor Raymond was warm in his congratulations, and even Dr. Rally, who had seen the game from a portion of the stand reserved for the teaching staff, so far unbent as to stop for a moment and tell him that he had done "very well, very well indeed." "Say," murmured Slim, after the doctor had passed on, "even Hardtack is human. He's got something beside ice water in his veins." "Sure!" assented Billy, "I'll bet the old chap's tickled to death to see Rally Hall put one over on Lake Forest." Eggleston, the captain of the Lake Forest team, who had a few minutes before train time, also was generous enough to come in and shake hands with his conquerors. He was a fine, manly fellow, and took his beating like a gentleman. "You sure have a dandy fullback," he said to Melvin. "You've been pretty foxy in keeping him under cover. We hadn't any idea what we were going up against." "Isn't he a pippin?" said Melvin enthusiastically. "You'd have copped the game all right, if it hadn't been for him." "He's some line bucker," assented Eggleston. "I got in his way once, and he stood me on my head. You might as well try to stop an express train." "It's hard to flag that kind of a train," laughed Melvin. "Sure thing," grinned Eggleston. "Well, so long. I'll just have time to get to the station. We'll try to even things up next year." As the boys were strolling back to the Hall, they passed Andy Shanks and Sid Wilton talking earnestly together. They were so absorbed that they did not see Fred and his companion. "Wonder what they're hatching up now?" laughed Fred. "Some mischief, I'll be bound," answered Granger. "It isn't the first time I've seen them putting their heads together lately, and somehow or other, I rather think it has to do with you." "Nonsense!" said Fred lightly. "Maybe it's nonsense and maybe it's not," replied Melvin soberly. "I know Andy pretty well, and I'm dead sure he'll never forget the show you made of him before the other fellows. At any rate keep your eyes wide open and look out for squalls." "I'll take a chance," laughed Fred. "Don't take too many," Melvin warned him. "Of course, I may be wrong, but I have a feeling that he's out to do you." Melvin was a better prophet than he knew. CHAPTER XXII ANDY SHANKS GETS BUSY There were great times on the campus that night. By a special decree of Dr. Rally, the regular study period was omitted, and after supper the boys had full liberty to do as they pleased until bedtime, provided they did not stray beyond the limits of the grounds. They built a bonfire and paraded about it, carrying brooms to indicate the clean sweep they had made of the game. They cheered the team in general, and then cheered each separate member in particular. They cheered the final touchdown and the boy who had made it. They cheered Professor Raymond, and even raised a doubtful cheer for Dr. Rally. They were ready to cheer for anything or anybody that offered them the slightest excuse. They yelled for speeches from Granger, the captain, and from Fred, the hero of the day. Tony Dirocco brought out his violin and played a series of rollicking tunes that set their feet to jigging and their hands to clapping. Billy was made to sing his choicest songs until he was hoarse. Then they all gathered on the broad steps, and lifted up their young voices in the old school songs that swelled out into the night. And it was a tired, but thoroughly happy crowd that scattered at last and went reluctantly to their rooms. Altogether, it had been one of the greatest days and nights that Rally Hall had ever known. Fred had won his spurs and established his footing firmly in the school. He had been popular from the first in his own dormitory, but now he was known and liked by all the boys at the Hall. Except, of course, by Andy Shanks, Sid Wilton, and a few of their stripe. Andy, if possible, hated him now worse than ever. It had been gall and wormwood for him when Fred had made the touchdown. He, himself, had had an ambition to play on the team. He was big and heavy enough for a place in the line. But he was stupid in getting the signals and slow in running down under kicks. Besides, he was a trouble maker on the team, disobeying the captain and quarreling with the other members. They had tried him for a while, but he was of no use, and both Granger and Professor Raymond had ruled him out. So that he was doubly angered at Fred for having made a brilliant success where he had scored a dismal failure. He had hoped to put Fred in bad repute with the boys by giving him a beating. But since that day on the campus when Fred had defied him and dared him to come on, he had lost all ambition in that direction. But he was more determined than ever to crush him by hook or by crook, and he cudgeled his slow brain to find a way that would be safe for himself and disastrous to Fred. As the weeks went by, however, and nothing occurred to him, he began almost to despair. But the Evil One is said to "look after his own," and as the Christmas holidays drew nearer, Andy had an inspiration. The winter weather set in unusually early, and the air was sharp and stinging. A score or more of the boys were down in the gymnasium, chinning the bar and swinging in the rings. "If this kind of weather keeps up," said Melvin, "it won't be long before we have skating. There's ice forming on the lake now, down near the edges." "Over the ice-bound lake we fly, Swift as the wind and free," chanted Tom Eldridge, as he made a flying leap from one horizontal bar to the next. "'Swift' all right, but it won't be 'free,'" grumbled Billy Burton. "I won't feel 'free,' till I get those awful examinations off my mind. They'll be here now in less than a week, and I can't think of anything else." "They'll be pretty tough, do you think?" asked Fred. "Tough!" broke in Slim, "they'll be as tough as a pine knot. Professor Raymond is a shark on algebra. He'd rather solve a problem than eat. And because it's so easy for him, he thinks it ought to be easy for us, too. He puts down corkers for us to do, and then looks at us in pained surprise if we think they're hard. If I get through this time, it'll be due to a special providence." "I wish we knew what he was going to ask, beforehand," sighed Billy. "Couldn't we bone up on them then? I'd get a hundred per cent. sure." "Wouldn't it be bully, if we were mind readers, and knew just what questions he was going to put on that printed list?" laughed Fred. "The first glimpse we'll get of that printed list will be when they're plumped down on the desk in front of us the day of the examination," said Ned Wayland. "They'll be kept snug under lock and key until then." "Yes," chimed in Tom, "and the prof's so foxy that he doesn't even have them printed in town, for fear that some copy might get into some of the fellows' hands. He sends them away to some city to be printed, and they're sent back to him by registered mail." "I'll bet that was the package I saw him putting away in his desk yesterday!" exclaimed Fred. "It was a long manila envelope, stuffed with something that crackled, and it had a lot of sealing wax on it. I noticed that he seemed to be very careful of it, and put it away under a lot of other papers before he locked his desk." "Likely enough, those were the examination slips," said Billy. "We'll see them soon enough, but then it'll be too late to do any good," remarked Melvin. The conversation took another turn and the subject was forgotten for the time. Andy, busy at one of the rings, had overheard the talk, although he had not joined in it because of the terms on which he was with Fred and his friends. He had pricked up his ears at Fred's laughing remark about mind reading, and from then on he had followed closely all that had been said about the papers. An idea had suddenly come into his mind, and a slow, evil smile spread over his face as he turned it over and over. Two nights later, Fred woke from his sleep about midnight, conscious that something was bothering him. He found that it was the moon, which was just then at the full, and was shining in his face. He rose, and went to the window to draw down the shade. The campus was flooded with light and Fred stood for a moment, enjoying the beauty of the scene. Suddenly, something moving beneath him attracted his attention. The buildings threw a heavy shadow, made all the deeper by contrast with the moonlight beyond. But Fred could just make out a moving figure coming down the steps swiftly, and crouching as though to avoid detection. At first he thought it was the dog belonging to Big Sluper, the janitor. But as the figure turned around the corner of the building, he saw that it was a boy, rather slight in figure. His hat was drawn over his eyes and his coat over the lower part of his face, so that it was impossible to recognize him. "That's queer," mused Fred. "I wonder who he was and what he was doing at this time of night." But the floor was cold and his eyes were heavy with sleep, and he did not debate the problem long. He crept back into the warm bed, drew the covers over him, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. CHAPTER XXIII THE BLOW FALLS The next day, after school hours, Professor Raymond opened his desk to get a paper that he wanted. He was about to close it again, when something in the tumbled condition of its contents, attracted his attention. He reached sharply over to the lower right-hand corner, and felt for a package that he knew had been there the day before. A startled look came into his face, and he felt again more carefully. Then he hastily took out everything that the desk contained. He sat down in his chair with a jolt, and a grim expression came into his eyes. Then he made a painstaking examination of the lock. It had not been broken, nor was there any other evidence that violence had been used. He took out his penknife and scraped the lock. A tiny shaving of something soft was brought out by the blade, and close examination showed that it was wax. He rang the bell for the janitor, and when Big Sluper came in, he motioned him to a chair. "Sluper," he said abruptly, "my desk was robbed last night." "What!" cried Sluper, starting up. "How could that be? Are you sure, sir?" "Perfectly sure," replied the professor. "I only wish I were not. But I had a valuable package in here yesterday, and now it's gone." "Why, nothing of that kind has ever happened before," said Sluper, much agitated. "Did the thief take anything else?" "No," replied Professor Raymond. "And it was no outsider that took the package. There was a little money in the desk, and any ordinary thief would have taken that. Besides, the papers that were taken would have been of no value to any one outside the school. They were the examination slips for the next algebra test. Sluper, we've a thief right here in Rally Hall." "I'd be sorry to think that, sir," said the dismayed janitor. "I can't think of any of the boys who might do such a thing." "But some one of them did, just the same," replied the professor. "See here," and he showed the janitor the shaving of wax. "That proves that it was all planned beforehand," he said. "An outside thief would have had a skeleton key, or simply pried it open with a jimmy. But somebody has taken a wax impression of the lock and had a key made to fit. "Keep this thing perfectly quiet for a time," the teacher cautioned. "Be on the watch for anything suspicious you may see or hear among the boys. And I want you to go down town to Kelly's, the locksmith. Get into a talk with him, and bring the conversation round to the subject of duplicate keys, and how they're made. If he's done anything of that kind lately, he may drop a hint of it. He'd have no reason to keep quiet, for he's an honest man and wouldn't do a crooked thing. If he's made such a key, the thief has given him some plausible reason for getting it made. Find out anything you can, and let me know at once. But, above all things, don't let the matter get out." The janitor, badly confused, went away on his mission, while Professor Raymond sought out Dr. Rally to lay the matter before him. If it had been an ordinary case, he would have acted on his own discretion. But this was altogether too serious, involving as it did the good name of one of the scholars, and, to a certain extent, the reputation of the school itself. He found the doctor in his office, and laid the matter before him, giving him all the details that he knew himself and telling of his instructions to the janitor. Dr. Rally was white hot with amazement and indignation. "The rascal shall suffer for it if we catch him!" he announced, with a grimness that would have delighted Aaron Rushton and confirmed him in his admiration for the doctor's sternness. "I'll dismiss him. I'll disgrace him. I'll make such an example of him that nothing of the kind will ever happen in this school again." His eyes flashed under his shaggy brows, and the fist he brought down on the desk clenched till the knuckles showed white. "But what could have been the motive?" he asked, as he grew more composed. "Of course, we can understand why some one might want to know the questions that were going to be asked. But why did they take the whole package? One slip would have done as well as fifty. Then, too, they might know that if the whole package were taken, you would simply call the examination off, as soon as you had missed them, and make out a new set of questions. Then they'd have had all their trouble and risk for nothing." "It is curious," answered Raymond. "If the idea was simply to get advance information to help some boy through with the test, the only way to do it was to take one copy and leave the rest of the slips there, trusting me not to notice that the package had been tampered with. "My theory is that he meant to do this, but perhaps was frightened away by some sound, and didn't have time to do it. In that case, he may take out one of the slips and try to put the package back to-night. The examination doesn't take place till day after to-morrow, and he may figure that I haven't missed them. As a matter of fact, it was only by the merest chance that I did miss them to-day." "Well, let us hope that he will try it," said Doctor Rally. "We'll have Sluper stay in your office all night and nab him if he comes." Sluper came back from his trip to town and reported that Kelly knew nothing of the matter. Nor had he heard of anything among the boys that might throw light on the mystery. He kept a careful watch that night in Professor Raymond's office, but without result. The next day there was something in the atmosphere of Rally Hall that made every one feel that a storm was brewing. The air was electric with signs of trouble. Nothing had been allowed to leak out, but any one could see that something was the matter, though without the slightest idea of what it was. Doctor Rally was more snappy and gruff than they had ever seen him, and Professor Raymond went about his work in a brooding and absent-minded way, that, with him, was most unusual. "What's come over Raymond to-day?" asked Fred. "He looks as though he were going to the electric chair." "He certainly does have plenty of the gloom stuff," agreed Billy. "Off his feed, perhaps," suggested Slim, to whom nothing seemed more tragic than a loss of appetite. "Into each life some rain must fall, Some days be dark and dreary," quoted Tom. Fred laughed and made a pass at him, little thinking how soon the lines would apply to himself. In his mail that afternoon, the professor received a letter. There was nothing about it to identify the writer. In fact, there was no writing, as both the address and the letter itself were printed in rough, sprawling letters. It read this way: "Look in Fred Rushton's locker." The professor was thunderstruck. For several minutes, he sat staring at the printed words without moving a muscle. The first shock of amazement gave place to a sharp, gripping pain. It could not be a coincidence. In the present condition of affairs, this mysterious note could refer only to one thing--the missing slips of the algebra test. Fred Rushton! He, of all boys! Why, he would almost have been ready to stake his life on the lad's honesty. He was so frank, so square, so "white." The professor had grown to have the warmest kind of a liking for him. In study and in sport, he had stood in the first rank, and so far there had not been the slightest stain on his record. No, it could not be possible that he had done this dastardly thing. He was almost tempted to tear the letter up. And yet--and yet---- He _must_ make sure. He went to the office of Doctor Rally. From there, after a short conference, he went in search of Fred. "Would you mind letting me take a look at your locker, Rushton?" he asked carelessly. "Why, certainly not," answered Fred promptly, but wonderingly. They went to the dormitory which at that hour was deserted. "Here you are, Professor," he said, opening the locker. There were some clothes lying there, neatly folded. The professor picked them up. There, with the seals still unbroken, lay the missing package! CHAPTER XXIV A PUZZLING CASE Professor Raymond picked the package up and examined it carefully. There was no sign of tampering with the seals. It was in precisely the same condition as when he had received it. "Well," he said, as he looked coldly and accusingly at Fred, "what have you got to say?" Fred was looking at the package with wide open and horrified eyes. He groped for words in his bewilderment, but his tongue seemed unable to utter them. The silence grew painful. "Why," he managed to stammer, at last, "I don't know what to say. I hadn't any idea that there was anything in the locker, except my clothes." "How could it have got there unless you put it there?" pursued the professor. "I don't know," replied Fred, his head still whirling, "unless some one else put it there by mistake, thinking it was his own locker. I certainly never saw the package before. That is," as he looked at it more closely, "I think I did see it once." "Oh, you did, eh?" said Professor Raymond quickly. "And when was that?" "Two or three days ago," answered Fred. "I was gathering up my books in your office, and I saw you put in your desk a package that looked just like this one." The professor's heart grew sick within him, as every new item seemed to connect Fred more closely with the theft. "You knew then that it was in my desk?" he went on. "Did you have any idea of what the package contained?" "Not then," answered Fred. "But, a little while afterward I was talking with some of the fellows in the gymnasium, and they said it probably held the examination slips for the algebra test." "Do you remember anything else you said at that time?" asked the cross-examiner. "No-o," began Fred slowly. "Oh, yes, I remember saying what fun it would be if one were a mind reader and could know just what you were going to ask. "But, Professor," he broke out, as the significance of all these questions dawned upon him, "you don't think for the minute, do you, that I stole this package from your desk?" "I hardly know what to think," replied the professor sadly, "but I want you to come right over with me to Doctor Rally's office." Utterly stunned and overwhelmed by the blow that had fallen upon him, Fred followed the professor. His limbs dragged, as though he were walking in a nightmare. They crossed the campus, and went straight to the room where Doctor Rally awaited them. He motioned them to chairs, and sat there, stern and implacable as Fate, his eyes seeming to bore Fred through and through, while the professor told of the finding of the papers in Fred's locker, and the explanation, or rather the lack of explanation, that Fred had offered. "Well, young man," the doctor said, and, although his eyes were flaming, his words were as cold as ice, "you seem to have put the rope around your own neck by your admissions. Have you anything else to say?" "What can I say?" burst out Fred desperately. "If telling the truth has put the rope around my neck, I can't help it. I didn't take the papers, and don't know a single thing about them. Every single word I've said is true." "But the papers were found in your locker," returned the inquisitor coldly, "and they couldn't have got there of their own accord. Some one put them there. If you didn't, who did?" "I don't know," said Fred miserably. "Have you any enemy in the school, who might have done it?" asked Professor Raymond. "Not that I know of," answered Fred. "That is----" the thought of Andy flashed across his mind, but he was too generous to give it utterance. "No," he went on, "I don't think of anybody who could be mean enough to put the thing off on me." "Is there anything that might have any connection with this matter that you haven't yet told us?" continued his questioner. "Only one thing," replied Fred, to whom at that moment came the recollection of what he had seen in the moonlight. "I did see a fellow going away from the Hall the other night after twelve o'clock." "Ah," came from both men, bending forward, and then they questioned him carefully about the size and general appearance of the midnight skulker. "Why didn't you tell some of us about that at the time?" asked Doctor Rally severely. "I suppose I ought to have done so," was the answer, "but I was cold and sleepy, and the next day I forgot all about it." There was a long silence, while Doctor Rally pondered. He broke it at last by saying: "I want to be entirely just to you, Rushton. I am not ready to condemn you on this evidence, though I will not deny that things look dark for you. I shall look into the matter further, and when I have reached a decision I will let you know. That is all for the present." He nodded a dismissal, and Fred, picking up his hat, stumbled blindly from the room. The two men who held his fate in their hands, stared at each other for a long minute without speaking. "It looks bad," said Doctor Rally, at last, "and I am more sorry than I can tell, that he should be mixed up in such a wretched mess. His parents are the finest kind of people, and his uncle is a particular friend of mine." "Do you think that he is guilty, then?" asked the professor. "What else can I think?" said the doctor gloomily. "Everything seems to indicate it. The facts are like so many spokes of a wheel, all leading to the hub, and that hub is Rushton. "Who knew that the examination papers were in your desk? Rushton. Who had been wishing he were a mind reader, so that he might know what questions you were going to ask? Rushton. Who saw, or says he saw a mysterious marauder coming from the building at midnight, and yet said nothing to any one about it? Rushton. And, above all, who actually had the missing package in his locker? Rushton. "Of course, all this is circumstantial evidence. But sometimes that is the strongest kind. Naturally, he would take the greatest care not to have any witnesses to the theft. The proof seems strong and many a man has been hung on less." "That is true," admitted the other thoughtfully, "but there are many things, too, to be said on the other side. "In the first place, there is the boy's character up to this time. He ought to have the full advantage of that, and certainly he has seemed to be one of the most upright and straightforward boys in the entire school. I haven't had a black mark against him, and neither has any of the other teachers. "Then, too, what motive did he have for taking them? He's very bright, especially in mathematics, for which he has a natural gift. He's always up in the nineties somewhere in his marks. He hadn't the slightest reason to fear the examinations. "And I can't understand his manner, if he is guilty. When I first spoke to him, instead of being the least bit flustered, he wasn't at all slow in taking me straight to the locker. And when we caught sight of the papers, he was just as much dumfounded as I was myself, more so if anything, because I had had a hint that they were there. "Why did he tell us about the talk in the gymnasium? He didn't need to say a word about it. Yet he blurted it out without any hesitation. Either the boy is innocent, or he's one of the finest actors I ever saw." "What is your theory, then?" asked the doctor. "Do you think that somebody, in his haste to conceal the papers, mistook Rushton's locker for his own?" "Hardly that," replied Professor Raymond. "The matter was too important for such carelessness. The papers were put there deliberately." "By whom?" "By the person who wrote this letter," and the professor took from his pocket the scrap of paper he had received that afternoon. CHAPTER XXV TO THE RESCUE The master of Rally Hall and Professor Raymond knitted their brows as they studied the scrawl. There was absolutely no clue, except that it bore the Green Haven postmark on the envelope, and had been mailed that morning. "One of the boys sent it, without a doubt," went on the professor. "He knew we were familiar with his handwriting and so printed the letter." "Might not the writer, whoever he is, have seen Rushton hide the package, and chosen this method to tell on him?" queried the doctor. "I would go further than that," said the other slowly. "I believe that the writer of this note deliberately stole the package and put it in Rushton's locker, in order to bring disgrace on him." "It's hard to think that there is such a despicable wretch as that in Rally Hall," said Doctor Rally, bringing his clenched fist down on his desk. "So it is," replied the other, "but to believe that Fred Rushton stole them is harder yet." "Who, in the whole body of students, do you believe is capable of such a thing?" asked the doctor. "Only one," was the cautious answer, "but, in the total absence of proof, it wouldn't perhaps be fair to name him." "I think I know whom you have in mind," rejoined the master. "Here," tearing two bits of paper from a sheet on his desk, "in order that our guess be independent, you write a name on this piece of paper and I will write on this. Then we will compare." The professor did so. Then they laid the papers side by side. Each bore the same name, "Shanks." "He's a poor stick," mused the doctor, "but I'd hate to think that he'd sink as low as this. And, of course, so far, it is purely guess work. He may be as innocent as the driven snow. Has he ever had any trouble with Rushton?" "Not that I know of," was the answer, "although at one time I came upon them when they seemed to have been having words," and Professor Raymond narrated the affair on the campus. "Well," Doctor Rally wound up the discussion by saying, "for the present, we suspend judgment. Keep a sharp eye on both Rushton and Shanks. I'll not rest until I have probed this thing to the bottom." In the meantime Fred had gone to his room utterly crushed and despondent. The whole thing had come on him like a thunderbolt. In half an hour, from being one of the happiest boys in the school he had become the most miserable. It seemed to him as though all his world had fallen into ruins. To be accused of theft, to be, perhaps, driven in disgrace from Rally Hall, to have all his relatives and friends know of the awful charge against him! For a time, he felt that he would go crazy. Teddy, who was the only one in whom he could confide, was studying when Fred dragged himself in. "Oh, Ted," he groaned, as he threw himself down on his bed. "What's the matter, Fred?" exclaimed Teddy, leaping to his feet in alarm, as he saw the blank misery in his brother's eyes. "They think I'm a thief," moaned Fred. "Who thinks so? What do you mean?" and Teddy fairly shouted. "Doctor Rally and Professor Raymond," was the answer. "They think I stole the examination papers." "Stole! _Stole!_" roared Teddy. "Why, they're crazy! What makes them think anything like that?" "They'd been taken from Professor Raymond's desk, and they found them in my locker." He blurted out the whole story and Teddy was wild with grief and rage. But in the absence of the slightest clue, they were unable to do anything but await events while they ate their hearts out in silence. A week went by without results. The winter had set in in earnest, and the lake was coated with ice, thick enough for skating. Fred had been looking forward to hockey and skating, in both of which he took great delight. But now, he had little interest in them, and kept as much as possible to himself. The boys, of course, saw that something had happened, and did all they could to cheer him up. "You've simply got to come to-day, Fred," said Melvin, one bright December day, bursting into the room, his eyes dancing and his cheeks glowing with the frost. "It's just one peach of a day, and the ice is as smooth as glass. "Nothing doing," he went on, as Fred started to protest. "Come along, fellows, and we'll rush him down to the lake. A bird that can skate and won't skate must be made to skate." "I never heard of a bird skating," objected Fred, but yielded, as the whole laughing throng closed around him and hurried him out of doors. Once on the ice, with the inspiring feeling of the skates beneath him, with the tingling air bringing the blood to his cheeks, and the glorious expanse of the frozen lake beckoning to him, the "blues" left him for a time, and he was his natural self again, all aglow with the mere delight of living. He had gone around the lower end of the lake, and was making a wide sweep to return when he passed Andy Shanks and Sid Wilton. They shot a malicious look at him as they passed, and he saw them whisper to each other. Once more he made the circuit of the lake, with long swinging strokes, his spirits steadily rising as the keen air nipped his face and put him in a glow from head to foot. At the northern end of the lake was a bluff about twenty feet high. As there had been two or three heavy snowfalls already that winter, the top of the bluff held a mass of snow and ice that was many feet deep. The wind had hollowed out the lower part of the drifts so that the upper part overhung the lake for some distance from the shore. A group of boys, including Andy Shanks and his toady, Sid Wilton, were playing "snap-the-whip." Shanks had put his "valet," as the boys called him, at the extreme end, and, although this was the most dangerous point and Wilton had little relish for it, he had not dared to object to anything that Andy wanted. As Fred approached, the "whip" was "snapped" Skating at full speed, the long line straightened out and Wilton was let go. He shot away from the others, trying to skirt the edge of the ice so as to avoid the shore and sweep out into the open. But the space was too narrow and he went into the bluff with a crash. He scrambled up, jarred and bruised, and just as he did so, Fred saw the great overhanging mass of snow on the top of the bluff sway forward. "Jump!" he yelled. "The snow! Quick! For your lives!" The other boys looked up and skated from under. Sid made a desperate lunge forward, but too late. With a sullen roar the snow came down and buried him from sight. There were exclamations of fright and horror. Andy skated away, panic-stricken. Most of the boys lost their heads. Two or three shouted for help. Fred alone remained cool. With one motion, he unclamped his skates and threw them from him. The next instant he had plunged into the tons of snow and his arms were working like flails as he threw the masses aside. "Quick, fellows!" he shouted. "Go at it, all of you! He'll smother if we don't get him out right away!" Inspired by his example, the others pitched in, working like beavers. Other boys coming up aided in the work of cleaving a way to their imprisoned schoolmate. Their frantic energy soon brought results. "I touched him then, fellows!" cried Fred. "Hurry, hurry," he added, as he himself put forth redoubled efforts. A few minutes more and they had uncovered Sid's head and shoulders. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be unconscious. "We're getting him," exulted Fred, forgetful of his hands that were torn and bleeding from tearing at the ice mixed with the snow. He grabbed Sid under the arms. "Now, fellows," he cried, "get hold of me and when I say pull----" But just then there was a startled cry: "Look out! There's more coming!" Fred looked up and saw that another enormous mass was slipping slowly over the edge. The other boys jumped back, but Fred remained. He tugged frantically, putting forth all his strength. One more desperate pull and he fell back on the ice, dragging Sid with him. At the same instant a tremendous mass of snow came down, one heavy block of ice just grazing him where he lay, panting and breathless. "Fred, old boy, that was a grand thing for you to do!" cried Melvin, who with Teddy had just come up; and the sentiment was echoed by all the others who clustered admiringly around him. "Oh, that was nothing," disclaimed Fred. "We've got to get a hustle on now and take him to the Hall." They carried the unconscious Sid to his dormitory, and medical aid was called at once. The doctor worked over him vigorously, and was soon able to predict that in a day or two he would be all right again. Fred took a hot bath and changed into other clothes, and had soon shaken off all the shock of the accident. He had barely finished supper when a message was brought to him that Sid wanted to see him. He went at once, without any thought of what awaited him. CHAPTER XXVI SID WILTON TELLS Fred found Wilton propped up in bed, in a room off the main dormitory that was used in cases of sickness or accident. He looked very white and weak, and, although Fred had never liked the boy, he felt sincerely sorry that he had had such a shock. He reached out his hand with a friendly smile, and Wilton grasped it eagerly. "I can't thank you enough for pulling me out of the snowfall, Rushton," he said. "I don't remember much about it after it once buried me, but they tell me that I was all in when you got me. It was an awfully plucky thing for you to do, to hang on when that second mass was coming down, and I don't believe there's another fellow in school that would have taken the chance." "Oh, yes there are, plenty of them," said Fred heartily. "I just happened to be the nearest one to you. I'm glad to hear that you will be all right again in a little while." "All right in body, perhaps," said Sid with a faint smile, "but I won't be all right in mind till I tell you something you ought to know." "What do you mean?" said Fred wonderingly. Sid turned to the boy who was sitting in the room to wait upon him. "Would you mind leaving me alone with Rushton for a few minutes, Henley?" he asked. "Sure thing!" answered Henley, rising. "I'll come in again later on." He left the room; and Sid turned to Fred. "It's about the examination papers," he said, shamefacedly. Fred's heart gave a leap as though it would jump out of his body. "What do you mean?" he cried excitedly. "I mean," and Sid's face went red with the shame of the confession, "that Andy Shanks and I put up a job on you. We took the papers and put them in your locker, so that Professor Raymond would think you stole them. There, it's out now." The room seemed to be whirling about Fred. The blood pounded madly through his veins. With an effort he steadied himself. "What?" he shouted. "You did _that_?" "It was a dirty trick, I know," went on the younger boy, not venturing to meet the eyes of the youth he had wronged, "and I'd give anything I've got in the world if I hadn't done it. But Andy----" "Wait," cried Fred, jumping up, "wait till I can get Professor Raymond over here, so that he can hear what you've got to say." "No need of that," said a deep voice, and Professor Raymond advanced from the door towards the bed. "I was coming in to see how Wilton was getting along, and, as the door was ajar, I heard what he was saying." He looked sadly and sternly at Sid, who cowered down on his pillow. "You have done a terrible thing, Wilton," he said; "but you're weak and sick now, and what I have to say and do will be postponed to a later time. Now, go ahead and tell us all about it from beginning to end." With trembling voice Sid went on: "Andy was down in the gymnasium one day, and he heard Rushton say that he had seen you put a package in your desk, and one of the other fellows said that they were probably the examination slips. He was sore at Rushton because of something that had happened on the train coming here, and because, later on, Rushton had faced him down on the campus. So he went off to another town, after I had got a wax impression from the lock of your desk, and had a key made to fit. Then I opened your desk one night and got the package. I watched my chance till there was no one in Number Three Dormitory, and hid the papers in Rushton's locker. Then Andy printed a letter to you, telling you where to look." "We didn't know for sure what happened after that, but Rushton has been so down in the mouth, that we felt sure the plan worked. Andy expected him every day to be sent away from the school, and he didn't know why he was allowed to hang on. I felt awfully mean about it, because Rushton had never done anything to me. But Andy was my friend and it seemed that I had to do anything he asked me, no matter what." "But after what Rushton did for me to-day, I simply had to tell him about it. He saved my life----" Here his voice faltered, and Sid hid his face in his hands. A few more questions and they left him, shamed to the marrow by what he had done, but relieved at getting the thing off his conscience. Outside the room, Professor Raymond turned to Fred. "Rushton," he said, "this confession will be laid before Doctor Rally at once, and you can trust us to deal with Shanks. In the meantime, I want to shake hands with you, and tell you how delighted I am to have this thing cleared up. It must have been a fearful strain on you, but you have borne yourself nobly. And your brave act of to-day only confirms me in what I have felt all along, that you were a credit to Rally Hall." Fred stammered some words of thanks and was off to break the glorious news to his brother. Teddy went wild with delight. "Glory, hallelujah!" he shouted, catching Fred in his arms and dancing around the room. "Hey, what's the matter with you fellows?" called out Lester Lee, as they gyrated about. "You act as though you'd just got money from home." "Better than that, eh, Ted?" beamed Fred, his face radiant with happiness. "You bet it is," chuckled Teddy. "Better than money, eh?" grunted Lester. "It must be pretty good then. But bear in mind that this is a respectable joint, and if you don't stop acting rough house, I'll call a cop and have you pinched." But it was a long time before they could sober down. The reaction was so great that they laughed and chattered and whooped like a pair of lunatics. Fred felt as though he were walking on air. The black cloud was lifted. His good name was given back to him. He stood untarnished before the world. "What are you going to do to Andy?" asked Teddy. "Do?" replied Fred. "I'm going to lick him to a frazzle." But Doctor Rally got at Andy first. That very night, he sent for him and confronted him with the confession. Andy, true to his nature, tried to lie out of it, but, under the searching questions of the head of the school, he broke down and confessed. Then Doctor Rally, in words that stung and blistered even Andy's thick hide, told him that he was a disgrace to the school, and commanded him to leave Rally Hall, bag and baggage, within twenty-four hours. Andy begged and blubbered, but to no purpose. His offence was too dastardly and contemptible. The doctor, doubly enraged because he had so nearly condemned an innocent lad, justified the reputation for sternness that Uncle Aaron had given him. Andy slunk away white and shaken, and the next morning the whole school was surprised to learn that he had gone for good. "Humph!" exclaimed Fred, when he heard the news, "I wish he'd waited just one day more. Now, I suppose we've seen the last of him." But Fred was mistaken. He had not yet seen the last of Andy Shanks. CHAPTER XXVII THE BASEBALL TEAM The rest of the winter passed rapidly, and Fred, with the load off his mind, pitched into all the winter sports, making up royally for all he had missed in the dark days when he was under suspicion. He and Teddy had gone home for the Christmas holidays, taking with them Bill Garwood and Lester Lee, to whom they had become warmly attached. Mr. and Mrs. Rushton had outdone themselves to give them a good time, and Martha, her black face shining, had made the table fairly groan with the good things she heaped upon it for her "lambs" and their friends. The days had slipped away like magic. The visitors had had the time of their lives, and both Bill and Lester had insisted that the boys should come to see them in the summer vacation. They had a partial promise to this effect, but the matter was left for final decision later on. Uncle Aaron had not been in Oldtown at the time, for which the boys were profoundly thankful. They could easily do without him any time, but now, with the watch and papers still missing, they cared less than ever to see him. Nothing had been heard of the stolen watch, nor had the papers turned up, and every day that passed made it less likely that they ever would. "Those papers!" sighed Teddy. "And that watch! Oh, if I'd only nabbed that tramp when I saw him!" "Cheer up, old scout," said Bill. "While there's life, there's hope." "Yes," agreed Fred, "but there isn't much nourishment in hope." The Rushton boys returned to Rally Hall, refreshed and rested, ready for hard work as well as for fun and frolic. The going of Andy Shanks had removed a disturbing element from the school, and the second term was much more pleasant than the first had been. And now, they were right on the verge of spring. The ice had disappeared, the athletic field was drying out and getting into shape, and the thoughts of all were turning toward baseball practice. Slim Haley was in the midst of one of his stories, when Fred, with a bat in his hand, burst into the dormitory one Saturday morning. "Come along, fellows," he called out. "Come out and get some practice. What do you mean by staying indoors a morning like this?" "Just a minute, Fred," answered Bill Garwood, for the rest. "Slim has got to get this story out of his system." "As I was saying when this low-brow came in to interrupt me," said Slim, looking severely at Fred, "this cat was a very smart cat. And a plucky one too, by ginger. There was no rat so big that he was afraid to tackle it. And the way he went for snakes was a caution." "Snakes!" exclaimed Lester Lee incredulously. "That's what I said, 'snakes,'" said Slim firmly. "There used to be a lot of rattlesnakes in that neighborhood, and the cat would go out hunting for one every morning. "When he found a rattler, he would creep up to him, and the snake, seeing him, would throw itself into a coil to strike. The cat would hold up a paw and the snake would strike at it. But the cat was too quick and would dodge the stroke. Then, before the snake could coil up again, the cat would have it by the neck. He used to drag them home and stretch them out in the dooryard, so as to show his folks how smart he was." "Some cat!" murmured Melvin. "Yes," assented Slim, "and he was a good-hearted cat too. Some folks say that a cat thinks only of himself, but do you know what that cat did? "One day, the baby of the house had lost his rattle and was crying. The cat sat looking at him for a minute. Then he went out in the yard, bit the rattles off a dead snake and brought it in and laid it down near the baby. You see----" But what Slim saw just at that moment was a pillow coming toward his head. He dodged with an agility born of long practice; and the laughing crowd went out with Fred into the bright April morning. They scattered out on the diamond, on which Big Sluper and his assistants had been busy for some days past, and which was already in condition for a game. The turf was smooth and springy, the base paths had been rolled until they were perfectly level, and the foul lines stretched away toward left and right field. "Won't we have some bully times here this spring?" exulted Fred. "Bet your life we will!" assented Teddy, turning a handspring. "And I'm going to play shortstop and don't you forget it!" "Don't be too sure of that," Fred cautioned him. "It'll be nip and tuck between you and Shorty Ward for the position. And Shorty's a pretty nifty player." "I know he is," admitted Teddy. "But I'm going to make a fight for it." "There's Ned Wayland and Professor Raymond over there now, sizing the fellows up," said Fred. "They're from Missouri and will have to be shown. Get out there and I'll knock you some hot grounders." Ned Wayland was the captain of the team. He played pitcher and had made a splendid record in the box the year before. He had a good fast ball and a puzzling assortment of curves. Contrary to the usual run of pitchers, he was also a heavy batter, and could usually be relied on to "come across" when a hit was needed. Most of last year's team had returned to the school, so that a fairly good nine was assured from the start. But there were also a lot of promising youngsters among the newcomers, who, in Professor Raymond's judgment, would "bear close watching." He and Ned were standing a little to one side of the diamond, looking over the old material and the "new blood," as they cavorted like so many colts about the base lines. The boys knew that they were under inspection, and they played with snap and vim, each hoping that he would be chosen for some coveted position on the team. "Pretty good stuff to choose from, don't you think, Professor?" remarked Ned. "Unusually so, it seems to me," replied the other, as his keen eye followed a great pick-up and swift throw to first by Teddy. "Unless all signs fail, we ought to have a cracking good team this year." "We need to have if we're going to beat out Mount Vernon," said Wayland. "I hear that they're going great guns in practice." "We're all right in the outfield," mused the professor. "Duncan at right, Hawley in centre and Melton at left are all good fielders, and they're heavy hitters, too." "We could make our infield stronger than it is, though. I don't think that----" "Great Scott!" exclaimed Wayland. "Look at that!" CHAPTER XXVIII AN EXCITING BATTLE The "that" was a brilliant bit of fielding "pulled off" by Teddy. Fred had varied the grounders by sending up a high fly into short centre field. It was away over Teddy's head, and it seemed impossible for him to reach it. But he had started for it at the crack of the bat, and, running like a deer, he just managed to get under it with his ungloved hand. He clung to it desperately, however, and, although he rolled over and over, he rose with the ball in his hand. It was a neat bit of fielding and Teddy got a round of hand clapping from those who had seen it. "Wasn't that a peach?" asked Wayland enthusiastically. "It certainly was!" agreed the professor warmly. "I didn't think he had a chance to reach it." "Of course, one swallow doesn't make a summer," conceded Wayland, "and perhaps he couldn't do it often." "I don't think it was a fluke," said the professor. "I saw him make a swift pick-up a few minutes ago that nine out of ten would have missed. And he threw down to first almost on a line. The ball didn't rise more than three inches on the way down." "If he can keep up that kind of work, he'll give Ward all he can do to hold his job," declared Ned. "Baseball ability seems to run in the family," said the professor. "Fred is a first-rate pitcher, and, with him in the box besides yourself, I think we'll be well fortified in that position. Besides, he's a good hitter, and on days when he isn't pitching, you can put him in to bat at times when a hit is needed." "Yes," agreed Ned, "he'll be a great big element in our success this season. That outcurve of his is awfully hard to hit, and his drop ball is a pippin." "As for the backstop," went on the professor, "Tom Eldridge hasn't any rival. Granger, at first base, is a star both in fielding and hitting. But we're not any too strong at second. Hendricks doesn't seem to take so much interest in his work as he did last season." "How would it do to put Morley there, on trial?" suggested Ned. "Then we could shift Ward to third and try out Teddy Rushton at short." For several days the sifting process went on, but when the line up was finally settled upon, Teddy held down short, while Fred was to alternate with Ned as pitcher. The nine practiced faithfully, playing with neighboring village teams and making a good record. They had won three games and lost only one, and that by a close score, when the day came for the Mount Vernon game. This was to be held on the enemy's grounds, and the boys had a train ride of twenty miles before they reached the station. A crowd of the Rally Hall boys went with them, to root and cheer for a victory over their most important baseball rivals. The Green Haven station was crowded that morning with hilarious youths, and there was a buzzing as of a swarm of bees, while they waited for their train to come. The only fly in the ointment was the cloudy condition of the sky. No rain had fallen, but it looked as though it might come down at any moment. "It's up to us to get a good start early in the game," remarked Fred, "so that if the rain does come down after the fifth inning and we're in the lead, we'll win anyway." "Right you are," replied Ned. "Last year we lost a game that way just as we thought we had it tucked away in our bat bag. The other fellows were one run ahead, and when we came to bat in our half of the sixth we got three men on bases in less than no time. Our heaviest batters were just coming up, and one of them knocked a homer, clearing the bases and putting us three runs in the lead. The fellows were dancing round and hugging each other, when just then the rain came down like fury and the game had to be called. Of course, our runs didn't count and the score stood as it was at the end of the fifth, with the other fellows ahead. I tell you it was a tough game to lose." "Well, I swan, It looks like ra-in, Gidde-ap, Napoleon, We'll get the hay in," drawled Tom, who had not only a store of good poetry always on tap but was also well provided with plenty that was not so good. "Your poetry is rank, Tom," laughed Teddy, as he made a pass at him, "but the sentiment is all to the good. We'll get the hay in in the early part of the game." Just then there was a whistle in the distance. "Here she comes!" went up the cry and there was a general scurry toward the front of the platform. The train was a local, with only three cars, and it was a certainty that with the unusual crush that morning a lot of the passengers would have to stand. The train drew up with a clang and a rattle, and there was a regular football rush the moment it came to a stop. "Get aboard!" shouted one. "If you can't get a board, get a plank," yelled another. "Easy there," shouted the conductor, as the swirling mob almost swept him off his feet. But he might as well have tried to check a cyclone. They swarmed around him, and in less than a minute the train was packed. There was a lot of jolly, good-natured scuffling to get the vacant seats. "Wow! get off my toes!" yelled one of the unlucky ones. "How can I help it?" laughed the one addressed. "I've got to stand somewhere, haven't I?" The conductor wiped his perspiring brow. "Well, of all the young limbs!" he ejaculated. But his frown quickly melted into a grin. He had boys of his own. "They can only be kids once," he muttered, as he gave the engineer the signal to go ahead. Inside the cars, all was cheerful hubbub and confusion. "Give us a song, Billy!" shouted one. The request was greeted by a roar of unanimous approval. "What shall it be?" grinned Billy Burton, who seldom had to be coaxed. There was a chorus of suggestions, for Billy's repertoire was very extensive. The majority seemed to favor: "We All Sit Round and Listen, When Hiram Drinks His Soup," although there was a strong minority for "When Father Carves the Duck." In order to satisfy them all, Billy sang both ditties to a thunder of applause. He had to respond to numerous encores, and when at last he was too hoarse to sing any longer, the crowd fell back on "Ten Little Injuns" and "Forty-nine Bluebottles, a-Hanging on the Wall," together with other school favorites. There were any number of discords and any amount of flatting, but little things like that did not bother the young minstrels. They wanted noise and plenty of it. And no one in that train could deny that they got what they wanted. "Now, Slim, it's up to you," said Ned Wayland. "It's a long time since we've had one of your truthful stories." "A story from Slim," went up the chorus, as all that could crowded around. But Slim assumed an air of profoundest gloom. "Nothing doing," he said, shaking his head with a decision that the twinkle in his eyes belied. "You fellows wouldn't believe me anyway. "Look at the last one I told you," he went on, with an aggrieved air, "about the fellows that used to catch crabs with their toes as they sat on the end of the dock. Didn't you fellows as much as call me a--er--fabricator? Even when I explained that they had hardened their toes by soaking them in alum, so that they wouldn't feel the bites? Even when I offered to show you one of the crabs that they caught?" He wagged his head sadly, as one who was deeply pained by the appalling amount of unbelief to be met with in the world. "Perhaps we did you a great injustice, Slim," said Fred with a mock air of penitence. "I'm willing to apologize and never do it again," chimed in Melvin. "And I'll go still further and agree to believe your next story before you tell it," promised Tom. "Now that sounds more like it," said Slim, throwing off his gloom. "I'm always ready to add to the slight store of knowledge that you lowbrows have in stock, but you must admit that it's rather discouraging to see that cold, hard look in your eyes when I'm doing my best to give you the exact facts." "We'll admit anything, Ananias," chirped up Billy; "only go ahead with the story." Slim shot a scathing glance at Billy, but seeing that all were waiting breathlessly, he gave an impressive cough and started in. "There was a farmer down our way," he began, "who was strictly up to date. He wasn't satisfied to go along like the majority of old mossbacks, year in and year out, doing the same old thing in the same old way as it had been done for a hundred years. He tried all the new wrinkles, subscribed to the leading farm papers, and studied the market reports. "He was looking over these one night when he saw that there was an unusual demand for beef tongues and that they were bringing the biggest price in the market that they had brought for a good many years past. This set him thinking. "You know how fond cattle are of salt. Well, this farmer set aside about a dozen of his cows, to try an experiment with them. He kept them without salt during the day so that they got crazy for it. Then at night he tied them up in stalls, and hung a lump of rock salt by a string just a little out of their reach. They'd stick out their tongues to get at it but couldn't quite make it. At last, by straining hard they'd maybe touch it. Of course, as they stretched, the effort gradually made their tongues grow bigger, and--" Here, Slim looked around rather dubiously to see if his hearers were preparing to spring upon him, but they seemed as if held in the spell of an awful fascination. So he took courage and went on: "You know how it is with a blacksmith. The more he exercises his arm the bigger the muscles get. You know that our dear Dr. Rally has often impressed on our youthful minds that the more we use our brains the more brains we'll have to use. Well, that's just the way it was with these cows. Each day the farmer would put the salt a little further ahead of them, and they'd keep stretching more and more, until finally their tongues were three times the ordinary size. I tell you that farmer cleared up a pile of money when he sent his cattle to market that fall, and--" "I should think," interrupted Fred, in a voice that he tried to keep steady, "that their tongues would get in the way and choke them." "You would think so," admitted Slim, easily, "but as I said, this farmer was up to date and he had figured that out. He got a lot of rubber tubes and taught the cows to curl their tongues around in those and keep them out of the way. He--" But just then, the overtaxed patience of his auditors gave way and they rushed in a body on Slim. "I told you it would be that way," he complained, as he extricated himself from the laughing mob. "It's casting pearls before swine to try to tell you fellows the truth. You wouldn't want the truth, if I handed it to you on a gold platter." The rest of the passengers in the train, other than the Rally Hall boys, looked on and listened with varied emotions. One or two had a sour expression and muttered more or less about "those pesky boys," but by far the greater number were smiling and showed a frank pleasure in the picture of bubbling, joyous youth that they presented. It came as a welcome interlude in the cares of life. Fred had found a seat alongside a rather elderly man whose face radiated good nature. When the train had gone ten miles or so, the stranger entered into conversation. "A jolly crowd you have here," he said, beaming. "I take it you're going somewhere special. What's on for to-day?" "We're going to play a game of ball with the Mount Vernon team, a little way up the line," Fred smiled in return. "Baseball, eh?" said the other with an evident quickening of interest. "That's the king of sports with me. I used to play a lot in my time and I've never got over my liking for it. I'd rather see a game than eat." "It's a dandy sport, all right," assented Fred, with enthusiasm. "There isn't anything in the world to equal it in my opinion, except perhaps football." "I don't know much about football," admitted the other. "I see a game once in a while, but it always seems to me rather confusing. That's because I don't know the rules, I guess. But I know baseball from start to finish and from the time the umpire says 'Play ball!' until the last man's out in the ninth inning, I don't take my eyes off the diamond." "I suppose you have some great memories of the old days," remarked Fred. "You're just right," said the stranger with emphasis. "I guess I've seen almost all the great players who made the game at one time or another. There were the old Red Stockings of Cincinnati, the Mutuals of New York, the Haymakers of Troy, the Forest Cities of Rockford, that we boys used to read and talk about all the time. We had our special heroes, too, just as you have to-day. "Of course," he went on, "the game has improved a great deal, like everything else. The pitching is better now. My, how those old timers used to bat the pitchers all over the lot! You don't see any scores of two hundred runs in a game these days." "Two hundred runs!" exclaimed Fred. "You don't mean to say that any team ever made as many as that?" "Not often, I'll admit," smiled the other. "Still, the Niagaras of Buffalo won a game once by 201 to 11." "Whew!" ejaculated Tom, who had been sitting on the arm of the seat, listening to the talk. "There must have been some tired outfielders when that game was over." "I'd have hated to be the scorer," laughed Fred. "Of course that was unusual," said the other, "but big scores were a common thing. The first game between college teams was won by 66 to 32. "There was a time," he continued, "when a man could make two or three home runs on a single hit. The diamonds were only vacant lots as a rule and the ball would get lost in the high grass. Then the runner, after reaching the plate, could start round the bases again and keep on running until the ball was found or until he was too tired out to run any longer. Of course that was in the very early days of the game. We used to put a man out then by throwing the ball at him and hitting him with it." "I'd hate to have one of them catch me between the shoulders nowadays!" exclaimed Tom. "The ball was soft then and didn't hurt much," explained the other. "Oh, the game is better now in every way. We didn't know anything about 'inside stuff' as you call it, 'the squeeze play,' 'the delayed steal' and all that." "I'll bet you got just as much fun out of it though as we do now," said Fred. "I suppose we did," assented the other. "You can trust boys to get fun out of anything. But in those days it was mainly sport. Now it's sport and skill combined." The lads were to get off at the next station, and there was a general stir as they got their things together. "I'm very glad I met you," said Fred, as he shook hands with his chance acquaintance. "I've learned a lot about the game that I didn't know before." "It does me good to brush up against you young fellows," the man replied warmly, returning the handshake. "I hope you wax the other team this afternoon. I'll be rooting for you to win." "We'll do our best," promised Fred. "Thanks for the good wishes. It would be jolly if you could stop off and see the game." "I'd like nothing better, but business won't let me. Good-bye and good luck." "Who's your friend that you were talking to so long?" asked Ned, as the crowd got off the train. "I never saw him before," answered Fred. "But he's a good old scout, whoever he is. He sure is fond of baseball and he knows the game. I'd like to have him in the stands this afternoon. I'll bet he'd be a mascot for us." The nine was in fine fettle, and felt that they would have no excuses to offer if they failed to win. "But we're not going to lose!" exclaimed Granger. "I feel it in my bones!" "It'll be the score and not your bones that'll tell the story," jibed Slim. "Scots wha' hae with Wallace bled, Scots wha' Bruce has often led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory," chanted Tom Eldridge. "And it's going to be victory," affirmed Teddy, "The other fellows will be the dead ones." But the "other fellows" had views of their own on that subject, and from the time the first ball was pitched the Rally Hall boys knew that they had their work cut out for them. Ned was in the box at the start, and Fred, who was ready to take his place if needed, played right field. The pitchers on both sides were in good form, and for the first three innings neither side scored a run, although a two-base hit by Melvin and a daring steal had gotten him as far as third. Two were out at the time, however, and Ward made the third out on a high fly to left. The pitcher on the Mount Vernon team was a big, sandy-haired, freckle-faced youth who did not look at all like a student, and the boys noticed that when his nine was at the bat, he sat apart from the others, almost as though he were a stranger. Slim Haley had a suspicion, and strolled over to have a chat with him, while he was resting. "Mount Vernon is a pretty good school," said Slim, trying to start a conversation. "Yep," said the other shortly. "Nice bunch of fellows," continued Slim affably. "Good enough, I s'pose," said the other. "What studies are you taking?" asked Slim, his suspicions deepening. The other hesitated a moment. "Voconometry and trigoculture," he got out, with an effort. "What?" asked the puzzled Slim. But just then the inning ended, and the sandy-haired pitcher had to go to the box. Slim made his way back to his own crowd. "Did you fellows ever hear of voconometry and trigoculture?" he asked. "What are you giving us?" jeered Tom, with a grin. "Stop stringing us, Slim," added Ned. "Honest, I'm not fooling," protested Slim, "I asked that pitcher what studies he was taking, and he said 'voconometry and trigoculture.'" The boys pondered a moment. "I've got it!" shouted Fred, a light breaking in on him. "That fellow's a 'ringer.' He isn't a Mount Vernon student at all. There's something the matter with their regular pitcher, and they've picked up this fellow somewhere and rung him in on us as a regular school player. They've been afraid we might tumble to it and ask him questions, and so they told him what to say." "But why did they tell him to say any nonsense like that?" asked Slim, perplexed. "They didn't," explained Fred. "He's got mixed up. What they told him to say if any one asked him was that he was studying trigonometry and vocal culture.' He got stuck and called it 'voconometry and trigoculture.'" There was a roar of laughter, but this was quickly followed by indignation. "It's a dirty trick to play on us," growled Billy Burton. "Sure it is," agreed Tom. "But it's too late to protest now. Let's go in and lick them anyway." In the fifth inning, a scorching liner struck Ned on his pitching arm. He picked it up and got his man at first. But the blow had bruised his muscles badly, and he became wild. He could not control the sphere, and gave two bases on balls. These, with an error and a hit sandwiched in, yielded two runs before the side was out. "You'll have to take my place, Fred," he said as they came in for their turn at bat. "My arm is numb and I can't get them over." So Fred took up the pitching burden with a handicap of two runs against him to start with. "All over but the shouting," yelled the Mount Vernon rooters. But they changed their tune as Fred shot his curves and benders over the plate. He pitched his prettiest, and only once was in danger. Then, with a man on first and one out, a rattling double play started by Teddy pulled him out of the hole. But the other fellow, too, was pitching magnificently. CHAPTER XXIX ANDY SHANKS "GETS HIS" The Mount Vernon partisans were in an ecstasy of delight at the lead their favorites were holding and from present indications seemed likely to hold to the end. They yelled their loudest at every good play made by the home team, and did all they could to keep them up to fighting pitch. The Rally Hall followers, although of course outnumbered, kept up their end and shouted until they were hoarse. Among these none were more vociferous than Lester Lee and Bill Garwood. They had not "made" the team, although they liked and understood the game. But they were "dyed-in-the-wool" rooters for their team, and especially for the Rushton boys upon whose shoulders rested so much of responsibility for the fate of the game. As luck would have it, they were surrounded on every side by the Mount Vernon boys, many of whom were accompanied by pretty girls who had come to see the downfall of the invaders. Some of them knew very little of the game, but that did not dampen their enthusiasm, and they clapped their hands and waved their flags whenever that seemed the right thing to do. One of them was seated right alongside of Lester, and he and Bill could not help hearing her conversation. Her escort, in an interval between innings, was trying to tell her of a game he had recently seen. "This fellow was a fast runner," he remarked, "and he stole second base while the pitcher wasn't looking." "Stole it!" she exclaimed. "Why, I thought the bases were fastened down." "They are," the young man laughed, "but he stole it just the same." "I think that's just disgraceful," she said indignantly. "Did they arrest him?" Her escort explained what he meant, and she looked relieved. "A minute later, he tried it again," he went on, "but this time the ball was too quick for him, and the runner died at third." "Oh, how dreadful! I suppose he had been running so hard that his heart gave out." Bill nudged Lester, whose face was purple with his efforts to restrain himself. Again her escort patiently explained that the incident at third had been in no sense a tragedy. "That made two out," he went on, "but the next man at the bat lammed the horsehide--No," he interrupted himself hurriedly, as he saw another question trembling on her lips, "the horse wasn't in the hide. I mean, he hit the ball and made a home run. That rattled the pitcher and he went up in the air." "Let's get out," whispered Bill to Lester. "I can see that she'll ask him whether it was a baseball game or an aviation meet." "It's his own fault," replied Lester, as he followed his companion to another part of the stand where they could give free vent to their mirth. "You can't blame her for not understanding baseball slang. I'll bet after this that he'll stick to plain English." "Look at those clouds coming up!" exclaimed Bill suddenly. "I'm afraid rain's coming before the game is over." "And our fellows behind," groaned Lester. "We ought to have 'got the hay in' before this," said Bill, as Tom's doggerel of the morning came back to him. The Mount Vernon team was quick to see its advantage and began to play for time. They were ahead, and as more than five innings had been played, it would be called a complete game and credited to them, if they could keep their opponents from scoring before the rain came down. With this end in view, they began a series of movements designed to delay the game. The Rally Hall boys were at the bat and it was the beginning of the seventh inning. They were desperate in their desire to tie or go ahead of the enemy. Those two runs loomed bigger and bigger, as the game drew near its end. "We've got to get a move on, fellows," admonished Fred, as his side came to bat. "And in an awful hurry, too," agreed Melvin. "The time's short even if the rain doesn't come," declared Ned. "But from the look of those clouds, we won't play a full game. Make this the 'lucky seventh' and crack out a couple of runs." "How are we going to get anything, if that pitcher doesn't put it over?" asked Tom, as he stood at the plate, bat in hand. "Hi, there," he called to the boxman. "Put the ball over the plate and I'll kill it." "Take your time," drawled the pitcher, as he bent over, pretending to tie his shoe lace. "I'll strike you out soon enough." That shoe lace seemed very hard to tie, judging from the time he spent in doing it. At last, when he could not keep up the pretence any longer, he straightened up and took his position in the box. Then, something about the ball seemed to attract his attention. He looked at it earnestly and signaled to the captain who walked in slowly from centre field. He in turn beckoned to the first baseman, and the three joined in conversation at the pitcher's box. By this time, the crowd had caught the idea, and a storm of protest broke out from the stands. "Play ball!" "Cut out the baby act!" "Can't you win without the rain?" "What a crowd of quitters!" "Be sports and play the game!" "They're showing a yellow streak!" "The white feather, you mean!" Most of the protests came from the Rally Hall followers, but a good many also of the home team's supporters were disgusted at these unsportsmanlike tactics. Teddy rushed up to the umpire, his eyes blazing. "Are you going to stand for this?" he asked. "What kind of a deal are we getting in this town, anyway?" The umpire, who had tried to be strictly impartial, raised his hand soothingly. "Go easy, son," he replied. "I was only waiting to make sure. I'll see that you get fair play. "Cut out that waiting stuff," he called to the pitcher, "and play ball." The pitcher took his position in the box, but the captain strolled toward centre field at a snail's pace. "Hurry up there now," ordered the umpire. "I'll give you till I count ten to get out in the field. If you're not there by that time, I'll put you out of the game." "I'm going, am I not?" retorted the captain, still creeping along. "One," said the umpire. "Two. Three." The captain's pace quickened. "Four. Five. Six." The captain broke into a trot. "Seven. Eight. Nine." But by this time the captain had reached his position. It was evident that the umpire meant what he said. "Now, put them over," he ordered the pitcher, "and I'll send you to the bench, if I see any signs of holding back. Play ball." There was no further delay, and the pitcher shot the ball over the plate. Tom, true to his promise, "killed" the ball, sending a scorching liner between second and third that netted him two bases. Fred sacrificed him to third by laying a beautiful bunt down on the first base line. Morley hit the ball a resounding crack, but it went straight to the second baseman, who made a great stop and nipped Tom as he came rushing in to the plate. A long fly to centre field ended the inning, and gloom settled down on the boys from Rally Hall. "Seven goose eggs in a row," groaned Billy Burton. "Never mind," said Fred cheerily, as he picked up his glove. "We're getting on to his curves now. Did you see how we belted him in that inning? No pop-up flies, but good solid welts. The breaks in the luck were against us but they won't be always." As though to back up his words of cheer, the sun at that instant broke through the clouds and the field was flooded with light. "Hurrah!" yelled Teddy, throwing up his hat. "It isn't going to rain after all." "Those were only wind clouds," exulted Melvin. "It is the sun of Austerlitz," quoted Tom. "It's a good omen anyway," declared Ned. "Buckle down to your work now, boys, and play like tigers." And they did. Fred promptly struck the first man out on three pitched balls. The second popped up a high foul, which Tom gathered in after a long run. The third man up dribbled a slow one to the box and Fred quickly snapped the ball over to first for an out. "Short and sweet, that inning," commented Slim Haley. "Now it's our turn again," said Teddy. "Here's where we win." "Up guards and at them," encouraged Tom. But, try as they would, their bad luck persisted. Their slugging was hard and fierce, but the ball went straight into a fielder's hands, and again they went out on the diamond without a score to their credit. In the enemy's eighth turn at bat, it looked as if they might get one or more runs over the plate. A lucky bound allowed one man to get to first, and he went to second when Morley dropped a high fly after a long run. There were men on first and second with none out, and their chance for a score was bright. The next man up sent a whistling liner right over second. Teddy, who was playing close to the bag, jumped in the air and pulled down the ball. That, of course, put out the batter. As Teddy came down with the ball in his hand, he stepped on the base, thus putting out the man who had made a bee line for third, thinking the ball would go safe, and was now trying desperately to get back. That made two out. The fellow who had been on first had almost reached second, but turned and sprinted back with Teddy in hot pursuit. He clapped the ball on him just in time, and the side was out. Teddy had made a triple play unassisted. It was a sparkling and most unusual feat, and the whole stand rose to Teddy as he came in, and cheered and cheered until he was forced to pull off his cap. The Mount Vernon rooters forgot their partisanship and shouted as loudly as the rest. As for his schoolmates, they mauled and hugged him until he fled for refuge to the bench. "Some fireworks!" yelled one. "I can die happy, now!" exclaimed another. "I've seen a triple play pulled off." "You'll never see another," prophesied his neighbor. The Rally Hall boys were yelling their loudest to encourage their favorites when they came to bat for the last time. A groan went up when Duncan lifted a high fly to centre field, which was caught easily. But Melvin sent a sizzling liner to left, just inside third, and made two bases on it. And the yells were deafening, when Ward advanced him to third, by a fierce grounder to short, that was too hot to hold. "Rushton! Rushton!" they shouted, as Fred came to bat after Tom had gone out on a foul. "Hit it on the trademark!" "Give it a ride!" "Win your own game!" The first ball was a deceptive drop, but Fred did not "bite." The second was a low fast one, about knee high, just the kind he was accustomed to "kill." With a mighty swing he caught it fair "on the seam." It rose like a shot and soared into centre field, far over the fielder's head. Melvin and Ward came in, tying the score, and Fred, who had gone around the bases like a deer, made it a home run by just beating the ball on a headlong slide to the plate. Rally Hall promptly went raving mad. There was still one more chance for the Mount Vernon lads, and their best hitters were coming on. But Fred was on his mettle now, and put every ounce of his strength and cunning into his pitching. They simply could not hit his slants. The first went out on strikes, Ward made a dazzling catch of a hot liner, and, when Melvin, after a long run, caught a high foul close to the left field bleachers, the game was over, with the score three to two in favor of Rally Hall. It was a hilarious crowd that met the team at Green Haven when the train pulled in. The whole nine had played well, and all came in for their share of the ovation, though the Rushton brothers were regarded as having carried off the honors of the game. "Do you know what pleased me most of all?" asked Fred of Melvin. "That home run you made, I suppose," answered the other. "No," was the answer. "It was that we downed the 'ringer.' They couldn't get away with their low-down trick. We put one over on 'voconometry and trigoculture.'" But Fred had a chance to "put one over" a few days later that pleased him still more. A group of the boys had been down to the post office and were walking slowly on the road back to Rally Hall. It was a beautiful afternoon, and they took their time, in no hurry to get home. Suddenly there was a loud "honk," "honk" behind them, and, looking back, they saw an automobile coming swiftly toward them. They scattered to let it pass, but, as it came up it slackened speed and began zigzagging from one side of the road to the other, making the boys jump to keep out of the way. "Can't you look out where you're going?" asked Slim angrily. "What kind of a driver are you, anyway?" "By Jove, fellows!" exclaimed Bill Garwood, as he looked more closely at the face behind the goggles, "it's Andy Shanks!" It was indeed that disgraced youth, who was making a trip through that part of the state, and whom some impulse had prompted to go by way of Green Haven. "Sure it is," he answered sourly. "Get out of the way, you boobs. Jump, you skate," he said to Fred, as he darted the machine at him. Fred leaped nimbly out of the way, and Andy, with a derisive jeer, sped on, looking behind him and laughing insolently. Fred was white with indignation. "The coward!" he exclaimed. "If I could get on that running board, I'd drag him from his seat!" "He sure ought to have a licking," agreed Bill. "But we'd have to be some good little sprinters to catch him now." "Look, fellows!" cried Billy Burton excitedly, "he's stopped. There must be something the matter with his engine." They all started to run. Andy had dismounted quickly and was working desperately to get his stalled engine going. He got it sparking at last, but before he could jump into the seat the boys were on him. "No, you don't!" cried Fred, getting between him and the machine. "I've got an account to settle with you." "Get out of my way," snarled Andy, trying to push past. Fred's answer was a blow that caught the bully under the chin and sent his teeth together with a snap. "I'll fix you for that," Andy roared. "Come along," was Fred's challenge, slipping off his coat, "but first take off your goggles. I'm going to lick you good and plenty, but I don't want to blind you." Then followed a fight that Slim afterward described to a delighted group at the dormitory as a "peach of a scrap." Even a rat will fight if it is cornered, and Andy, having no way out, did his best. All the hate and venom he felt for Fred came to the surface, and he fought ferociously. But he was no match, despite his size and strength, for the boy he had wronged. Fred was in splendid shape, thanks to his athletic training, and, besides, he was as quick as a cat. He easily evaded the bull-like rushes of Andy, and got in one clean-cut blow after another that shook the bully from head to foot. The thought of all he had suffered through Shank's trickery gave an additional sting to the blows he showered on him, and it was not long before Andy lay on the ground, sullen and vanquished. "Have you had enough?" asked Fred. "Enough," mumbled Andy, through his bruised lips. They left him there, humbled but furious, and went on their way to the Hall. "Fred, you went round him like a cooper round a barrel!" said Bill Garwood admiringly. "He had it coming to him," answered Fred. "If ever a fellow needed it, he did." He stepped aside to avoid a car coming toward him in which two rough-looking men were seated. "Look, Fred!" cried Teddy, clutching his brother's arm as the car went by. "What? Where?" asked Fred wonderingly. "The auto!" gasped Teddy. "The man with a scar! The fellows that stole Uncle Aaron's watch!" CHAPTER XXX THE CAPTURE--CONCLUSION "You don't mean it!" exclaimed Fred, as excited as Teddy. "I'm sure of it! And now we're going to miss them again," groaned his brother. At that moment a boy on a motorcycle came round a curve in the road. "It's Lester Lee on his motorbike!" cried Fred, as an idea came to him. "Quick!" he yelled, waving his hand to Lester. The latter put on speed and was soon beside them. "What's the matter?" he asked, as he jumped from the saddle. "Lend us your machine, Lester, like a good fellow," cried Fred. "I'll tell you all about it later. Quick, Teddy, jump on with me!" In a second the Rushton boys were off, while the boys without the slightest idea of what was happening, looked after them with wonder in their eyes. Fred had often ridden on Lester's motorcycle and knew how to handle it as well as the owner himself. He let out all speed and soon was traveling like the wind, with Teddy hanging on for dear life. The automobile had a good start, and it was several minutes before they came in sight of it. Then they slackened their pace, keeping a couple of hundred yards in the rear. "How on earth did those fellows ever get an auto?" asked Teddy wonderingly. "Stole it, probably," answered Fred. "But that isn't what is bothering me. What I want to know is, how we're going to get them nabbed. We don't know where they're going to stop, and when they do land somewhere they'll probably have others of their gang around." It was a perplexing problem, and they taxed their brains to think of an answer. But at present, the chief thing was to keep them in sight, and, as the men had no idea that they were being followed, this was easy enough. Everything went well until, just after they turned a bend in the road, they ran into a bed of sand. Up to now the road had been hard and smooth, and they had been going at top speed. Fred saw the sandy stretch and tried to put on the brakes, but the distance was too short. The sudden check in speed as the motorcycle ploughed into the sand sent both boys flying over the handle bars, while the machine staggered and at last fell down beside the trunk of a tree. For a moment they lay still, the breath fairly knocked out of them by the shock. Then they slowly scrambled to their feet, a little shakily, and looked at each other in disgust. "Did you ever see such luck as that?" asked Teddy. "Now our goose is cooked. We'll lose sight of them and that will be the end of it." "Not by a jugful, it won't," declared Fred, stoutly. "Jump up, and we'll catch up to them in a jiffy." He righted the machine, and after leading it through the streak of sandy road, they mounted and started off. But they had not gone twenty rods before they began to slow up, and Fred discovered to his dismay that they were riding on a flat tire. "We must have had a puncture when the machine fell down," he said as they jumped off. "It bumped up against the tree, and some projection jammed into the tire. Here it is now," as he disclosed a tiny opening. They opened Lester's tool box and set themselves vigorously to work to repair the puncture. They worked feverishly, and in a minute or two got out the inner tube and prepared to patch the damaged spot. "I can do this just as well alone," said Fred. "You take a squint at the tank and see if we have enough gas to take us on. Lester may have been nearly out when we grabbed the machine from him." A groan from Teddy, a moment later, told him that he had hit on an unpleasant truth. "Almost empty!" exclaimed Teddy. "There isn't enough to take us another mile. There's a hoodoo in it. We no sooner see those fellows than we lose them again." There was consternation in the boys' eyes as they gazed blankly at each other. Fred rose to his feet and looked about him. Half a mile ahead, he saw a church spire rising above the trees. "There must be a town over there," he said. "I'll tell you what we'll do. You skip ahead and find some place where they sell gasoline. Get a couple of quarts and hustle back. This job will take me ten or fifteen minutes more, and as soon as I get it done, I'll come on to meet you. If the gas gives out before I get there, I'll trundle the machine along until we meet. Get a move on now, for every minute counts." Teddy started off on a dog trot, and Fred once more bent over his work. Despite his air of confidence, he had very little hope of picking up the trail, once the vagrants had gotten out of sight. Still, they could make inquiries and might have luck. At the very worst they could do no more than fail, and they would have the consolation of knowing that they had not quit. He worked desperately, and soon the inner tube was as good as ever. He tumbled the tools back into the box, mounted the machine, and as the road was good, once past the sandy stretch, he let it out, fearing, however, that at any moment it might go dry. He had reached the outskirts of the village, when he saw Teddy hurrying toward him with a can in his hand. He greeted his brother with a shout. And it seemed to the boys that they had never heard sweeter music than the splashing of the gasoline as it went down into the tank. "I've had one bit of luck, anyway!" exclaimed Teddy, once more in his normal high spirits. "I asked if they had seen the auto go through, and they showed me where it had turned off to the right. We'll get them yet." "That's the way to talk!" responded his brother. "We'll follow the old advice and be like the postage stamp. We'll stick until we get there." They took the road to the right that had been pointed out, and let the motorcycle out at full speed. They soon made up for lost time, and their hearts exulted when at last they saw before them the automobile they were looking for. They slowed down at once, keeping an easy distance in the rear. On they went through several villages, until at last the automobile stopped at a low roadhouse on the outskirts of the town of Saxby. The men got out and went into the house. Still without any definite plan, the boys brought the motorcycle to a stop at the same place. There was a barroom in front, and a sign announced that soda and soft drinks were for sale. They pulled their caps down over their faces, went in and ordered sarsaparilla. They took their seats at a small table in the rear and sipped it slowly, glancing carelessly from time to time at the two men who were sitting nearby with a whisky bottle between them. And as they looked, the suspicion that these were the tramps they had seen in Sam Perkins' barn became a certainty. There was the tall man with the scar on his temple showing clearly; and the short, stout man with him was without doubt his former companion. They were dressed more decently than before, evidently as the result of their stealings, but there had been no improvement in their coarse and evil faces. They seemed in no hurry, and it was a pretty safe guess that they would tarry where they were until they had emptied the bottle. "You stay here," whispered Fred to Teddy, "and keep your eye on them. I'll take the bike and skip down to the main part of the town and get a constable." "I'll be back in a minute, Ted," he said aloud, as he sauntered from the room. He climbed into the saddle and in three minutes was in the heart of the town. A hurried inquiry led him to the office of the constable. He found him at his ease, swapping stories with three or four of his cronies. But the indifference with which he greeted Fred's entrance gave place to eager interest as Fred told him of the theft at Oldtown and of the reward that had been offered. "Sure, I'll go with you, Son," he said, rising to his feet. "And two or three of you fellows had better come along," he added to his friends. "Those fellows may put up a fight when they're tackled." A moment more and an automobile carrying four men was speeding to the roadhouse, while Fred rode alongside. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that the other automobile was still standing in front. The birds had not yet flown. Two of the constable's party stayed outside to intercept the men if they should attempt to escape, while he himself, with another, entered the room. He went straight up to the pair, who looked at him angrily. "I want you," he said, at the same time exhibiting his badge. As though moved by the same spring, the men jumped to their feet and rushed for the door. The constable collared the short one, but the tall man had nearly reached the door when Fred tripped him, and he went down with a crash. Before he could rise the rest were on him and in a moment both men were handcuffed. They bundled them into the automobile and took them to the constable's office. Fred and Teddy accompanied them on the motorcycle, their hearts beating high with exultation. A careful search of their pockets brought to light several pawntickets. The boys scanned them eagerly. "Here it is!" cried Fred, as he noted the date on one of them. "It's for a watch, and it's dated three days after the robbery at Oldtown. And here's the number of the watch on it." He drew from his vest pocket a slip of paper and compared the number. "Sure as guns!" he exclaimed delightedly. "Here's the number, 61,284. The same one that's on the pawn ticket." "Won't Uncle Aaron be tickled to death?" chortled Teddy. "Glory, hallelujah!" "What are these, I wonder," asked the constable as he looked over a package of papers. "Why don't you say we stole those, too?" snarled the tall prisoner. "Well, didn't you?" asked the constable sarcastically. "No, we didn't," was the sullen reply. "We found them in an open road near a bridge----" "A bridge!" interrupted Teddy, pricking up his ears. "Let's see them." They spread out the papers. They were greasy and dirty from long carrying, but the boys' hearts leaped as they saw on them the name of Aaron Rushton. They looked at each other. Then they shouted. "Hang out the flags!" cried Teddy. "Fire the cannon! Ring the bells! Say, Fred, is this our lucky day, or isn't it?" "You bet your life!" gloated Fred. "What is the nearest way to the telegraph station?" he asked, turning to the constable. The officer told him. "Can't get the news home quick enough, eh?" he laughed good-naturedly. "Well, I don't wonder. And when you see your folks, tell 'em I said they're lucky to have such a pair of kids." It was rather an excited, jumbled message that reached the Rushton home that night, but it made Mr. Rushton's eyes kindle with pride, while his wife's were wet with happy tears. Old Martha strutted about, glorying in the vindication of her "lambs," and Uncle Aaron so far forgot himself as to clap his brother on the shoulder and say: "Fine boys, Mansfield, fine boys!" Then, as though he had said too much, he added: "I knew that Rally Hall would be the making of them." After the telegram had been sent, the Rushton boys started back for Rally Hall. They had had the most strenuous kind of a day, but all their weariness was forgotten in the glorious ending that had been brought about. "It's a long lane that has no turning," remarked Fred, as they rode along through the darkness. "Those fellows got away from us twice, but they couldn't do it again." "It was the third time and out for them, all right," jubilated Teddy. "Say, Fred, can't you see the folks at home when they get that telegram? Perhaps they're reading it this blessed minute." "I guess we've squared ourselves with Uncle Aaron," chuckled his brother. "You mean I've squared myself," corrected Teddy. "He never had very much against you, except that you always stood up for me when I got into scrapes." "He'll put it all up to Dr. Rally and the splendid discipline of the school," said Fred. "I suppose so," assented Teddy. "But we don't care where the credit goes, as long as he gets back his watch and papers. "By the way, Fred," he continued, as he became conscious of a feeling of emptiness. "Do you realize that we haven't had any supper?" "Haven't thought a thing about it," laughed Fred. "The fact is; I've been too excited to think of eating. I'll bet that's the first time I ever forgot anything like that. But now that you speak of it, I certainly could punish a good supper." "It'll be way past supper time when we get to the Hall," mused Teddy. "Right you are," was the answer. "But we won't be long in getting to sleep, after a day like this, and when we wake up it will be time for breakfast." But fate had willed that they should not go to bed hungry, for when at last they reached their dormitory, they found their mates indulging in a spread that Slim had furnished to celebrate the downing of Andy Shanks. They greeted Fred and Teddy with a frenzy of enthusiasm and pushed them down in seats before the eatables. A volley of questions was hurled at them, but Mel assumed command. "Not a word," he said, "until we've filled these pilgrims up to the brim." "But think how long that'll take," joked Billy. "I've seen these fellows eat before." "Mel," said Fred, as he pitched in like a hungry wolf, ably seconded by Teddy, "I always thought you were a good friend of mine, but now I know it. You've saved my life." They ate till they could eat no more. Then, to the eager crowd around them, the Rushton boys went over all the events of that memorable day. Their chums listened breathlessly as they told of the exciting pursuit of the tramps and their rounding up in the road house. And when they had finished, there was a tumult of applause and congratulation. "Great stuff, old scouts!" was the way Melvin summed up the general feeling. "You've both done yourselves proud this day." "Of course I'm glad you got back those things for your uncle," said Slim, "but the thing that tickles me to death is the way you polished off Andy Shanks. I haven't enjoyed anything so much since I've been at Rally Hall. Whatever happens now, I feel that I haven't lived in vain." "I guess we all feel the same way," acquiesced Billy. "Andy has had that coming to him for a long time. Mel trimmed him once, but that was a year ago, and he's been aching for another licking ever since." "Well, he got it all right," declared Lester, "and it was a most artistic job." "What gets me is how he ever had the nerve to come back here, after he'd been bundled out in disgrace," wondered Tom. "Oh, I don't know," grinned Slim. "You know they say every criminal is drawn back to the scene of his crimes." "If he has that feeling again, I don't think he will yield to it," laughed Lester. "I guess we've seen the last of Andy Shanks." It was late when at last they got to bed and the Rushton boys had never slept more soundly than they did that night. And when the boys went home a little later they had the warmest kind of greeting. Nothing was too good for them. Teddy saw his advantage, and the youth struck while the iron was hot. "You _are_ going to let us go with Bill Garwood to his ranch, aren't you, Mother?" he asked coaxingly. "I guess I'll have to," smiled his mother, while Mr. Rushton nodded assent. "Sure!" broke in Uncle Aaron, "and what's more I'll buy the railroad tickets." And at this the boys almost fainted. "Say," asked Teddy, when they were alone, "won't we have a bully time with Bill on the ranch?" "We most certainly will," agreed Fred with emphasis. And what glorious times they had in that wild western country, with its wide sweep of plain and forest, its danger and its mystery, its bucking bronchos and reckless cowboys will be told in our next volume, to be entitled: "The Rushton Boys in the Saddle; or, The Ghost of the Plains." "And the cowboys," exulted Teddy. "Whoopee!" "Riding the mustangs and watching the round-ups," added Fred. "And greasers and rustlers and Indians and maybe some shooting," said Teddy, hopefully. "S-sh," warned his brother, "If mother hears any talk of shooting, it's all off." "I don't mean men," explained Teddy, "but bears or panthers or buffaloes----" "Nothing doing with buffaloes," laughed Fred. "They've all been wiped out long ago." "Well, anyway," Teddy wound up, his eyes shining, "we're going to have the most exciting time of our lives." 
28531	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 28531-h.htm or 28531-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/8/5/3/28531/28531-h/28531-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/8/5/3/28531/28531-h.zip) THE BANNER BOY SCOUTS SNOWBOUND Or A Tour on Skates and Iceboats by GEORGE A. WARREN Author of "The Banner Boy Scouts," "The Musket Boys of Old Boston," Etc. Illustrated [Illustration: "LOOK OUT! THE SECOND CAT!" YELLED PAUL. _The Banner Boy Scouts Snowbound Page 161_] The Saalfield Publishing Co. Akron, Ohio--New York Made In U. S. A. Copyright, 1916, by Cupples & Leon Company CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. On the Frozen Bushkill 1 II. When the Old Ice-House Fell 8 III. The Rescue 15 IV. A Quick Return for Services Rendered 23 V. A Startling Interruption 30 VI. A Gloomy Prospect for Jud 38 VII. Paul Takes a Chance 46 VIII. Bobolink and the Storekeeper 54 IX. "Fire!" 62 X. The Accusation 69 XI. Friends of the Scouts 76 XII. The Iceboat Squadron 84 XIII. On the Way 91 XIV. The Ring of Steel Runners 98 XV. Tolly Tip and the Forest Cabin 105 XVI. The First Night Out 112 XVII. "Tip-Ups" for Pickerel 119 XVIII. The Helping Hand of a Scout 126 XIX. News of Big Game 134 XX. At the Beaver Pond 141 XXI. Setting the Flashlight Trap 149 XXII. Waylaid in the Timber 157 XXIII. The Blizzard 165 XXIV. The Duty of the Scout 172 XXV. Among the Snowdrifts 180 XXVI. Dug Out 187 XXVII. "First Aid" 194 XXVIII. More Startling News 202 XXIX. The Wild Dog Pack 211 XXX. A Change of Plans 219 XXXI. Good-Bye to Deer Head Lodge 227 XXXII. The Capture of the Hobo Yeggmen 235 XXXIII. Conclusion 243 PREFACE DEAR BOYS:-- Once more it is my privilege to offer you a new volume wherein I have endeavored to relate further interesting adventures in which the members of Stanhope Troop of Boy Scouts take part. Most of my readers, I feel sure, remember Paul, Jud, Bobolink, Jack and many of the other characters, and will gladly greet them as old friends. To such of you who may be making the acquaintance of these manly young chaps for the first time I can only say this. I trust your interest in their various doings along the line of scoutcraft will be strong enough to induce you to secure the previous volumes in this series in order to learn at first hand of the numerous achievements they have placed to their credit. The boys comprising the original Red Fox Patrol won the beautiful banner they own in open competition with other rival organizations. From that day, now far in the past, Stanhope Troop has been known as the Banner Boy Scouts. Its possession has always served as an inspiration to Paul and his many staunch comrades. Every time they see its silken folds unfurled at the head of their growing marching line they feel like renewing the vows to which they so willingly subscribed on first joining the organization. Many of their number, too, are this day proudly wearing on their chests the medals they have won through study, observation, service, thrift, or acts of heroism, such as saving human life at the risk of their own. I trust that all my many young readers will enjoy the present volume fully as much as they did those that have appeared before now. Hoping, then, to meet you all again before a great while in the pages of another book; and with best wishes for every lad who aspires to climb the ladder of leadership in his home troop, believe me, Cordially yours, GEORGE A. WARREN. THE BANNER BOY SCOUTS SNOWBOUND CHAPTER I ON THE FROZEN BUSHKILL "Watch Jack cut his name in the ice, fellows!" "I wish I could do the fancy stunts on skates he manages to pull off. It makes me green with envy to watch Jack Stormways do that trick." "Oh, shucks! what's the use of saying that, Wallace Carberry, when everybody knows your strong suit is long-distance skating? The fact is both the Carberry twins are as much at home on the ice as I am when I get my knees under the supper table." "That's kind of you to throw bouquets my way, Bobolink. But, boys, stop and think. Here it is--only four days now to Christmas, and the scouts haven't made up their minds yet where to spend the glorious holidays." "Y-y-yes, and b-b-by the same token, this year we're g-g-going to g-g-get a full three-weeks' vacation in the b-b-bargain, b-b-because they have t-t-to overhaul the f-f-furnaces." "Hold on there, Bluff Shipley! If you keep on falling all over yourself like that you'll have to take a whole week to rest up." "All the same," remarked the boy who answered to the odd name of Bobolink, "it's high time we scouts settled that important matter for good." "The assistant scout-master, Paul Morrison, has called a meeting at headquarters for to-night, you understand, boys," said the fancy skater, who had just cut the name of Paul Morrison in the smooth, new ice of the Bushkill river. "We must arrange the programme then," observed Bobolink, "because it will take a couple of days to get everything ready for the trip, no matter where we go." "Huh!" grunted another skater, "I can certainly see warm times ahead for the cook at _your_ house, Bobolink, provided you've still got that ferocious appetite to satisfy." "Oh! well, Tom Betts," laughed the other, "I notice that you seldom take a back seat when the grub is being passed around. As for me I'm proud of my stowage ability. A good appetite is one of the greatest blessings a growing boy can have." "Pity the poor father though," chuckled Wallace Carberry, "because he has to pay the freight." "Just to go back to the important subject," said Bluff Shipley, who could speak as clearly as any one when not excited, "where do you think the scouts will hike to for their Christmas holidays?" "Well, now, a winter camp on Rattlesnake Mountain wouldn't be such a bad stunt," suggested Tom Betts, quickly. "For my part," remarked Bobolink, "I'd rather like to visit Lake Tokala again, and see what Cedar Island looks like in the grip of Jack Frost. The skating on that sheet of water must be great." "We certainly did have a royal good time there last summer," admitted Jack, reflectively. "All the same," ventured Tom, "I think I know one scout who couldn't be coaxed or hired to camp on Cedar Island again." "Meaning Curly Baxter," Bobolink went on to say scornfully, "who brazenly admits he believes in ghosts, and couldn't be convinced that the place wasn't haunted." "Curly won't be the only fellow to back out," suggested Jack. "While we have a membership of over thirty on the muster roll of Stanhope Troop, it isn't to be expected that more than half of them will agree to make the outing with us." "Too much like hard work for some of the boys," asserted Tom. "I know a number who say they'd like to be with us, but their folks object to a winter camp," Wallace announced. "So if we muster a baker's dozen we can call ourselves lucky." "Of course it must be a real snow and ice hike this time," suggested Bluff. "To be sure--and on skates at that!" cried Wallace, enthusiastically. "Oh! I hope there's a chance to use our iceboats too!" sighed Tom Betts, who late that fall had built a new flier, and never seemed weary of sounding the praises of his as yet untried "Speedaway." "Perhaps we may--who knows?" remarked Jack, mysteriously. The others, knowing that the speaker was the nearest and dearest chum of Paul Morrison, assistant scout-master of Stanhope Troop of Boy Scouts, turned upon him eagerly on hearing this suggestive remark. "You know something about the plans, Jack!" "Sure he does, and he ought to give us a hint in the bargain!" "Come, take pity on us, won't you, Jack?" But the object of all this pleading only shook his head and smiled as he went on to say: "I'm bound to secrecy, fellows, and you wouldn't have me break my word to our patrol leader. Just hold your horses a little while longer and you'll hear everything. We're going to talk it over to-night and settle the matter once for all. Now let's drop the subject. Here's a new wrinkle I'm trying out." With that Jack started to spin around on his skates, and fairly dazzled his mates with the wonderful ability he displayed as a fancy skater. While they are thus engaged a few words of explanation may not come in amiss. Stanhope Troop consisted of three full patrols, with another almost completed. Though in the flood tide of success at the time we make the acquaintance of the boys in this volume there were episodes in the past history of the troop to which the older scouts often referred with mingled emotions of pride and wonder. The present status of the troop had not been maintained without many struggles. Envious rivals had tried to make the undertaking a failure, while doubting parents had in many cases to be shown that association with the scouts would be a thing of unequalled advantage to their boys. Those who have read the previous books of this series have doubtless already formed a warm attachment for the members of the Red Fox Patrol and their friends, and will be greatly pleased to follow their fortunes again. For the benefit of those who are making their acquaintance for the first time it may be stated that besides Jack Stormways and the four boys who were with him on the frozen Bushkill this December afternoon, the roster of the Red Fox Patrol counted three other names. These were Paul Morrison, the leader, the other Carberry twin, William by name, and a boy whom they called "Nuthin," possibly because his name chanced to be Albert Cypher. As hinted at in the remarks that flew between the skaters circling around, many of the members of the troop had spent a rollicking vacation the previous summer while aboard a couple of motor boats loaned to them by influential citizens of their home town. The strange adventures that had befallen the scouts on this cruise through winding creeks and across several lakes have been given in the pages of the volume preceding this book, called "The Banner Boy Scouts Afloat; Or, The Secret of Cedar Island." Ever since their return from that cruise the boys had talked of little else; and upon learning that the Christmas holidays would be lengthened this season the desire to take another tour had seized upon them. After Jack so summarily shut down upon the subject no one ventured to plead with him any longer. All knew that he felt bound in honor to keep any secret he had been entrusted with by the assistant scout-master--for Paul often had to act in place of Mr. Gordon, a young traveling salesman, who could not be with the boys as much as he would have liked. Jack had just finished cutting the new figure, and his admirers were starting to give vent to their delight over his cleverness when suddenly there came a strange roaring sound that thrilled every one of them through and through. It was as if the frozen river were breaking up in a spring thaw. Some of the boys even suspected that there was danger of being swallowed up in such a catastrophe, and had started to skate in a frenzy of alarm for the shore when the voice of Bobolink arose above the clamor. "Oh! look there, will you, fellows?" he shouted, pointing a trembling finger up the river. "The old ice-house has caved in, just as they feared it would. See the ice cakes sliding everywhere! And I saw men and girls near there just five minutes ago. They may be caught under all that wreckage for all we know! Jack, what shall we do about it?" "Come on, every one of you!" roared Jack Stormways, as he set off at full speed. "This means work for the scouts! To the rescue, boys! Hurry! hurry!" CHAPTER II WHEN THE OLD ICE-HOUSE FELL Never before in the recollection of any Stanhope boy had winter settled in so early as it had this year. They seldom counted on having their first skate on the new ice before Christmas, and yet for two weeks now some of the most daring had been tempting Providence by venturing on the surface of the frozen Bushkill. The ice company had built a new house the preceding summer, though the old one was still fairly well filled with a part of the previous season's great crop. Its sides had bulged out in a suspicious manner, so that many had predicted some sort of catastrophe, but somehow the old building had weathered every gale, though it leaned to the south sadly. The company apparently hoped it would hold good until they had it emptied during the next summer, when they intended to build another new structure on the spot. As the five boys started to skate at utmost speed up the river they heard a medley of sounds. A panic had evidently struck such boys and girls as were skimming over the smooth ice in protected bayous near the ice-houses. Instead of hurrying to the assistance of those who may have been caught in the fallen timbers of the wrecked building they were for the most part fleeing from the scene, some of them shrieking with terror. Several men who had been employed near by could be seen standing and staring. It looked as though they hardly knew what to do. If ever there was an occasion where sound common sense and a readiness to grasp a situation were needed it seemed to be just then. And, fortunately, Jack Stormways was just the boy to meet the conditions. He sped up the river like an arrow from the bow, followed by the four other scouts. The frightened girls who witnessed their passage always declared that never had they seen Stanhope boys make faster speed, even in a race where a valuable prize was held out as a lure to the victor. As he bore down upon the scene of confusion Jack took it all in. Those who were floundering amidst the numerous heavy cakes of ice must engage their attention without delay. He paid little heed to the fortunate ones who were able to be on their feet, since this fact alone proved that they could not have been seriously injured. Several, however, were not so fortunate, and Jack's heart seemed to be almost in his throat when he saw that two of the skaters lay in the midst of the scattered cakes of ice as though painfully injured. "This way, boys!" shouted the boy in the van as they drew near the scene of the accident. "Bluff, you and Wallace turn and head for that one yonder. Bobolink, come with me--and Tom Betts." Five seconds later he was bending over a small girl who lay there groaning and looking almost as white as the snow upon the hills around Stanhope. "It's little Lucy Stackpole!" gasped Tom, as he also arrived. "Chances are she was hit by one of these big ice cakes when they flew around!" Jack looked up. "Yes, I'm afraid she's been badly hurt, fellows. It looks to me like a compound fracture of her right leg. She ought to be taken home in a hurry. See if you can round up a sled somewhere, and we'll put her on it." "Here's Sandy Griggs and Lub Ketcham with just the sort of big sled we need!" cried Tom Betts, as he turned and beckoned to a couple of stout lads who evidently belonged to one of the other patrols, since they wore the customary campaign hats of the scouts. These boys had by now managed to recover from their great alarm, and in response to the summons came hurrying up, anxious to be of service, as true scouts always are. Jack, who had been speaking to the terrified girl, trying to soothe her as best he could, proceeded in a business-like fashion to accomplish the duty he had in hand. "Two of you help me lift Lucy on to the sled," he said. "We will have to fasten her in some way so there'll be no danger of her slipping. Then Sandy and Lub will drag her to her home. On the way try to get Doctor Morrison over the 'phone so he can meet you there. The sooner this fracture is attended to the better." "You could do it yourself, Jack, if it wasn't so bitter cold out here," suggested Tom Betts, proudly, for next to Paul Morrison himself, whose father was the leading physician of Stanhope, Jack was known to be well up in all matters connected with first aid to the injured. They lifted the suffering child tenderly, and placed her on the comfortable sled. Both the newcomers were only too willing to do all they could to carry out the mission of mercy that had been entrusted to their charge. "We'll get her home in short order, Jack, never fear," said Sandy Griggs, as he helped fasten an extra piece of rope around the injured girl, so that she might not slip off the sled. "Yes, and have the doctor there in a jiffy, too," added Lub, who, while a clumsy chap, in his way had a very tender heart and was as good as gold. "Then get a move on you fellows," advised Jack. "And while speed is all very good, safety comes first every time, remember." "Trust us, Jack!" came the ready and confident reply, as the two scouts immediately began to seek a passage among the far-flung ice-cakes that had been so suddenly released from their year's confinement between the walls of the dilapidated ice-house. Only waiting to see them well off, Jack and the other two once more turned toward the scene of ruin. "See, the boys have managed to get the other girl on her feet!" exclaimed Bobolink, with a relieved air; "so I reckon she must have been more scared than hurt, for which I'm right glad. What next, Jack? Say the word and we'll back you to the limit." "We must take a look around the wreck of the ice-house," replied the other, "though I hardly believe any one could have been inside at the time it fell." "Whew, I should surely hope not!" cried Tom; "for the chances are ten to one he'd be crushed as flat as a pancake before now, with all that timber falling on him. I wouldn't give a snap of my fingers for his life, Jack." "Let's hope then there's no other victim," said Jack. "If there is none, it will let the ice company off easier than they really deserve for allowing so ramshackle a building to stand, overhanging the river just where we like to do most of our skating every winter." "Suppose we climb around the timbers and see if we can hear any sound of groaning," suggested Bobolink, suiting the action to his words. Several men from the other ice-house reached the spot just then. Jack turned to them as a measure of saving time. If there were no men working in the wrecked building at the time it fell there did not seem any necessity for attempting to move any of the twisted timbers that lay in such a confused mass. "Hello! Jan," he called out as the panting laborers arrived. "It was a big piece of luck that none of you were inside the old ice-house when it collapsed just now." The man whom he addressed looked blankly at the boy. Jack could see that he was laboring under renewed excitement. "Look here! was there any one in the old building, do you know, Jan?" he demanded. "I ban see Maister Garrity go inside yoost afore she smash down," was the startling reply. The boys stared at each other. Mr. Thomas Garrity was a very rich and singular citizen of Stanhope. Finally Bobolink burst out with: "Say, you know Mr. Garrity is one of the owners of these ice-houses, fellows. I guess he must have come up here to-day to see for himself if the old building was as rickety as people said." "Huh! then I guess he found out all right," growled Tom Betts. "Never mind that now," said Jack, hastily. "Mr. Garrity never had much use for the scouts, but all the same he's a human being. We've got our duty cut out for us plainly enough." "Guess you mean we must clear away this trash with the help of these men here, Jack," suggested Wallace, eagerly. "Just what I had in mind," confessed Jack. "But before we start in let's all listen and see if we can hear anything like a groan." All of them stood in an expectant attitude, straining their hearing to the utmost. Presently the listeners plainly caught the sound of a groan. CHAPTER III THE RESCUE "Jack, he's here under all this stuff!" called out Bobolink, excitedly. "Poor old chap," said Wallace. "I wouldn't like to give much for his chance of getting out of the scrape with his life." "And to think," added Bluff, soberly, "that after all the protestations made by the company that the old house couldn't fall, it trapped one of the big owners when it smashed down. It's mighty queer, it strikes me." "Keep still again," warned Jack. "I want to call out and see if Mr. Garrity can hear me." "A bully good scheme, Jack!" asserted Bobolink. "If we can locate him in that way it may save us a heap of hard work dragging these timbers around." Jack dropped flat on his face, and, placing his mouth close to the wreckage where it seemed worst, called aloud: "Hello! Mr. Garrity, can you hear me?" "Yes! Oh, yes!" came the faint response from somewhere below. "Are you badly hurt, sir?" continued the scout. "I don't know--I believe not, but a beam is keeping tons and tons from falling on me. I am pinned down here, and can hardly move. Hurry and get some of these timbers off before they fall and crush me!" Every word came plainly to their ears now. Evidently, Mr. Garrity, understanding that relief was at hand, began to feel new courage. Jack waited for no more. "I reckon I've located him, boys," he told the others, "and now we've got to get busy." "Only tell us what to do, Jack," urged Wallace, "and there are plenty of willing hands here for the work, what with these strong men and the rest of the boys." Indeed, already newcomers were arriving, some of them being people who had been passing along the turnpike near by in wagons or sleighs at the time the accident happened, and who hastened to the spot in order to render what assistance they could. Jack seemed to know just how to go about the work. If he had been in the house-wrecking business for years he could hardly have improved upon his system. "We've got to be careful, you understand, fellows," he told the others as they labored strenuously to remove the upper timbers from the pile, "because that one timber he mentioned is the key log of the jam. As long as it holds he's safe from being crushed. Here, don't try that beam yet, men. Take hold of the other one. And Bobolink and Wallace, help me lift this section of shingles from the roof!" So Jack went on to give clear directions. He did not intend that any new accident should be laid at their door on account of too much haste. Better that the man who was imprisoned under all this wreckage should remain there a longer period than that he lose his life through carelessness. Jack believed in making thorough work of anything he undertook; and this trait marked him as a clever scout. As others came to add to the number of willing workers the business of delving into the wreck of the ice-house proceeded in a satisfactory manner. Once in a while Jack would call a temporary halt while he got into communication with the unfortunate man they were seeking to assist. "He seems to be all right so far, fellows," was the cheering report he gave after this had happened for the third time; "and I think we'll be able to reach him in a short time now." "As sure as you're born we will, Jack!" announced Bobolink, triumphantly; "for I can see the big timber he said was acting as a buffer above him. Hey! we've got to be extra careful now, because one end of that beam is balanced ever so delicately, and if it gets shoved off its anchorage--good-bye to Mr. Garrity!" "Yes," came from below the wreckage, "be very careful, please, for it's just as you say." Jack was more than ever on the alert as the work continued. He watched every move that was made, and often warned those who strained and labored to be more cautious. "In five minutes or so we ought to be able to get something under that loose end of the big timber, Jack," suggested Bobolink, presently. "In less time than that," he was told. "And here's the very prop to slip down through that opening. I think I can reach it right now, if you stop the work for a bit." He pushed the stout post carefully downward, endeavoring to adjust it so that it was bound to catch and hold the timber should the latter break away from its frail support at that end. When Bobolink saw him get up from his knees a minute later he did not need to be told that Jack's endeavor had been a success, for the satisfied smile on the other's face told as much. "Now let the good work go on with a rush!" called out Jack. "Not so much danger now, because I've put a crimp in that timber's threat to fall. It's securely wedged. Everybody get busy." Jack led in the work himself, and the way they removed the heavy beams, many of them splintered or broken in the downward rush of the building, was surely a sight worth seeing. At least some of the town people who came up just then felt they had good reason to be proud of the Banner Boy Scouts, who on other notable occasions had brought credit to the community. "I can see him now!" exclaimed Bobolink; and indeed, only a few more weighty fragments remained to be lifted off before Jack would be able to drop down into the cavity and assist the prisoner at close quarters. Five minutes later the workers managed to release Mr. Garrity, and Jack helped him out of his prison. The old gentleman looked considerably the worse for his remarkable experience. There was blood upon his cheek, and he kept caressing one arm as though it pained him considerably. Still his heart was filled with thanksgiving as he stared around at the pile of torn timbers, and considered what a marvelous escape his had been. "Let me take a look at your arm, sir," said Jack, who feared that it had been broken, because a beam had pinned the gentleman by his arm to the ground. Mr. Garrity, who up to that time had paid very little attention to the Boy Scout movement that had swept over that region of the eastern country like wildfire, looked at the eager, boyish faces of his rescuers. It could be seen that he was genuinely affected on noticing that most of them wore the badges that distinguish scouts the world over. "I hope my wrist is not broken, though even that would be a little price to pay for my temerity in entering that shaky old building," he ventured to say as he allowed Jack to examine his arm. "I'm glad to tell you, sir," said the boy, quickly, "that it is only a bad sprain. At the worst you will be without the use of that hand for a month or two." "Then I have great reason to be thankful," declared Mr. Garrity, solemnly. "Perhaps this may be intended for a lesson to me. And, to begin with, I want to say that I believe I owe my very life to you boys. I can never forget it. Others, of course, might have done all they could to dig me out, but only a long-headed boy, like Jack Stormways here, would have thought to keep that timber from falling and crushing me just when escape seemed certain." He went around shaking hands with each one of the boys, of course using his left arm, since the right was disabled for the time being. Jack deftly made a sling out of a red bandana handkerchief, which he fastened around the neck of Mr. Garrity, and then gently placed the bruised hand in this. "Was any other person injured when the ice-house collapsed?" asked Mr. Garrity, anxiously. "A couple of girls were struck by some of the big cakes flung far and wide," explained Bobolink. "Little Lucy Stackpole has a broken leg. We sent her home on a sled, and the doctor will soon be at her house, sir." "That is too bad!" declared the part owner of the building, frowning. "I hoped that the brunt of the accident had fallen on my shoulders alone. Of course, the company will be liable for damages, as well as the doctor's bill; and I suppose we deserve to be hit pretty hard to pay for our stupidity. But I am glad it is no worse." "Excuse me, Mr. Garrity, but perhaps you had better have that swelling wrist attended to as soon as possible," remarked Jack. "You have some bruises, too, that are apt to be painful for several days. There is a carriage on the road that might be called on to take you home." "Thank you, Jack, I will do as you say," replied the one addressed. "But depend on it I mean to meet you boys again, and that at a very early date." "We're going to be away somewhere on a midwinter hike immediately after Christmas, sir," Bobolink thought it best to explain. Somehow deep down in his heart he was already wondering whether this remarkable rescue of Mr. Garrity might not develop into some sort of connection with their partly formed plans. "Yes," added Bluff, eagerly, suddenly possessed by the same hope, "and it's all going to be settled to-night when we have our monthly meeting in the big room under the church. We'd be pleased to have you drop in and see us, sir. Lots of the leading citizens of Stanhope have visited our rooms from time to time, but I don't remember ever having seen you there, Mr. Garrity." "Thank you for the invitation, my lad," said the other, smiling grimly. "Perhaps I shall avail myself of it, and I might possibly have something of interest to communicate to you and your fellow scouts," and waving his hand to them he walked away. CHAPTER IV A QUICK RETURN FOR SERVICES RENDERED That night turned out clear and frosty. Winter having set in so early seemed bent on keeping up its unusual record. The snow on the ground crackled underfoot in the fashion dear to the heart of every boy who loves outdoor sports. Overhead, the bright moon, pretty well advanced, hung in space. It was clearly evident that no one need think of carrying a lantern with him to the meeting place on such a glorious night. The Boy Scouts of Stanhope had been fortunate enough to be given the use of a large room under the church with the clock tower. On cold nights this was always heated for them, so that they found it a most comfortable place in which to hold their animated meetings. There was a large attendance on this occasion, for while possibly few among the members of the troop could take advantage of this midwinter trip into the wilds, every boy was curious to know all the details. In this same spacious room there was fitted up a gymnasium for the use of the boys one night a week, and many of them availed themselves of the privilege. As this was to be a regular business meeting, however, the apparatus had been drawn aside so as not to be in the way. As the roster was being called it might be just as well to give the full membership of the troop so that the reader may be made acquainted with the chosen comrades of Jack and Paul. The Red Fox Patrol, which contained the "veterans" of the organization, was made up of the following members: Paul Morrison; Jack Stormways; Bobolink, the official bugler; Bluff Shipley, the drummer of the troop; "Nuthin" Cypher; William Carberry; Wallace, his twin brother; and Tom Betts. Paul, as has been said, was patrol leader, and served also as assistant scout-master when Mr. Gordon was absent from town. In the second division known as the Gray Fox Patrol were the following: Jud Elderkin, patrol leader; Joe Clausin, Andy Flinn, Phil Towns, Horace Poole, Bob Tice, Curly Baxter, and Cliff Jones. The Black Fox Patrol had several absentees, but when all were present they answered to their names as below: Frank Savage, leader; Billie Little, Nat Smith, Sandy Griggs, "Old" Dan Tucker, "Red" Collins, "Spider" Sexton, and last but not least in volume of voice, "Gusty" Bellows. A fourth patrol that was to be called the Silver Fox was almost complete, lacking just three members; and those who made up this were: George Hurst, leader; "Lub" Ketcham, Barry Nichols, Malcolm Steele and a new boy in town by the name of Archie Fletcher. Apparently, the only business of importance before the meeting was in connection with the scheme to take a midwinter outing, something that was looked upon as unique in the annals of the association. The usual order of the meeting was hurried through, for every one felt anxious to hear what sort of proposition the assistant scout-master intended to spread before the meeting for approval. "I move we suspend the rules for to-night, and have an informal talk for a change!" said Bobolink, when he had been recognized by the chair. A buzz of voices announced that the idea was favorably received by many of those present; and, accordingly, the chairman, no other than Paul himself, felt constrained to put the motion after it had been duly seconded. He did so with a smile, well knowing what Bobolink's object was. "You have all heard the motion that the rules be suspended for the remainder of the evening," he went on to say, "so that we can have a heart-to-heart talk on matters that concern us just now. All in favor say aye!" A rousing chorus of ayes followed. "Contrary, no!" continued Paul, and as complete silence followed he added hastily: "The motion is carried, and the regular business meeting will now stand adjourned until next month." "Now let's hear what you've been hatching up for us, Paul?" called out Bobolink. "So say we all, Paul!" cried half a dozen eager voices, and the boys left their seats to crowd around their leader. "I only hope it's Rattlesnake Mountain we're headed for!" exclaimed Tom Betts, who had a warm feeling in his boyish heart for that particular section of country, where once upon a time the troop had pitched camp, and had met with some amusing and thrilling adventures, as described in a previous volume, called "The Banner Boy Scouts on a Tour." "On my part I wish it would turn out to be good old Lake Tokala, where my heart has often been centered as I think of the happy days we spent there." It was, of course, Bobolink who gave utterance to this sentiment. Perhaps there were others who really echoed his desire, for they had certainly had a glorious time of it when cruising in the motor boats so kindly loaned to them. Paul held up his hand for silence, and immediately every voice became still. Discipline was enforced at these meetings, for the noisy boys and those inclined to play practical pranks had learned long ago they would have to smother their feelings at such times or be strongly repressed by the chair. "Listen," said the leader, in his clear voice, "you kindly asked me to try to plan a trip for the holidays that would be of the greatest benefit to us as an organization of scouts. I seriously considered half a dozen plans, among them Rattlesnake Mountain, and Cedar Island in Lake Tokala. In fact, I was on the point of suggesting that we take the last mentioned trip when something came up that entirely changed my plan for the outing." He stopped to see what effect his words were having. Evidently, he had aroused the curiosity of the assembled scouts to fever heat, for several voices immediately called out: "Hear! hear! please go on, Paul! We're dying to know what the game is!" Paul smiled, as he went on to say: "I guess you have all been so deeply interested in what was going on to-night, that few of you noticed that we have a friend present who slipped into the room just as the roll call began. All of you must know the gentleman, so it's hardly necessary for me to introduce Mr. Thomas Garrity to you." Of course, every one turned quickly on hearing this. A figure that had been seated in a dim corner of the assembly room arose, and Bobolink gasped with a delicious sense of pleasure when he recognized the man whom he and his fellow scouts had assisted that very afternoon. "Please come forward, Mr. Garrity," said Paul, "and tell the boys what you suggested to me late this afternoon. I'm sure they'd appreciate it more coming directly from you than getting it secondhand." While a hum of eager anticipation arose all around, Mr. Garrity made his way to the side of the patrol leader and president of the meeting. "I have no doubt," he said, "that those of you who were not present to-day when our old ice-house fell and caught me in the ruins, have heard all about the accident, so I need not refer to the incident except to say that I shall never cease to be grateful to the scouts for the clever way in which they dug me out of the wreck." "Hear! hear!" several excited scouts shouted. "I happened to learn that you were contemplating a trip during the holidays, and when an idea slipped into my mind I lost no time in calling upon Paul Morrison, your efficient leader, in order to interest him in my plan." "Hear! hear!" "It happens that I own a forest cabin up in the wilderness where I often go to rest myself and get away from all excitement. It is in charge of a faithful woodsman by the name of Tolly Tip. You can reach it by skating a number of miles up a stream that empties into Lake Tokala. The hunting is said to be very good around there, and you will find excellent pickerel fishing through the ice in Lake Tokala. If you care to do me the favor of accepting my offer, the services of my man and the use of the cabin are at your disposal. Even then I shall feel that this is only a beginning of the deep interest I am taking in the scouts' organization; for I have had my eyes opened at last in a wonderful manner." As Mr. Garrity sat down, rosy-red from the exertion of speaking to a party of boys, Paul immediately rapped for order, and put the question. "All who are in favor of accepting this generous offer say yes!" and every boy joined in the vociferous shout that arose. CHAPTER V A STARTLING INTERRUPTION "Mr. Garrity, your kind offer is accepted with thanks," announced Paul. "And as you suggested to me, several of us will take great pleasure in calling on you to-morrow to go into details and to get full directions from you." "Then perhaps I may as well go home now, boys," said the old gentleman; "as my wrist is paining me considerably. I only want to add that this has been a red day in my calendar. The collapse of the old ice-house is going to prove one of those blessings that sometimes come to us in disguise. I only regret that two little girls were injured. As for myself, I am thoroughly pleased it happened." "Before you leave us, sir," said Bobolink, boldly, "please let us show in some slight way how much we appreciate your kind offer. Boys, three cheers for Mr. Thomas Garrity, our latest convert, and already one of our best friends!" Possibly Bobolink's method of expressing his feelings might not ordinarily appeal to a man of Mr. Garrity's character, but just now the delighted old gentleman was in no mood for fault finding. As the boyish cheers rang through the room there were actually tears in Mr. Garrity's eyes. Truly that had been a great day for him, and perhaps it might prove a joyous occasion to many of his poor tenants, some of whom had occasion to look upon him as a just, though severe, landlord, exacting his rent to the last penny. After he had left the room the hum of voices became furious. One would have been inclined to suspect the presence of a great bee-hive in the near vicinity. "Paul, you know all about this woods cabin he owns," said Tom Betts, "so suppose you enlighten the rest of us." "One thing tickles me about the venture!" exclaimed Bobolink; "That is that we pass across Lake Tokala in getting there. I've been hankering to see that place in winter time for ever so long." "Yes," added Tom, eagerly, "that's true. And what's to hinder some of us from using our iceboats part of the way?" "Nothing at all," Paul assured him. "I went into that with Mr. Garrity, and came to the conclusion that it could be done. Of course, a whole lot depends on how many of us can go on the trip." "How many could sleep in his cabin do you think, Paul?" demanded Jack. "Yes. For one, I'd hate to have to bunk out in the snow these cold nights," said Bluff, shaking his head seriously, for Bluff dearly liked the comforts of a cheery fire inside stout walls of logs, while the bitter wintry wind howled without, and the snow drifted badly. "He told me it was unusually large," explained Paul. "In fact, it has two big rooms and could in a pinch accommodate ten fellows. Of course, every boy would be compelled to tote his blankets along with him, because Mr. Garrity never dreamed he would have an army occupy his log shanty." "The more I think of it the better it sounds!" declared Jack. "Then first of all we must try to find out just who can go," suggested Bobolink. "What if there are too many to be accommodated either on the iceboats we own or in the cabin?" remarked Tom Betts, uneasily. "Shucks! that ought to be easy," suggested another. "All we have to do is to pull straws, and see who the lucky ten are." "Then let those who are _positive_ they can go step aside here," Paul ordered; and at this there was a shuffling of feet and considerable moving about. "Remember, you must be sure you can go," warned Paul. "Afterwards we'll single out those who believe they can get permission, but feel some doubts. If there is room they will come in for next choice." Several who had started forward held back at this. Those who took their stand as the leader requested consisted of Jack, Bobolink, Bluff, Tom Betts, Jud Elderkin, Sandy Griggs, Phil Towns and "Spider" Sexton. "Counting myself in the list that makes nine for certain," Paul observed. It was noticed that Tom Betts as well as Bobolink looked exceedingly relieved on discovering that, after all, there need be no drawing of lots. "Now let those who have strong hopes of being able to go stand up to be counted," continued Paul. "I'll keep a list of the names, and the first who comes to say he has received full permission will be the one to make up the full count of ten members, which is all the cabin can accommodate." The Carberry twins, as well as several others, stood over in line to have their names taken down. "If one of us can go, Paul," explained Wallace Carberry, "we'll fix it up between us which it shall be. But I'm sorry to say our folks don't take to this idea of a winter camp very strongly." "Same over at my house," complained Bob Tice. "Mother is afraid something terrible might happen to us in such a hard spell of winter. As if scouts couldn't take care of themselves anywhere, and under all conditions!" There were many gloomy faces seen in the gathering, showing that other boys knew their parents did not look on the delightful scheme with favor. Some of them could not accompany the party on account of other plans which had been arranged by their parents. "If the ice stays as fine as it is now," remarked Tom Betts, "we can spin down the river on our iceboats, and maybe make our way through that old canal to Lake Tokala as well. But how about the creek leading up to the cabin, Paul? Did you ask Mr. Garrity about it?" "Yes, I asked him everything I could think of," came the ready reply. "I'm sorry to say it will be necessary to leave our iceboats somewhere on the lake, for the creek winds around in such a way, and is so narrow in places, that none of us could work the boats up there." "But wouldn't it be dangerous to leave them on the lake so long?" asked Tom, anxiously. "I've put in some pretty hard licks on my new craft, and I'd sure hate to have any one steal it from me." "Yes," added Bobolink, quickly, "and we all know that Lawson crowd have been showing themselves as mean as dirt lately. We thought we had got rid of our enemies some time ago, and here this new lot of rivals seems bent on making life miserable for all scouts. They are a tough crowd, and pretend to look down on us as weaklings. Hank Lawson is now playing the part of the bully in Stanhope, you know." "I even considered that," continued Paul, who seldom omitted anything when laying plans. "Mr. Garrity told me there was a man living on the shore of Lake Tokala, who would look after our iceboats for a consideration." "Bully for that!" exclaimed Tom, apparently much relieved. "All the same I think it would be as well for us to try to keep our camping place a secret if it can be done. Let folks understand that we're going somewhere around Lake Tokala; and perhaps the Lawson crowd will miss us." "That isn't a bad idea," Paul agreed, "and I'd like every one to remember it. Of course, we feel well able to look after ourselves, but that's no reason why we should openly invite Hank and his cronies to come and bother us. Are you all agreed to that part of the scheme?" In turn every scout present answered in the affirmative. Those who could not possibly accompany the party took almost as much interest in the affair as those intending to go; and there would be heart burnings among the members of Stanhope Troop from now on. "How about the grub question, Paul?" demanded Bobolink. "Every fellow who is going will have to provide a certain amount of food to be carried along with his blanket, gun, clothes bag, and camera. All that can be arranged when we meet to-morrow afternoon. In the meantime, I'm going to appoint Bobolink and Jack as a committee of two to spend what money we can spare in purchasing certain groceries such as coffee, sugar, hams, potatoes, and other things to be listed later." Bobolink grinned happily on hearing that. "See how pleased it makes him," jeered Tom Betts. "When you put Bobolink on the committee that looks after the grub, Paul, you hit him close to where he lives. One thing sure, we'll have plenty to eat along with us, for Bobolink never underrates the eating capacity of himself or his chums." "You can trust me for that," remarked the one referred to, "because I was really hungry once in my life, and I've never gotten over the terrible feeling. Yes, there is going to be a full dinner pail in Camp Garrity, let me tell you!" "Camp Garrity sounds good to me!" exclaimed Sandy Griggs. "Let it go down in the annals of Stanhope Troop at that!" cried another scout. "We could hardly call it by any other name, after the owner has been so good as to place it at our disposal," said Paul, himself well pleased at the idea. Bobolink was about to say something more when, without warning, there came a sudden crash accompanied by the jingling of broken glass. One of the windows fell in as though some hard object had struck it. The startled scouts, looking up, saw the arm and face of a boy thrust part way through the aperture, showing that he must have slipped and broken the window while trying to spy upon the meeting. CHAPTER VI A GLOOMY PROSPECT FOR JUD "It's Jud Mabley!" exclaimed one of the scouts, instantly recognizing the face of the unlucky youth who had fallen part way through the window. Jud was a boy of bad habits. He had applied to the scouts for membership, but had not been admitted on account of his unsavory reputation. Smarting under this sting Jud had turned to Hank Lawson and his crowd for sympathy, and was known to be hand-in-glove with those young rowdies. "He's been spying on us, that's what!" cried Bobolink, indignantly. "And learning our plans, like as not!" added Tom Betts. "He ought to be caught and ridden on a rail!" exclaimed a third member of the troop, filled with anger. "I'd say duck him in the river after cutting a hole in the ice!" called out another boy, furiously. "Huh! first ketch your rabbit before you start cookin' him!" laughed Jud in a jeering fashion, as he waved them a mocking adieu through the broken window, and then vanished from view. "After him, fellows!" shouted the impetuous Bobolink, and there was a hasty rush for the door, the boys snatching up their hats as they ran. Paul was with the rest, not that he cared particularly about catching the eavesdropper, but he wanted to be on hand in case the rest of the scouts overtook Jud; for Paul held the reputation of the troop dear, and would not have the scouts sully their honor by a mean act. The boys poured out of the meeting-place in a stream. The bright moon showed them a running figure which they judged must of course be Jud; so away they sprang in hot pursuit. Somehow, it struck them that Jud was not running as swiftly as might be expected, for he had often proved himself a speedy contestant on the cinder path. He seemed to wabble more or less, and looked back over his shoulder many times. Bobolink suspected there might be some sort of trick connected with this action on the part of the other, for Jud was known to be a schemer. "Jack, he may be drawing us into a trap of some sort, don't you think?" he managed to gasp as he ran at the side of the other. Apparently Jack, too, had noticed the queer actions of the fugitive. He had seen a mother rabbit pretend to be lame when seeking to draw enemies away from the place where her young ones lay hidden; yes, and a partridge often did the same thing, as he well knew. "I was noticing that, Bobolink," he told the other, "but it strikes me Jud must have been hurt somehow when he crashed through that window." "You mean he feels more or less weak, do you?" "Something like that," came the reply. "Well, we're coming up on him like fun, anyway, no matter what the cause may be!" Bobolink declared, and then found it necessary to stop talking if he wanted to keep in the van with several of the swiftest runners among the scouts. It was true that they were rapidly overtaking Jud, who ran in a strange zigzag fashion like one who was dizzy. He kept up until the leaders among his pursuers came alongside; then he stopped short, and, panting for breath, squared off, striking viciously at them. Jack and two other scouts closed in on him, regardless of blows, and Jud was made a prisoner. He ceased struggling when he found it could avail him nothing, but glared at his captors as an Indian warrior might have done. "Huh! think you're smart, don't you, overhaulin' me so easy," he told them disdainfully. "But if I hadn't been knocked dizzy when I fell you never would a got me. Now what're you meanin' to do about it? Ain't a feller got a right to walk the public streets of this here town without bein' grabbed by a pack of cowards in soldier suits, and treated rough-house way?" "That doesn't go with us, Jud Mabley," said Bobolink, indignantly. "You were playing the spy on us, you know it, trying to listen to all we were saying." "So as to tell that Lawson crowd, and get them to start some mean trick on us in the bargain," added Tom Betts. "O-ho! ain't a feller a right to stop alongside of a church to strike a match for his pipe?" jeered the prisoner, defiantly. "How was I to know your crowd was inside there? The streets are free to any one, man, woman or boy, I take it." "How about the broken window, Jud?" demanded Bobolink, triumphantly. "Yes! did you smash that pane of glass when you threw your match away, Jud," asked another boy, with a laugh. "He was caught in the act, fellows," asserted Frank Savage, "and the next question with us is what ought we to do to punish a sneak and a spy?" "I said it before--ride him on a rail around town so people can see how scouts stand up for their own rights!" came a voice from the group of excited boys. "Oh! that would be letting him off too easy," Tom Betts affirmed. "'Twould serve him just about right if we ducked him a few times in the river." "All we need is an axe to cut a hole through the ice," another lad went on to say, showing that the suggestion rather caught his fancy as the appropriate thing to do--making the punishment fit the crime, as it were. "Keep it goin'," sneered the defiant Jud, not showing any signs of quailing under this bombardment. "Try and think up a few more pleasant things to do to me. If you reckon you c'n make me show the white feather you've got another guess comin', I want you to know. I'm true grit, I am!" "You may be singing out of the other side of your mouth, Jud Mabley, before we're through with you," threatened Curly Baxter. "Mebbe now you might think to get a hemp rope and try hangin' me," laughed the prisoner in an offensive manner. "That's what they do to spies, you know, in the army. Yes, and I know of a beauty of a limb that stands straight out from the body of the tree 'bout ten feet from the ground. Shall I tell you where it lies?" This sort of defiant talk was causing more of the scouts to become angry. It seemed to them like adding insult to injury. Here this fellow had spied upon their meeting, possibly learned all about the plans they were forming for the midwinter holidays, and then finally had the misfortune to fall and smash one of the window panes, which would, of course, have to be made good by the scouts, as they were under heavy obligations to the trustees of the church for favors received. "A mean fellow like you, Jud Mabley," asserted Joe Clausin, "deserves the worst sort of punishment that could be managed. Why, it would about serve you right if you got a lovely coat of tar and feathers to-night." Jud seemed to shrink a little at hearing that. "You wouldn't dare try such a game as that," he told them, with a faint note of fear in his voice. "Every one of you'd have to pay for it before the law. Some things might pass, but that's goin' it too strong. My dad'd have you locked up in the town cooler if I came home lookin' like a bird, sure he would." Jud's father was something of a local power in politics, so that the boy's boast was not without more or less force. Some of the scouts may have considered this; at any rate, one of them now broke out with: "A ducking ought to be a good enough punishment for this chap, I should say; so, fellows, let's start in to give it to him." "I know where I can lay hands on an axe all right, to chop a hole through the ice," asserted Bobolink, eagerly. "Then we appoint you a committee of one to supply the necessary tools for the joyous occasion," Red Collins cried out, gleefully falling in with the scheme. "Hold on, boys, don't you think it would be enough if Jud made an apology to us, and promised not to breathe a word of what he chanced to hear?" It was Horace Poole who said this, for he often proved to be the possessor of a tender heart and a forgiving spirit. His mild proposition was laughed down on the spot. "Much he'd care what he promised us, if only we let him go scot free," jeered one scout. "I've known him to give his solemn word before now, and break it when he felt like it. I wouldn't trust him out of my sight. Promises count for nothing with one of Jud Mabley's stamp." "How about that, Jud?" demanded another boy. "Would you agree to keep your lips buttoned up, and not tell a word of what you have heard?" "I ain't promisin' nothin', I want you to know," replied the prisoner, boldly; "so go on with your funny business. You won't ketch me squealing worth a cent. Honest to goodness now I half b'lieve it's all a big bluff. Let's see you do your worst." "Drag him along to the river bank, fellows, and I'll join you there with the axe," roared Bobolink, now fully aroused by the obstinate manner of the captive. "Wait a bit, fellows." It was Jack Stormways who said this, and even the impetuous Bobolink came to a halt. "Go on Jack. What's your plan?" demanded one of the group. "I was only going to remind you that in the absence of Mr. Gordon, Paul is acting as scout-master, and before you do anything that may reflect upon the good name of Stanhope Troop you'd better listen to what he's got to say on the subject." CHAPTER VII PAUL TAKES A CHANCE These sensible words spoken by Jack Stormways had an immediate effect upon the angry scouts, some of whom realized that they had been taking matters too much in their own hands. Paul had remained silent all this while, waiting to see just how far the hotheads would go. "First of all," he went on to say in that calm tone which always carried conviction with it, "let's go back to the meeting-room, and take Jud along. I have a reason for wanting you to do that, which you shall hear right away." No one offered an objection, although doubtless it was understood that Paul did not like such radical measures as ducking the spy who had fallen into their hands. They were by this time fully accustomed to obeying orders given by a superior officer, which is one of the best things learned by scouts. Jud, for some reason, did not attempt to hold back when urged to accompany them, though for that matter it would have availed him nothing to have struggled and strained, for at least four sturdy scouts had their grip on his person. In this manner they retraced their steps. Fortunately the last boy out had been careful enough to close the door after making his hurried exit, so that they found the room still warm and comfortable. They crowded inside, and a number of them frowned as they glanced toward the broken window, through which a draught was blowing. They hoped Paul would not be too easy with the rascal who had been responsible for that smash. "First of all," the scout-master began as they crowded around the spot where he and Jud stood, the latter staring defiantly at the frowning scouts, "I want to remark that it needn't bother us very much even if Jud tells all he may have heard us saying. We shall always be at least two to one, and can take care of ourselves if attacked. Those fellows understand that, I guess." "We've proved it to them in the past times without number, for a fact," observed Jack, diplomatically. "If they care to spend a week in the snow woods, let them try it," continued the other. "Good luck to them, say I; and here's hoping they may learn some lessons there that will make them turn over a new leaf. The forest is plenty big enough for all who want to breathe the fresh air and have a good time. But there's another thing I had in mind when I asked you to bring Jud back here. Some of you may have noticed that he lets his arm hang down in a queer way. Look closer at his hand and you'll discover the reason." Almost immediately several of the scouts cried out. "Why, there's blood dripping from his fingers, as sure as anything!" "He must have cut his arm pretty bad when he fell through that window!" "Whew! I'd hate to have that slash. See how the broken glass cut his coat sleeve--just as if you'd taken a sharp knife and gashed it!" "Take off your coat, Jud, please!" said Paul. Had Paul used a less kindly voice or omitted that last word in his request, the obstinate and defiant Jud might have flatly declined to oblige him. As it was he looked keenly at Paul, then grinned, and with something of an effort started to doff his coat, Jack assisting him in the effort. Then the boys saw that his shirt sleeve was stained red. Several of the weaker scouts uttered low exclamations of concern, not being accustomed to such sights; but the stouter hearted veterans had seen too many cuts to wince now. Paul gently but firmly rolled the shirt sleeve up until the gash made by the broken glass was revealed. It was a bad cut, and still bled quite freely. No wonder Jud had run in such an unwonted fashion. No person wounded as badly as that could be expected to run with his customary zeal, for the shock and the loss of blood was sure to make him feel weak. Jud stared at his injury now with what was almost an expression of pride. When he saw some of the scouts shrink back his lip curled with disdain. "Get a tin basin and fill it with warm water back in the other room, Jack!" said Paul, steadily. "What're you goin' to do to me, Paul?" demanded Jud, curiously, for he could not bring himself to believe that any one who was his enemy would stretch out a hand toward him save in anger and violence. "Oh! I'm only going to wash that cut so as to take out any foreign matter that might poison you if left there, and then bind it up the best way possible," remarked the young scout-master. There was some low whispering among the boys. Much as they marveled at such a way of returning evil with good they could not take exception to Paul's action. Every one of them knew deep down in his inmost heart that scout law always insisted on treating a fallen enemy with consideration, and even forgiving him many times if he professed sorrow for his evil ways. Jack came back presently. He not only bore the basin of warm water but a towel as well. Jud watched operations curiously. He was seeing what was a strange thing according to his ideas. He could not quite bring himself to believe that there was not some cruel hoax hidden in this act of apparent friendliness, and that accounted for the way he kept his teeth tightly closed. He did not wish to be taken unawares and forced to cry out. Paul washed gently the ugly, jagged cut. Then, taking out a little zinc box containing some soothing and healing salve, which he always carried with him, he used fully half of it upon the wound. Afterwards he produced a small inch wide roll of surgical linen, and began winding the tape methodically around the injured arm of Jud Mabley. Jack amused himself by watching the play of emotions upon the hard face of Jud. Evidently, he was beginning to comprehend the meaning of Paul's actions, though he could not understand why any one should act so. When the last of the tape had been used and fastened with a small safety pin, Paul drew down the shirt sleeve, buttoned it, and then helped Jud on with his coat. "Now you can go free when you take a notion, Jud," he told the other. "Huh! then you ain't meanin' to gimme that duckin' after all?" remarked the other, with a sneering look of triumph at Bobolink. "You have to thank Paul for getting you off," asserted one scout, warmly. "Had it been left to the rest of us you'd have been in soak long before this." "For my part," said Paul, "I feel that so far as punishment goes Jud has got all that is coming to him, for that arm will give him a lot of trouble before it fully heals. I hope every time it pains him he'll remember that scouts as a rule are taught to heap coals of fire on the heads of their enemies when the chance comes, by showing them a favor." "But, Paul, you're forgetting something," urged Tom Betts. "That's a fact, how about the broken window, Paul?" cried Joe Clausin, with more or less indignation. For while it might be very well to forgive Jud his spying tricks some one would have to pay for a new pane of glass in the basement window, and it was hard luck if the burden fell on the innocent parties, while the guilty one escaped scot free. It was noticed that Jud shut his lips tight together as though making up his mind on the spot to decline absolutely to pay a cent for what had been a sheer accident, and which had already cost him a severe wound. "I haven't forgotten that, fellows," said Paul, quietly. "Of course it's only fair Jud should pay the dollar it will cost to have a new pane put in there to-morrow. I shall order Mr. Nickerson to attend to it myself. And I shall also insist on paying the bill out of my own pocket, unless Jud here thinks it right and square to send me the money some time to-morrow. That's all I've got to say, Jud. There's the door, and no one will put out a hand to stop you. I hope you won't have serious trouble with that arm of yours." Jud stared dumbly at the speaker as though almost stunned. Perhaps he might have said something under the spur of such strange emotions as were chasing through his brain, but just then Bobolink chanced to sneer. The sound acted on Jud like magic, for he drew himself up, turned to look boldly into the face of each and every boy present, then thrust his right hand into his buttoned coat and with head thrown back walked out of the room, noisily closing the door after him. Several of the scouts shook their heads. "Pretty fine game you played with him, Paul," remarked George Hurst, "but it strikes me it was like throwing pearls before swine. Jud has a hide as thick as a rhinoceros and nothing can pierce it. Kind words are thrown away with fellows of his stripe, I'm afraid. A kick and a punch are all they can understand." "Yes," added Red Collins, "when you try the soft pedal on them they think you're only afraid. I'm half sorry now you didn't let us carry out that ducking scheme. Jud deserved it right well, for a fact." "It would have been cruel to drop him into ice water with such a wound freshly made," remarked Jack. "Wait and see whether Paul's plan was worth the candle." "Mark my words," commented Tom Betts, "we'll have lots of trouble with him yet." "Shucks! who cares?" laughed Bobolink, "it's all in the game, you know. There's Paul getting ready to go home, so let's forget it till we meet to-morrow." CHAPTER VIII BOBOLINK AND THE STOREKEEPER According to their agreement, Jack and Bobolink met on a certain corner on the following morning. Their purpose was to purchase the staple articles of food that half a score of hungry lads would require to see them through a couple of weeks' stay in the snow forest. "It's a lucky thing, too," Bobolink remarked, after the other had displayed the necessary funds taken from his pocket, "that our treasury happens to be fairly able to stand the strain just now." "Oh, well! except for that we'd have had to take up subscriptions," laughed Jack. "I know several people who would willingly help us out. The scouts of Stanhope have made good in the past, and a host of good friends are ready to back them." "Yes, and for that matter I guess Mr. Thomas Garrity would have been only too glad to put his hand deep down in his pocket," suggested Bobolink. "He's an old widower, and with plenty of ready cash, too," commented the other boy. "But, after all, it's much better for us to stand our own expense as long as we can." "Have you got the list that Paul promised to make out with you, Jack? I'd like to take a squint at it, if you don't mind. There may be a few things we could add to it." As Bobolink was looked on as something of an authority in this line, Jack hastened to produce the list, so they could run it over and exchange suggestions. "Where shall we start in to buy the stuff?" asked Bobolink, presently. "Oh! I don't know that it matters very much," replied his companion. "Mr. Briggs has had some pretty fine hams in lately I heard at the house this morning, and if he treats us half-way decent we might do all our trading with him." "I never took much stock in old Levi Briggs," said Bobolink. "He hates boys for all that's out. I guess some of them do nag him more or less. I saw that Lawson crowd giving him a peck of trouble a week ago. He threatened to call the police if they didn't go away." "Well, we happen to be close to the Briggs' store," observed Jack, "so we might as well drop in and see how he acts toward us." "Huh! speaking of the Lawson bunch, there they are right now!" exclaimed Bobolink. Loud jeering shouts close by told that Hank and his cronies were engaged in their favorite practice of having "fun." This generally partook of the nature of the old fable concerning boys who were stoning frogs, which was "great fun for the boys, but death to the frogs." "It's a couple of ragged hoboes they're nagging now," burst out Bobolink. "The pair just came out of Briggs' store," added Jack, "where I expect they met a cold reception if they hoped to coax a bite to eat from the old man." "Still, they couldn't have done anything to Hank and his crowd, so why should they be pushed off the walk in that way?" Bobolink went on to say. As a rule the boy had no use for tramps. He looked on the vagrants as a nuisance and a menace to the community. At the same time, no self-respecting scout would think of casting the first stone at a wandering hobo, though, if attacked, he would always defend himself, and strike hard. "The tramps don't like the idea of engaging in a fight with a pack of tough boys right here in town," remarked Jack, "because they know the police would grab them first, no matter if they were only defending themselves. That's why they don't hit back, but only dodge the stones the boys are flinging." "Oh! that's a mean sort of game!" cried Bobolink, as he saw the two tramps start to run wildly away. "There! that shorter chap was hit in the head with one of the rocks thrown after them. I bet you it raised a fine lump. What a lot of cowards those Lawsons are, to be sure." "Well, the row is all over now," observed Jack. "And as the tramps have disappeared around the corner we don't want to break into the game, so come along to the store, and let's see what we can do there." Bobolink continued to shake his head pugnaciously as he walked along the pavement. Hank and his followers were laughing at a great rate as they exchanged humorous remarks concerning the recent "fight" which had been all one-sided. "Believe me!" muttered Bobolink, "if a couple more scouts had been along just now I'd have taken a savage delight in pitching in and giving that crowd the licking they deserved. Course a tramp isn't worth much, but then he's _human_, and I hate to see anybody bullied." "It wasn't Hank's business to chase the hoboes out of town," said Jack. "We have the police force to manage such things. Fact is, I reckon Hank's bunch has done more to hurt the good name of Stanhope than all the hoboes we ever had come around here." "If I had my way, Jack, there'd be a public woodpile, and every tramp caught coming to town would have to work his passage. I bet there'd be a sign on every cross-roads warning the brotherhood to beware of Stanhope as they might of the smallpox. But here's Briggs' store." As they entered the place they could see that the proprietor was alone, his clerk being off on the delivery wagon. "Whew! he certainly looks pretty huffy this morning," muttered the observing Bobolink. "Those tramps must have bothered him more or less before he could get them to move on." "It might be he had some trouble with Hank before we came up," Jack suggested; but further talk was prevented by the coming up of the storekeeper. Mr. Briggs was a small man with white hair, and keen, rat-like eyes. He possessed good business abilities, and had managed to accumulate a small fortune in the many years he purveyed to the people of Stanhope. Latterly, however, the little, old man had been growing very nervous and irritable, perhaps with the coming of age and its infirmities. He detested boys, and since that feeling soon becomes mutual there was open war between Mr. Briggs and many of the juveniles of Stanhope. Suspicious by nature, he always watched when boys came into his store as though he weighed them all in the same balance with Hank Lawson, and considered that none of Stanhope's rising generation could be trusted out of sight. Long ago he had taken to covering every apple and sugar barrel with wire screens to prevent pilfering. Neither Jack nor Bobolink had ever had hot words with the storekeeper, but for all that they felt that his manner was openly aggressive at the time they entered the door. "If you want to buy anything, boys," said Mr. Briggs curtly, "I'll wait on you; but if you've only come in here to stand around my store and get warm I'll have to ask you to move on. My time is too valuable to waste just now." Jack laughed on hearing that. "Oh! we mean business this morning, Mr. Briggs," he remarked pleasantly, while Bobolink scowled, and muttered something under his breath. "The fact is a party of us scouts are planning to spend a couple of weeks up in the snow woods," continued Jack. "We have a list here of some things we want to take along, and will pay cash for them. We want them delivered to-day at our meeting room under the church." "Let Mr. Briggs have the list, Jack," suggested Bobolink. "He can mark the prices he'll let us have the articles for. Of course, sir, we mean to buy where we can get the best terms for cash." Bobolink knew the grasping nature of the old storekeeper, and perhaps this was intended for a little trap to trip him up. Mr. Briggs glanced over the list and promptly did some figuring, after which he handed the paper back. "Seems to me your prices are pretty steep, sir!" remarked Jack. "I should say they were," added Bobolink, with a gleam in his eyes. "Why, you are two cents a pound on hams above the other stores. Yes, and even on coffee and rice you are asking more than we can get the same article for somewhere else." "Those are my regular prices," said the old man, shortly. "If they are not satisfactory to you, of course, you are at liberty to trade elsewhere. In fact, I do not believe you meant to buy these goods of me, but have only come in to annoy me as those other good-for-nothing boys always do." "Indeed, you are mistaken, Mr. Briggs," expostulated Jack, who did not like to be falsely accused when innocent. "We are starting out to see where we can get our provisions at the most reasonable rates. Some of the storekeepers are only too glad to give the scouts a reduction." "Well, you'll get nothing of the sort here, let me tell you," snapped the unreasonable old man. "I can't afford to do business at cost just to please a lot of harum-scarum boys, who want to spend days loafing in the woods when they ought to be earning an honest penny at work." "Come on, Jack, let's get out of here before I say something I'll be sorry for," remarked Bobolink, who was fiery red with suppressed anger. "There's the door, and your room will be better appreciated than your company," Mr. Briggs told them. "And as for your trade, take it where you please. Your people have left me for other stores long ago, so why should I care?" "Oh! that's where the shoe pinches, is it?" chuckled Bobolink; and after that he and Jack left the place, to do their shopping in more congenial quarters, while Mr. Briggs stood on his doorsteps and glared angrily after them. CHAPTER IX "FIRE!" "Saturday, eleven-thirty P.M., the night before Christmas, and all's well!" It was Frank Savage who made this remark, as with eight other scouts he trudged along, after having left the house of the scout-master, Paul Morrison. Frank had been the lucky one to be counted among those who were going on the midwinter tour, his parents having been coaxed into giving their consent. "And on Monday morning we make the start, wind and weather permitting," observed Bobolink, with an eagerness he did not attempt to conceal. "So far as we know everything is in complete readiness," said Bluff Shipley. "Five iceboats are tugging at their halters, anxious to be off," laughed Jack. "And there'll be a lot of restless sleepers in certain Stanhope homes I happen to know." "Huh! there always are just before Christmas," chuckled Tom Betts. "But this year we have a double reason for lying awake and counting the dragging minutes. Course you committee of two looked after the grub supplies as you were directed?" "We certainly did!" affirmed Bobolink, "and came near getting into a row with old Briggs at his store. He wanted to ask us top-notch prices for everything, and when we kicked he acted so ugly we packed out." "Just like the old curmudgeon," declared Phil Towns. "The last time I was in his place he kept following me around as if he thought I meant to steal him out of house and home. I just up and told my folks I never wanted to trade with Mr. Briggs again, and so they changed to the other store." "Oh, well, he's getting old and peevish," said Jack. "You see he lives a lonely life, and has a narrow vision. Besides, some boys have given him a lot of trouble, and he doesn't know the difference between decent fellows and scamps. We'd better let him alone, and talk of something else." "I suppose all of you notice that it's grown cloudy late to-day," suggested Spider Sexton. "Oh! I hope that doesn't mean a heavy snowfall before we get started," exclaimed Bluff. "If a foot of snow comes down on us, good-bye to our using the iceboats as we've been planning." "The weather reports at the post office say fair and cold ahead for this section," announced Jack Stormways, at which there arose many faint cheers. "Good boy, Jack!" cried Bobolink, patting the other's back. "It was just like the thoughtful fellow you are to go down and read the prospect the weather sharps in Washington hold out for us." "You must thank Paul for that, then," admitted the other, "for he told me about it. I rather expect Paul had the laugh on the rest of us to-night, boys." "Now you're referring to that Jud Mabley business, Jack," said Phil Towne. "Well, when Paul let him off so easy every one of us believed he was wrong, and that the chances were ten to one Paul would have to fork over the dollar to pay for having that window pane put in," continued Jack. "But you heard what happened?" "Yes, seems that the age of miracles hasn't passed yet," admitted Bobolink. "I thought I was dreaming when Paul told me that Jud's little brother came this morning with an envelope addressed to him, and handed it in without a word." "And when Paul opened it," continued Jack, taking up the story in his turn, "he found a nice, new dollar bill enclosed, with a scrap of paper on which Jud had scrawled these words: 'Never would have paid only I couldn't let _you_ stand for my accident, and after you treated me so white, too. But this wipes it all out, remember. I'm no crawler!'" "It tickled Paul a whole lot, let me remark," Jud Elderkin explained. "I do half believe he thinks he can see a rift in the cloud, and that some of these days hopes to get a chance to drag Jud Mabley out of that ugly crowd." "It would be just like Paul to lay plans that way," acknowledged Jack. "I know him like a book, and believe me, he gets more pleasure out of making his enemies feel cheap than the rest of us would if we gave them a good licking." "Paul's a sure-enough trump!" admitted Bluff. "Do you know what he said when he was showing that scrawl to us fellows? I was close enough to get part of it, and I'm dead sure the words 'entering wedge' formed the backbone of his remark." "Do we go, snow or sunshine, then?" asked Bluff, as they came to a halt on a corner where several of the boys had to leave the rest, as their homes lay in different directions. "That's for Paul to decide," Jack told him. "But we know our leader well enough to feel sure it's got to be a fierce storm to make him call a trip off, once all preparations have been made." "Oh! don't borrow trouble," sang out Bobolink. "Everything is lovely, and the goose hangs high. Just keep on remembering that to-morrow will be Christmas, and all of us expect to find something in our stockings, so to speak." "There's one word of warning I ought to speak before we separate," said Jack, pretending to look solemn as they stood under a corner street lamp. "Now the chances are you're referring to that Lawson crowd again, Jack," suggested Bobolink. "This time it comes nearer home than the Lawsons," said Jack, seriously. "Then for goodness sake tell us what you have on your mind," urged Tom Betts, impulsively. "As the second in command in our patrol," Jack went on gravely, "since Paul failed to say anything about it, I feel it my solemn duty to warn several of our number to be extra careful how they gorge at Christmas dinner to-morrow. Too much turkey and plum pudding have stretched out many a brave scout before now. If there are several vacancies in our ranks Monday morning we'll know what to lay it all to. I beg of you to abstain, if you want to feel fresh and hearty at the start." A general laugh greeted the warning, and every one looked particularly at Bobolink, much to his confusion. "If the shoe fits, put it on, everybody," Bobolink remarked stoutly. "As for me, I'd already made up my mind to be satisfied with one helping all around. And when a Link says a thing he always keeps his word." "Well," remarked Phil Towns, wickedly, "we hope that this time we won't have to refer to our chum as the 'Missing Link,' that's all." That caused another mild eruption of boyish laughter, and before Bobolink could make a caustic reply a sudden loud metallic clang startled them. "Listen, it's the fire alarm!" exclaimed Tom Betts. Again the sound came with startling distinctness. Boylike, Jack and his friends forgot everything else just then in this new excitement. Stanhope had a volunteer fire department, like most small towns in that section of the country. Stanhope was proud of its fire laddies, who had, on numerous previous occasions, proved their skill at fighting the flames. Already loud shouts could be heard in various quarters, as men threw up windows and called to neighbors. "Where can it be, do you think?" demanded Jud Elderkin, as the group of lads stood ready for flight, only waiting to catch some definite clue, so that they might not start on a wild-goose chase. "Seems to me I c'n see a flickering light over yonder!" cried Spider Sexton, as he pointed toward the heart of the town. "You're right, Spider!" echoed Tom Betts. "That's where the fire lies. See how it keeps on getting brighter right along, showing that the blaze has got a firm grip. Hey! wait for me, can't you, fellows?" "Wait your granny!" shouted Bobolink over his shoulder as he fled wildly down the street. "Run for all your worth, old ice-wagon. Whoop! here we come, Stanhope's fire-fighters!" There was excitement on every side of them now. Doors opened to emit men hastily donning rubber coats and firemen's hats. Women and children had commenced to scream at each other across dividing fences. Dogs began to join in the general confusion by barking madly. And above all the increasing clamor, the brazen notes of the fire bell continued to clang furiously. The nine scouts, being already on the street at the time the alarm was turned in, had a big advantage over others, since they were dressed in the beginning. As they ran on they were joined by a number of men and women who had chanced to be up at this late hour, possibly decorating Christmas trees for the benefit of the children on the coming morning. CHAPTER X THE ACCUSATION "Can you guess where it is, Jack?" gasped Frank Savage as he strove to keep alongside the other while running to the fire. Just then they reached a corner, and as they dashed around it they came in plain sight of the conflagration. "It's Briggs' store, fellows!" shouted Frank over his shoulder. Ten seconds later all of them were on the spot where already a little cluster of men and boys were gathered, some of them near neighbors, others having come up ahead of the scouts. "Hey! what's this I see?" Bobolink said to his chum nearest him; "two of the Lawson crowd here, dodging about and grinning as if they thought it a picnic?" "Look at old Briggs, will you?" cried Sandy Griggs. "He's dancing around like a chicken after you've chopped its head off." "Did you ever see anybody so excited?" demanded Bobolink. "Hold on! what's that he's saying now about somebody setting his store afire on purpose?" "It's a black scheme to get me out of competition!" the little, old storekeeper was crying as he wrung his hands wildly. "Somebody must have known that my insurance ran out three weeks ago, and for once I neglected to renew it! I shall be ruined if it all goes! Why don't some of you try to save my property?" "Boys, it seems that it's up to us to get busy and do something!" exclaimed Frank Savage, immediately. "It comes hard to work for the old skinflint," declared Bobolink, "but I s'pose we're bound to forget everything but that some one's stuff is in danger, and that we belong to the scouts!" "Come on then, everybody, and let's sling things around!" cried Jud Elderkin. No matter how the fire started it was burning fiercely, and promised to give the volunteer firemen a good fight when they arrived, as they were likely to do at any moment now. Indeed, loud cries not far away, accompanied by the rush of many heavily booted feet and the trampling of horses' hoofs announced that the engine, hook and ladder, and chemical companies were close at hand. The nine scouts dashed straight at the store front. The door stood conveniently open, though they could only hazard a guess as to how it came so--possibly when brought to the spot with the first alarm of fire the owner had used his key to gain an entrance. Into the store tumbled the boys. The interior was already pretty well filled with an acrid smoke that made their eyes run; but through it they could manage to see the barrels and boxes so well remembered. These some of the scouts started to get out as best they could. Jack, realizing that in all probability the rolls of cloth and silks on the shelves would suffer worst from the water soon to be applied, led several of his companions to that quarter. They were as busy as the proverbial beaver, rushing goods outdoors where they could be taken in hand by others, and placed in temporary security. A couple of the local police force had by this time reached the scene, and they could be depended on to guard Mr. Briggs' property as it was gathered in the street. The owner of the store seemed half beside himself, rushing this way and that, and saying all manner of bitter things. Even at that moment, when the boys of Stanhope were making such heroic efforts to save his property, he seemed to entertain suspicions regarding them, for he often called out vague threats as to what would happen if they dared take anything belonging to him. Now came the volunteer fire-fighters, with loud hurrahs. There seemed no need of the ladders, but the fire engine was quickly taken to the nearest cistern and the suction pipe lowered. When that reservoir was emptied others in the near vicinity would be tapped, and if the water supply held out the fire could possibly be gotten under control. That was likely to be the last time the citizens of Stanhope would have to cope with a fire in their midst, armed with such old-fashioned weapons. A new waterworks system was being installed, and in the course of a couple of weeks Stanhope hoped to be supplied with an abundance of clear spring water through the network of pipes laid under the town streets during the preceding summer and fall. Mr. Forbes, the efficient foreman of the fire company, was the right sort of man for the work. He was one of the town blacksmiths, a fine citizen, and highly respected by every one. As his heavy voice roared out orders the men under him trailed the hose out, the engine began to work furiously, sending out black smoke from its funnel, and the men who handled the chemical engine brought it into play. Even in that time, when dozens of things pressed hard upon the foreman demanding his attention, he found occasion to speak words of encouragement to the busy scouts as they trooped back and forth, carrying all sorts of bulky articles out of the reach of the flames. "Good boys, every one of you!" he called out to them as Jack and Bobolink came staggering along with their arms filled with bolts of Mr. Briggs' most cherished silks, "you've got the making of prize firemen in you I can see. Don't overdo it, though, lads; and make way for the men with the hose!" By the time the first stream of water was turned on the fire the flames were leaping upward, and the entire back part of the store seemed to be doomed. Being a frame building and very old it had been like matchwood in the path of the flames. "Now watch how they slam things down on the old fire!" exclaimed Bobolink as he stood aside unable to enter the store again since the firemen had taken possession of the premises. "The water will do more damage than the fire ever had a chance to accomplish." "Wow! see them smash those windows in, will you!" shouted Jud Elderkin, as a man with a fire axe made a fresh opening in one side of the store in order to put a second line of hose to work. Everybody was calling out, and what with the crackling of the hungry flames, the neighing of the horses that had drawn the fire-engine to the spot, the whooping of gangs of delighted boys, and a lot of other miscellaneous sounds, Bedlam seemed to have broken loose in Stanhope on this night before Christmas. "They've got the bulge on it already, seems like," announced Tom Betts. "But even that doesn't seem to give Mr. Briggs much satisfaction," remarked Frank. "There he is running back and forth between the store and the stack of goods we piled up in the street." "I reckon he is afraid the police will steal some of the silks," chuckled Bobolink. "The fire is going down right fast now," Tom Betts affirmed. "What's left of the Briggs' store may be saved. But Mr. Briggs is bound to lose a heap, and it cuts the old man to the bone to let a dollar slip away from him." "To think of such a smart business man allowing his insurance policy to lapse, and to lie unrenewed for a whole month!" exclaimed Bluff. "Got tired paying premiums for so many years and never having a fire," explained Jack. As the crowd stood there the last of the blaze yielded to the efforts of the firemen. Most of the building was saved, though the business was bound to be crippled for some time, and Mr. Briggs' loss would run into the hundreds, perhaps thousands, for all any one knew. "Listen to him scolding the foreman of the fire company, will you?" demanded Bobolink. "He seems to think a whole hour elapsed after the alarm before the boys got here. Why, it was the quickest run on record, I should say." "Here they come this way," observed Tom Betts, "and the foreman is trying to convince Mr. Briggs he is mistaken. He knows how excited Mr. Briggs is, and excuses anything he may say. Mr. Forbes is a big man in more ways than bulk." "Perhaps Mr. Briggs may want to scold us for not getting more stuff out before the water was turned on," chuckled Bobolink. "Don't answer him back if he does," Jack warned them, "because we know he's nearly out of his mind just now." Still, even practical Jack was shocked when the old storekeeper, coming face to face with the group of scouts, suddenly pointed a trembling finger at Bobolink and exclaimed in a vindictive voice: "I knew this fire was started in revenge, and there's the boy who did it!" CHAPTER XI FRIENDS OF THE SCOUTS Everybody came crowding around at hearing Mr. Briggs make such a startling accusation. Bobolink seemed to have had his very breath taken away, for all he could do was to stare helplessly at the angry, little, old storekeeper. The magnitude of the crime with which he was accused stunned him. Some of the other scouts managed to find their tongues readily enough. Flushed with indignation they proceeded to express their feelings as boys might be expected to do under strong resentment. "Well, I like that, now!" exclaimed Tom Betts. "When Bobolink here has been working like a beaver to save Mr. Briggs' stuff from the maw of the flames." "That was only meant to be a blind to hide the truth!" cried Mr. Briggs. "After he set the fire he must have become frightened at what he had done, and tried to cover up his tracks. Oh! I know what boys are capable of; but I'll have the law on this miscreant who tried to get revenge on me this way, see if I don't." "Shame on you, Mr. Briggs," said a stout woman close by. "And the boy nearly killing himself to carry out big loads of your silks! It's many dollars he saved you, and little credit he'll ever get." "Don't you know Bobolink has the best kind of alibi, Mr. Briggs?" said Frank. "He was over at Doctor Morrison's house along with the rest of us until just before the alarm sounded. We were on our way home when the bell struck first." "The doctor himself will tell you that, if you ask him," added Jack, indignant now because of what had passed after all they had done for the old man. "Mr. Forbes, I wish you would warn him not to make such a reckless accusation again, because he might have to prove it in court. Boys have rights as well as storekeepers, he must know." "It's just as you say, Jack, my lad," asserted the big foreman of the truck company, warmly. "I stood all your abuse, Mr. Briggs, when it was directed against myself, but I advise you to go slow about charging any of these young chaps with setting fire to your store. All of us have seen how they worked trying to save your property, sir. It is a poor return you are making for their efforts." Others shared this opinion, and realizing that he did not have a single friend in the crowd, Mr. Briggs had the good sense to keep his further suspicions to himself. But that he was still far from convinced of Bobolink's innocence could be seen by the malevolent glances he shot toward the boy from time to time, while the scouts stood and watched the final work of the fire-fighters. The last spark had been extinguished, and all danger was past. Many of the townspeople began to leave for their comfortable homes, because it was bitterly cold at that hour of the night, with a coating of snow on the ground. Paul had come up during the excitement, but somehow had failed to join the rest of the scouts until later on. The other scouts thought that doubtless he had found something to claim his attention elsewhere; but he came up to them about the time they were thinking of taking their departure. His indignation was strong when he heard what a foolish accusation the almost distracted storekeeper had made against Bobolink. Still Paul was a sensible lad, and he realized that Mr. Briggs could hardly be held responsible for what he said at such a time. "Better forget all about it, Bobolink," he told the other, who was still fretting under the unmerited charge. "Perhaps when he cools off and realizes what a serious thing he has said, Mr. Briggs will publicly take his words back, and will thank you fellows in the bargain." "But how came it you were so slow in getting to the fire, Paul?" asked Tom Betts; for, as a rule, the patrol leader could be counted on to arrive with the first. Paul laughed at that. "I knew you'd be wondering," he said, and then went on to explain. "For once I was caught in a trap, and, much as I wanted to get out and run, I just had to hold my horses for a spell. You see, after you had gone father asked me to hold something for him while he was attending to it, and I couldn't very well drop it until he was through." "Whew! it sure must have been something pretty important to keep Paul Morrison from running to a fire," chuckled Frank. "It was important," came the ready reply. "In fact, it was a man's broken arm I was holding. Ben Holliday was brought in just after you boys left. He had fallen in some way and sustained a compound fracture of his left arm. Neither of the men who were along with him could be counted on to assist, so father called on me to lend a hand. And that's why I was late at the Briggs' store fire." "You missed a great sight, Paul, let me tell you," affirmed Bluff. "Yes, and you missed hearing a friend of yours called a fire-bug, too, in the bargain," grunted Bobolink. "And after I'd sweated and toiled like fun to drag a lot of his old junk out of reach of fire and flood! That's what makes me sore. Now, if I'd just stood around and laughed, like a lot of the fellows did, it wouldn't have been so bad." "Listen!" said Jud Elderkin, lowering his voice, "when old Briggs got the notion that some bad boy set his store on fire in a spirit of revenge, maybe he wasn't so far wrong after all." "Say, what are you hinting at now, Jud?" gasped Bobolink, suspiciously. "You know as well as anything I was along with the crowd every minute of the time." "Sure I do, Bobolink," asserted the other, blandly. "I wasn't referring to you at all when I said that. There are others in the swim. You're not the only pebble on the beach, you understand." "Now I get you, Jud!" Tom Betts exclaimed. "And let me say, I've been having little suspicions of my own leading in that same direction." "We found Hank, Jud Mabley and Sim Jeffreys on the spot when we got here, you all remember, and they seemed tickled to death because it was the Briggs' place that was on fire," continued Jud. Even Paul and Jack seemed impressed, though too cautious to accept the fact until there was more proof. Already the foolishness of making an unsupported accusation had been brought home to them, and the scout-master felt that it was his duty to warn Jud and Tom against talking too recklessly of their suspicion. "Better go slow about it, fellows, no matter what you think," he told them. "The law does not recognize suspicion as counting for anything, unless you have some sort of proof to back it up. It may be those fellows are guilty, for they have been going from bad to worse of late; but until you can show evidence leading that way, button up your lips." "Guess you're right there, Paul," admitted Jud. "Some of us are apt to be too previous when we get a notion in our heads. But Mr. Briggs is dead sure it was no accident, whether the fire was started by the Lawson crowd or some one else." "I heard him say he suspected that his safe had been broken open," declared Tom Betts just then, "and that the fire might have been an after thought meant to hide a robbery." "Whew! that's going some, I must say, if that Lawson gang has come down to burglary, as well as arson," observed Spider Sexton, seriously. "You'll have to get Jud Mabley away from his cronies mighty quick then, Paul, if you hope to pull him out of the fire," commented Frank. "Well, for one I've yet to be convinced that they had anything to do with the fire," Paul told them. "But we know they've had trouble with Mr. Briggs plenty of times," urged another of the scouts. "And you must remember they were here when we arrived, which looks suspicious," added Bobolink. "Appearances are often deceitful, Bobolink, as you yourself know to your cost," the scout-master remarked. "If forced to explain their being on the spot so early perhaps they could prove an alibi as well as you. But come, since the fire is all over, and it's pretty shivery out here now, suppose we get back home." No one offered any objection to this proposal. Indeed, several of the scouts who had worked hard enough to get into a perspiration, were moving about uneasily as though afraid of taking cold. When the boys left the scene the crowd had thinned out very much, for the wintry night made standing around unpleasant. Besides, most of the people were disgusted with the actions of old Mr. Briggs, and cared very little what his loss might prove to be. At the time the scouts turned away and headed for another section of the town, the old storekeeper was entering the still smoking building, desirous of examining his safe to ascertain whether it showed signs of having been tampered with. Once again the boys stood on the corner ready to separate into several factions as their homes chanced to lie. "There, the fire is out; that's back-taps!" said Tom Betts. "You're off your base, Tom," Bluff disagreed, "for that's the town clock striking the hour of midnight." "Sure enough," agreed Tom, when four and five had sounded. They counted aloud until the whole twelve had struck. "That means it's Sunday morning. Merry Christmas, Paul, and the rest!" cried Frank. "The same to you, and good-night, fellows!" called out Paul, as with Jack he strode away. CHAPTER XII THE ICEBOAT SQUADRON At exactly ten o'clock, on Monday morning, December 26th, Bobolink sounded the "Assembly" on his bugle. A great crowd had gathered on the bank of the frozen Bushkill. For the most part this was made up of boys and girls, but there were in addition a few parents who wanted to see the start of the scouts for their midwinter camp. Up to this time their outings had taken place in a more genial period of the year, and not a few witnessed their departure with feelings of uneasiness. This winter had already proved its title to the stormiest known in a quarter of a century, and at the last hour more than one parent questioned the wisdom of allowing the boys to take the bold tour. However, there were no "recalls," and as for the ten lads themselves, to look at their eager faces it could be seen that they entertained no doubts regarding their ability to cope with whatever situations arose. The five iceboats were in line, and could be compared with so many fleet race horses fretting to make a speedy start. Each had various mysterious packages fastened securely, leaving scanty room for the pair of "trippers." "After all we're going to have a fine day of it," remarked Tom Betts, as he gave a last look to the running gear of his new ice craft, and impatiently waited for Paul to give the word to be off. "Luck seems to be with us in the start," admitted Bobolink, who was next in line. "I only hope it won't change and slap us too hard after we get up there in the woods." "I heard this morning that the Lawson crowd had started overland, with packs on their backs," Phil Towns stated. "Oh! we're bound to rub up against that lot before we're done with it," prophesied Bobolink. "But if they give us any trouble I miss my guess if they won't be sorry for it." "Scouts can take a heap," said Tom, "but there is a limit to their forbearance; and once they set out to inflict proper punishment they know how to rub it in good and hard." "Do you really believe there's any truth in that report we heard about Mr. Briggs' safe being found broken open and cleaned out?" asked Phil. "There's no question about it," replied Bobolink. "Though between you and me I don't think the robbers got much of a haul, for the old man is too wise to keep much money around." "I heard that Hank Lawson and his crowd were spending money pretty freely when they got ready early this morning to start," suggested Tom. Jack, who had listened to all this talk, took occasion to warn his fellow-scouts, just as Paul had done on the other occasion. "Better not say that again, Tom, because we have no means of knowing how they got the money. Some of them are often supplied with larger amounts than seem to be good for them. Unless you know positively, don't start the snowball rolling downhill, because it keeps on growing larger every time some one tells the story." "All right, Jack," remarked Tom, cheerfully; "what you say goes. Besides, as we expect to be away a couple of weeks there isn't going to be much chance to tell tales in Stanhope." They waited impatiently for the word to go. Paul was making a last round in order to be sure that nothing had been overlooked, for caution was strongly developed in his character, as well as boldness. There were many long faces among the other boys belonging to Stanhope Troop, for they would have liked above all things to be able to accompany their lucky comrades. The lure of the open woods had a great attraction for them, and on previous outings every one had enjoyed such glorious times that now all felt as though they were missing a grand treat. At last Paul felt that nothing else remained to be done, and that he could get his expedition under way without any scruple. There were many skaters on the river, but a clear passage down-stream had been made for the start of the iceboat squadron. A few of the strongest skaters had gone on ahead half an hour back, intending to accompany the adventurous ten a portion of the way. They hoped to reach the point where the old canal connected the Bushkill river with the Radway, and a long time back known as Jackson's Creek. Here they would await the coming of the fleet iceboats, and lend what assistance was required in making the passage of this crooked waterway. When once again the bugle sounded the cheering became more violent than ever, for it was known that the moment of departure had arrived. Tom Betts had been given the honor of being the first in the procession. His fellow passenger was Jack Stormways. As the new _Speedaway_ shot from its mooring place and started down the river it seemed as though the old football days had come again, such a roar arose from human lungs, fish-horns, and every conceivable means for making a racket. A second craft quickly followed in the wake of the leader, then a third, the two others trailing after, until all of them were heading down-stream, rapidly leaving Stanhope behind. The cheering of the throng grew fainter as the speedy craft glided over the ice, urged on by a fair wind. There could be little doubt that the ten scouts who were undertaking the expedition were fully alive to the good fortune that had come their way. Tom Betts was acknowledged to be the most skilful skipper, possibly barring Paul, along the Bushkill. He seemed to know how to get the best speed out of an iceboat, and at the same time avoid serious accidents, such as are likely to follow the reckless use of such frail craft. It was thoughtful of Paul to let Tom lead the procession, when by all rights, as the scout-master, Paul might properly have assumed that position. Tom must have been considering this fact, for as he and Jack flew along, crouching under the big new sail that was drawing splendidly, he called out to his comrade: "Let me tell you it was mighty white in Paul to assign me to this berth, Jack, when by rights everybody expected him to lead off. I appreciate it, too, I want you to understand." "Oh! that's just like Paul," he was told. "He always likes to make other fellows feel good. And for a chap who unites so many rare qualities in his make-up Paul is the most unassuming fellow I ever knew. Why, you can see that he intentionally put himself in last place, and picked out Spider Sexton's boat to go on, because he knew it was the poorest of the lot." "But all the same the old _Glider_ is doing her prettiest to-day and keeping up with the procession all right," asserted Tom, glancing back. "That's because Paul's serving as skipper," asserted Jack, proudly. "He could get speed out of any old tub you ever saw. But then we're not trying to do any racing on this trip, you remember, Tom." "Not much," assented the other, quickly. "Paul impressed it on us that to-day we must keep it in mind that 'safety first' is to be our motto. Besides, with all these bundles of grub and blankets and clothes-bags strapped and roped to our boats a fellow couldn't do himself justice, I reckon." "No more he could, Tom. But we're making good time for all that, and it isn't going to be long before we pass Manchester, and reach the place where that old abandoned canal creeps across two miles of country, more or less, to the Radway." "I can see the fellows who skated down ahead of us!" announced Tom, presently. "Yes, they're waiting to go through the canal with us," assented Jack. "Wallace Carberry said they feared we might have a bad time of it getting the iceboats over to the Radway, and he corralled a few fellows with the idea of lending a hand." "They hate the worst kind to be left out of this camping game," remarked Tom, "and want to see the last they can of us." A few minutes later and the skipper of the leading iceboat brought his speedy craft to a halt close to the shore, where several scouts awaited them. The other four craft soon drew up near by, thus finishing what they were pleased to call the "first leg" of the novel cruise. It was decided to work their way through the winding creek the best way possible. In places it would be found advisable to push the boats, while now and then as an open stretch came along they might take advantage of a favorable wind to do a little sailing. Two miles of this sort of thing would not be so bad. As Bobolink sang out, the worst was yet to come when they made the Radway, and had to ascend against a head wind that would necessitate skilful tacking to avoid an overturn. CHAPTER XIII ON THE WAY "It all comes back to me again, when I see that frozen mud bank over there, fellows," called out Frank Savage, after they had been pushing their way along the rough canal for some time. "How many times we did get stuck on just such a mud bank," laughed Paul. "I can shut my eyes even now, and imagine I see some of us wading alongside, and helping to get our motor boats out of the pickle. I think Bobolink must dream of it every once in a while, for he had more than his share of the fun." "It was bully fun all right, say what you will!" declared the boy mentioned, "though like a good many other things that are past and gone, distance lends enchantment to the view." "That's right," echoed Tom Betts, "you always seem to forget the discomforts when you look back to that kind of thing, and remember only the jolly good times. I've come home from hunting as tired as a dog, and vowed it would be a long while before I ever allowed myself to be tempted to go again. But, fellows, if a chum came along the next day and asked me I'd fall to the bait." A chance to do a little sailing interrupted this pleasant exchange of reminders. But it was for a very short distance only that they were able to take advantage of a favoring breeze; then the boys found it necessary to push the boats again. Some of them strapped on their skates and set out to draw the laden iceboats as the most logical way of making steady progress. "What are two measly miles, when such a glorious prospect looms up ahead of us?" cried Sandy. "We ought to be at the old Radway by noon." "Yes," added Bobolink, quickly. "And I heard Paul saying just now that as we were in no great hurry he meant to call a halt there for an hour or more. We can start a fire and have a bully little warm lunch, just to keep us from starving between now and nightfall, when a regular dinner will be in order." Of course, this set some of the boys to making fun of Bobolink's well known weakness. The accused scout took it all as good natured joking. Besides, who could get angry when engaged in such a glorious outing as that upon which they were now fully embarked? Certainly not the even-tempered Bobolink. From time to time the boys recognized various spots where certain incidents had happened to them when on their never-to-be-forgotten motor boat cruise of the preceding summer. It was well on towards noon when they finally reached the place where the old connecting canal joined the Radway river. It happened, fortunately for the plans of the scouts, that both streams were rather high at the setting in of winter, which accounted for an abundance of ice along the connecting link. "Looky there, Paul. Could you find a better place for a fire than in that cove back of the point?" demanded Bobolink, evidently bent on reminding the commander-in-chief of his promise. "You're right about that," admitted Paul, "for the trees and bushes on the point act as a wind break. Head over that way, boys, and let's make a stop for refreshments." "Good for you, Paul!" cried Spider Sexton, jubilantly. "I skipped the best part of my usual feed this morning, I was so excited and afraid I might get left; and I want to warn you all I'm as empty right now as a drum. So cook enough for an extra man or two when you're about it." "Huh! you'll take a hand in that job yourself, Spider," asserted Bobolink, pretending to look very stern, though he knew there would be no lack of volunteers for preparing that first camp meal. Enthusiasm always runs high when boys first go into the woods, but later on it gets to be an old story, and some of the campers have to be drummed into harness. A fire was soon started, for every one of the scouts knew all about the coaxing of a blaze, no matter how damp the wood might seem. The scouts had learned their lesson in woodcraft, and took pride in excelling one another on occasion. Then a bustling ensued as several cooks busied themselves in frying ham, as well as some potatoes that had already been boiled at home. When several onions had been mixed with these, after being first fried in a separate pan, the odors that arose were exceedingly palatable to the hungry groups that stood around awaiting the call to lunch. Coffee had been made in the two capacious tin pots, for on such a bracing day as this they felt they needed something to warm their systems. Plenty of condensed milk had been brought along, and a can of this was opened by puncturing the top in two places. Thus, if not emptied at a sitting, a can can be sealed up again, and kept over for another occasion. "As good a feed as I ever want to enjoy!" was the way Bobolink bubbled over as he reached for his second helping, meanwhile keeping a wary eye on the boy who had warned them as to his enormous capacity for food. "It is mighty fine," agreed Wallace Carberry, "but somehow, fellows, it seems like a funeral feast to me, because it's the last time I'll be able to join you. Never felt so bad in my life before. Shed a few tears for me once in a while, won't you?" The others laughingly promised to accommodate him. Truth to tell, most of them did feel very sorry for Wallace and the other boys whose parents had debarred them from all this pleasure before them. When the hour was up another start was made. This time they headed up the erratic Radway. The skaters still clung to them, bent on seeing all they could of those whom they envied so much. Progress was sometimes very tedious, because the wind persisted in meeting them head on, and it is not the easiest task in the world to force an iceboat against a negative breeze. Tacking had to be resorted to many times, and each mile they gained was well won. The boys enjoyed the exhilarating exercise, however, and while there were a few minor accidents nothing serious interfered with their progress. It was two o'clock when they sighted Lake Tokala ahead of them. Shouts of joy from those in advance told the glad story to the toilers in the rear. This quickened their pulses, and made them all feel that the worst was now over. When the broad reaches of the lake had been gained they were able to make speed once more. It was the best part of the entire trip--the run across the wide lake. And how the sight of Cedar Island brought back most vividly recollections of the happy and exciting days spent there not many months before! Wallace and his three chums still held on. They declared they were bound to stick like "leeches" until they had seen the expedition safely across the lake. What if night did overtake them before they got back to the Bushkill again? There would be a moon, and skating would be a pleasure under such favorable conditions. "Don't see any signs of another wild man on the island, do you, Jack?" asked Tom Betts, as the _Speedaway_ fairly flew past the oasis in the field of ice that was crowned by a thick growth of cedars, which had given the island its name. "Nothing doing in that line, Tom," replied the other with a laugh. "Such an adventure happens to ordinary fellows only once in a life-time. But then something just as queer may be sprung on us in the place we're heading for." The crossing of Tokala Lake did not consume a great deal of time, for the wind had shifted just enough to make it favor them more or less much of the way over. "I c'n see smoke creeping up at the point Paul's heading for," announced Tom Betts. "That must come from the cabin we heard had been built here since we had our outing on the lake." "We were told that it stood close to the mouth of the creek which we have to ascend some miles," remarked Jack. "And this man is the one we think to leave our boats in charge of while away in the woods." "I only hope then that he'll be a reliable keeper," observed Tom, seriously, "for it would nearly break my heart if anything happened to the _Speedaway_ now. I've only tried her out a few times, but she gives promise of beating anything ever built in this section of the country. I don't believe I could duplicate her lines again if I tried." "Don't borrow trouble," Jack told him. "We'll dismantle the boats all we can before we leave them, and the chances are ten to one we'll find them O.K. when we come out of the woods two weeks from now. But here we are at the place, and the boys who mean to return home will have to say good-bye." CHAPTER XIV THE RING OF STEEL RUNNERS As the little flotilla of ice yachts drew up close to the shore, the sound of boyish laughter must have been heard, for a man was seen approaching. He came from the direction of the cabin which they had sighted among the trees, and from the mud and stone chimney of which smoke was ascending straight into the air--a promise of continued good weather. The boys were climbing up the bank when he reached them. So far as they could see he appeared to be a rough but genial man, and Paul believed they could easily trust him to take care of the boats while away. "I suppose you are Abe Turner, spoken of by Mr. Garrity?" was the way Paul addressed the man, holding out his hand in friendly greeting. The other's face relaxed into a smile. Evidently he liked this manly looking young chap immediately, as most people did, for Paul had a peculiarly winning way about him. "That's my name, and I reckon now you must be Paul," said the other. "Why, how did you know that?" demanded Bobolink, in surprise. "Oh! I had a letter from Mr. Thomas Garrity telling me all about you boys, and ordering me to do anything you might want. You see he owns all the country around here, an' I'm holding the fort until spring, when there's going to be some big timber cutting done. We expect to get it to market down the Radway." The scouts exchanged pleased looks. "Bully for Mr. Thomas Garrity!" shouted Tom Betts, "he's all to the good, if his conversion to liking boys did come late in life. He's bound to make up for all the lost time now. Three cheers, fellows, for our good friend!" They were given with a rousing will, and the echoes must have alarmed some of the shy denizens of the snow forest, for a fox was seen to scurry across an open spot, and a bevy of crows in some not far distant oak trees started to caw and call. "All we want you to do for us, Abe," explained Paul, "is to take good care of our five iceboats, which we will have to leave with you." "And we might as well tell you in the beginning," added Bobolink, "that several tough chaps from our town have come up here to spend some time, just from learning of our plans." "Yes," went on Tom Betts, the anxious one, "and nothing would tickle that Hank Lawson and his gang so much as to be able to sneak some of our boats away, or, failing that, to smash them into kindling wood with an axe." Abe nodded his shaggy head and smiled. "I've heard some things about Hank Lawson," he observed. "But take it from me that if he comes around my shanty trying any of his tricks he'll get a lesson he'll never forget. I'll see to it that your boats are kept safe. I've two dogs off hunting in the woods just now, but I'll fasten 'em nigh where you store the boats. I'm sorry for the boy who gets within the grip of Towser's teeth, yes, or Clinch's either." That was good news to Tom, who smiled as though finally satisfied that there was really nothing to be feared. "Sorry to say we'll have to be leaving you, boys," announced Wallace just then, as he started to go the rounds with a mournful face, shaking hands with each lucky scout whom he envied so much. "Hope you have the time of your lives," called out another of those who were debarred from enjoying the outing. These boys started away, looking back from time to time as they crossed wide Lake Tokala. Finally, with a last parting salute, they darted into the mouth of the canal and were lost to view. There was an immediate bustle, for time was flitting, and much remained to be done. The five owners of the iceboats proceeded to dismantle them, which was not a tedious proceeding. The masts were unstepped and hidden in a place by themselves. The sails were taken into the cabin of Abe, where they would be safe. Meanwhile, the other boys had been engaged in making up the various packs which from now on must be shouldered by each member of the expedition. Experience in such things allowed them to accomplish more in a given time than novices would have been able to do. "Everything seems to be ready, Paul," announced Jack after a while, as they gathered around, each boy striving to fix his individual pack upon his back, and getting some other fellow to adjust the straps. Bobolink seemed to have half again as much as any of the others, though this was really all his own doing. Besides his usual share of the luggage he had pots and pans and skillets sticking out in all directions, so that he presented the appearance of a traveling tinker. "It's a great pity, Bobolink," said Tom Betts, with a grin, as he surveyed his comrade after helping the other load up, "that you were born about seventy-five years too late." "Tell me why," urged the other. "Think what a peddler you would have made! You'd have been a howling success hawking your goods around the country." Of course they had all adjusted their skates before taking up their packs; for bending down would really have been next to a physical impossibility after those weighty burdens had been assumed. "Hope you have a right good time, boys," said Abe Turner in parting. "And don't any of you worry about these boats. When you come back this way you'll find everything slick and neat here." "Good for you, Abe," cried Tom Betts. "And make up your mind to it the Banner Boy Scouts never forget their friends. You're on the list, Abe. Good-bye!" They were off at last, and it was high time, for the short December day was already getting well along toward its close. Night would come almost before they knew it, though they had no reason to expect anything like darkness, with that moon now much more than half full up there in the heavens. Some of the boys had noticed the mouth of this creek when camping on Cedar Island the previous summer. They had been so much occupied with fishing, taking flashlight pictures of little wild animals in their native haunts, and in solving certain mysteries that came their way that none of them had had time to explore the stream. On this account then it would prove to be a new bit of country for them, and this fact rather pleased most of the boys, as they dearly loved to prowl around in a section they had never visited before. Strung out in a straggling procession they skated along. The creek was about as crooked as anything could well be, a fact that influenced Bobolink to shout out: "In the absence of a better name, fellows, I hereby christen this waterway Snake Creek; any objections?" "It deserves the name, all right," commented Spider Sexton, "for I never saw such a wiggly stream in all my born days." "Seems as if we had already come all of five miles, and nary a sign of a cabin ahead yet that I can see," observed Phil Towns, presently, for Phil was really beginning to feel pretty well used up, not being quite so sturdy as some others among the ten scouts. "That's the joke," laughed Paul; "and it's on me I guess more than any one else. I thought of nearly a thousand things, seems to me, but forgot to ask any one just how far it was up to the cabin from the lake by way of this scrambling creek." "Why, I'm sure Mr. Garrity said something like six miles!" exclaimed Jack. "Yes, but that may have meant as the crow flies, straightaway," returned the scout-master. "At the worst then, Paul," Bobolink ventured to say, "we can camp, and spend a night in the open under the hemlocks. Veteran scouts have no need to be afraid to tackle such a little game as that, with plenty of grub and blankets along." "Hear! hear!" said Phil Towns. "And as the sun has set already I for one wouldn't care how soon you decided to do that stunt." "Oh! we ought to be good for another hour or so anyway, Phil," Tom told him, at which the other only grunted and struck manfully out again. As evening closed in about them, the shadows began to creep out of the heavy growth of timber by which the skaters were surrounded. "Look! look! a deer!" shrieked Sandy Griggs, suddenly. Thrilled by the cry the others looked ahead just in time to see a flitting form disappear in the thick fringe of shrubbery that lined one side of the creek. CHAPTER XV TOLLY TIP AND THE FOREST CABIN "Oh! that's too bad!" exclaimed Spider Sexton, "I've been telling everybody we'd taste venison of our own killing while off on this trip, and there the first deer we've glimpsed gives us the merry ha-ha!" "Rotten luck!" grumbled Jud Elderkin. "And me with a rifle gripped in my fist all the time. But I only had a glimpse of a brown object disappearing in the brush, and I never want to just _wound_ a deer so it will suffer. That's why I didn't fire when I threw my gun up." "With me," explained Jack Stormways, "it happened that Bluff here was just in my way when I had the chance to aim." "Well," laughed Bobolink, "you might have shot straight through his head, because it's a vacuum. I once heard a teacher tell him so when he failed in his lessons every day for a week." "Oh! there's bound to be plenty of deer where you can see one so easily," Paul told them, "so cheer up. Unless I miss my guess we'll have all sorts of game to eat while up here in the snow woods. Abe said it was a big season for fur and feather this year." They kept plodding along and put more miles behind them. The moon now had to be relied on to afford them light, because the last of the sunset glow had departed from the western heavens. Phil was beginning to feel very tired, and feared he would have to give up unless inside of another mile or two they arrived at their intended destination. Being a proud boy he detested showing any signs of weakness, and clinched his teeth more tightly together as he pressed on, keeping a little behind the rest, so that no one should hear his occasional groan. All at once a glad cry broke out ahead, coming from Sandy Griggs, who at the moment chanced to be in the van. "I reckon that's a jolly big fire yonder, fellows, unless I miss my guess!" he told them. "It is a fire, sure thing," agreed Bobolink. "Tolly Tip has been looking for us, it seems, and has built a roaring blaze out of doors to serve as a guide to our faltering steps!" announced Jud, pompously, although he could hardly have been referring to himself, for his pace seemed to be just as swift and bold as when he first set out. "It's less than half a mile away I should say, even with this crooked stream to navigate," announced Bobolink, more to comfort Phil than anything else. "Keep going right along, and don't bother about me, I'm all right," called the latter, cheerfully, from the rear. In a short time the scouts drew near what proved to be a roaring fire built on the bank of the creek. They could see a man moving about, and he must have already heard their voices in the near distance for he was shading his eyes with his hand, and looking earnestly their way. "Hello, Tolly Tip!" cried out the boisterous Bobolink. "Here we come, right-side up with care! How's Mrs. Tip, and all the little Tips?" This was only a boyish joke, for they had already been told by Mr. Garrity that the keeper of the hunting lodge was a jolly old bachelor. But Bobolink must have his say regardless of everything. They heard the trapper laugh as though he immediately fell in with the spirit of fun that these boys carried with them. "He's all right!" exclaimed Bobolink, on catching that boisterous laugh. "Who's all right? Tolly Tip, the keeper of Deer Head Lodge, situated in Garrity Camp! For he's a jolly good fellow, which none can deny!" Amidst all this laughter and chatter the ten scouts arrived at the spot where the welcoming blaze awaited them, to receive a warm welcome from the queer, old fellow who took care of Mr. Garrity whenever the latter chose to hide away from his business vexations up here in the woods. The boys could see immediately that Tolly Tip was about as queer as his name would indicate. At the same time they believed they would like him. His blue eyes twinkled with good humor, and he had a droll Irish brogue that was bound to add to the flavor of the stories they felt sure he had on the end of his tongue. "Sure, it's delighted I am to say the lot av yees this night," he said as they came crowding around, each wanting to shake his hand fiercely. "Mr. Garrity towld me in the letther he was after sindin' up with the tame that ye war a foine bunch av lads, that would be afther kapin' me awake all right. And sure I do belave 'twill be so." "I hope we won't bother you too much while we're here," said Paul, understanding what an energetic crowd he was piloting on this excursion. "Ye couldn't do the same if ye tried," Tolly Tip declared, heartily. "I have to be alone most all the long winther, an' it do be a great trate to hav' some lively lads visit me for a s'ason. Fetch the packs along wid ye into the cabin. I want to make ye sorry for carrying all this stuff wid ye up here." His words mystified them until, having entered the capacious cabin built of hewn logs, with the chinks well filled with hard mortar, they were shown a wagonload of groceries which Mr. Garrity had actually taken secret pleasure in purchasing without letting the boys know anything about it. A team had found its way across the miles of intervening woods, and delivered this magnificent present at the forest lodge. It was intended to be a surprise to the boys, and Mr. Garrity certainly overwhelmed them with his generosity. Bobolink alone was seen to stand and gaze regretfully at the small edition of a grocery store, meanwhile shaking his head sorrowfully. "What ails you, Bobolink?" demanded one of his chums. "It can't be done, no matter how many meals a day we try to make way with," the other solemnly announced. "I've been calculating, and there's enough stuff there to feed us a month. Then, besides, think of what we toted along. Shucks! why didn't Nature make boys with India rubber stomachs." "Some fellows I happen to know have already been favored in that line," hinted Tom Betts, maliciously; "but as for the rest of us, we have to get along with just the old-fashioned kind." "Cheer up, Bobolink," laughed Paul; "what we can't devour we'll be only too glad to leave to our good friend Tolly Tip here. The chances are he'll know what to do with everything so none of it will be wasted." "When a man who all his life has been as tightfisted as Mr. Garrity does wake up," said Phil Towns, "he goes to the other extreme, and shames a lot of people who've been calling themselves charitable." "Oh! that's because he has so much to make up, I guess," explained Jud. While some of the boys started in to get a good supper ready the others went around taking a look at the cabin in the snowy woods that was to be their home for the next twelve days. It had been strongly built to resist the cold, though as a rule the owner did not come up here after the leaves were off the forest trees. A stove in one room could be used to keep it as warm as toast when foot-long lengths of wood were fed to its capacious maw. The fire in the big open hearth served to heat the other room, and over this the cooking was also done. Several bunks gave promise of snug sleeping quarters. As these would accommodate only four it was evident that lots must be cast to see who the lucky quartette would prove to be. "To-morrow," said Paul, when speaking of this lack of accommodations, "one of the very first things we do will be to fix other bunks, because every scout should have a decent place for his bed. There's plenty of room in here to make a regular scout dormitory of it." "Fine!" commented Tom Betts; "and those of us who draw the short straws can manage somehow with our blankets on the floor for one night, I guess." "We've all slept soundly on harder beds than that, let me tell you," asserted Bobolink, "and for one I decline to draw a straw. Me for the soft side of a plank to-night, you hear." The other boys knew that Bobolink, in his generosity, really had in mind Phil and one or two more of the boys, not quite so accustomed to roughing it as others of the campers. That supper, eaten under such novel surroundings, would long be remembered; for while these boys were old hands at camping, up to now they had never spent any time in the open while Jack Frost had his stamp on all nature, and the earth was covered with snow. It was, all things considered, one of the greatest evenings in their lives. CHAPTER XVI THE FIRST NIGHT OUT "Well, it's started in to snow!" Jud Elderkin made this surprising statement after he had gone to the door to take a peep at the weather. "You must be fooling, Jud," expostulated Tom, "because when I looked out not more'n fifteen minutes ago the moon was shining like everything." "All right, that may be, but she's blanketed behind the clouds right now, and the snow's coming down like fun," asserted Jud. "Seems that we didn't get here any too soon, then," chuckled Bluff. "Oh! a little snow wouldn't have bothered us any," laughed Jack. "We'd never think of minding a heavy fall at home, and why should we worry now?" "That's a fact," Bobolink went on to remark, with a look of solid satisfaction on his beaming face. "Plenty of wood under the shed near by, and enough grub to feed an army. We're all right." After several of them had gone to verify Jud's statement, and had brought back positive evidence in the shape of snowballs, the boys again clustered around the jolly fire and continued to talk on various subjects that chanced to interest them. "I wonder now," remarked Bobolink, finally, "if Hank took Mr. Briggs' money as well as set fire to his store." As this was the first mention that had been made concerning this subject Tolly Tip showed considerable interest. "Is it the ould storekeeper in Stanhope ye mane?" he asked. "Because I did me tradin' with the same the short time I was in town, and sorry a bargain did I ever sacure from Misther Briggs." "Plenty of other people are in the same boat with you there, Tolly Tip," Sandy told him with a chuckle. "But his run of good luck has met with a snag. Somebody set fire to his store, which was partly burned down the other night." "Yes, and the worst part of it," added Bobolink, "was that Mr. Briggs accidentally, or on purpose, let his insurance policy lapse, so that he can get no damages on account of this fire." "And the last thing we heard before coming away," Phil Towns went on to say, "was that the safe had been broken open and robbed. Poor old Levi Briggs' cup is full to overflowing I guess. Everything seems to be coming his way in a bunch." "I suspect that this Hank ye're tillin' me about must be a wild harum-scarum broth av a boy thin?" remarked the old woodsman, puffing at his pipe contentedly. "He is the toughest boy in town," said Phil. "And several others train with him who aim to beat his record if they can," Spider Sexton hastened to add as his contribution. "There's absolutely nothing they wouldn't try if they thought they could get some fun or gain out of it," declared Jud emphatically. "Do till!" exclaimed their host, shaking his head dolefully as though he disliked knowing that any boys could sink to such a low level. "Why, only the other day," said Bobolink, "Jack and I saw the gang pick on a couple of tramps who had just come out of Briggs' store. So far as we knew the hoboes hadn't offered to say a word to Hank and his crowd, but the fellows ran them out of town with a shower of stones. Didn't they, Jack?" "Yes. And we saw one tramp get a hard blow on the head from a rock, in the bargain," assented Jack. "Wow! but they were a mad pair, let me tell you," concluded Bobolink. "By the same token," observed Tolly Tip, "till me av one of the tramps had on an ould blue army coat wid rid linin' to the same?" Bobolink uttered an exclamation of surprise. "Just what he did, I give you my word!" he replied hastily. "And was the other chap a long-legged hobo, wid a face that made ye think av the sharp idge av a hatchet?" the old trapper questioned. "I reckon you must have seen the pair yourself, Tolly Tip!" observed Bobolink. "Were you in Stanhope, or did they happen to pass this way?" At that the taker of furs touched his cheek just below his eye with the tip of his finger, and smiled humorously. "'Tis the black eye they were afther giving me early this day, sure it was," he explained. "Not two miles away from here it happened, where the road cuts through the woods like a knife blade. I'd been out to look at a few traps set in that section whin I kim on the spalpeens. We had words, and the shorter chap wid the army coat ran, but the other engaged me. Before he cut stick he managed to lave the imprission av his fists on me face, bad luck to the same." "I guess after all, Jack," remarked Bobolink, "they must be a couple of hard cases, and Hank did the town a service when he chased them off." "It would be the first time on record then that the Lawson crowd was of any benefit to the community," Jack commented; "but accidents will happen, you know. They didn't mean to do a good turn, only have what they call fun." "So the shorter rascal didn't have any fight in him, it seems, Tolly Tip?" Bobolink observed, as though the subject interested him considerably. "Oh! as for that," replied the trapper, "mebbe he do be afther thinkin' discretion was the better part av valor. Ye say, he had one av his hands wrapped up in a rag, and I suspect he must have been hurt." "That's interesting, at any rate!" declared Bobolink. "When we saw him he had the use of both hands. Something must have happened after that. I wonder what." "You're the greatest fellow to _wonder_ I ever knew," laughed Sandy Griggs. "Bobolink likes to grapple with mysteries," said Jud, "and from now on he'll keep bothering his head about that tramp's injured hand, wanting to know whether he cut himself with a broken bottle, or burned his fingers when cooking his coffee in an old tomato can over the campfire." "Let Bobolink alone, boys," said Paul. "If he chooses to amuse himself in that way what's the odds? Who knows but what he may surprise us with a wonderful discovery some day." "Thank you, Paul," the other remarked drily. After that the subject was dropped. It did not offer much of interest to the other scouts, but Paul, glancing towards Bobolink several times, could easily see that he was pondering over something. After all, the snow did not last long. Before they finally went to bed they found that the moon had once more appeared through a rift in the clouds, and not more than two inches of fresh snow had covered the ground. There was considerable skirmishing around done when the boys commenced to make their final preparations for spending the first night in their winter camp. No one would think of taking Tolly Tip's bunk when he generously offered it, and so straws were drawn for the remaining three, as well as the cot upon which Mr. Garrity slept when up at his Deer Head Lodge. The fortunate ones turned out to be Paul, Bluff, Frank and Bobolink, though the last mentioned declared positively that he preferred sleeping on the floor as a novelty, and insisted that Phil Towns occupy his bunk. They managed to make themselves comfortable after a fashion, though the appearance of the "dormitory" excited considerable laughter, with the boys sprawled out in every direction. All of the boys were up early, and they were eager to take up the many plans they had laid out for the day. Breakfast was the first thing on the calendar; and while it was being prepared and dispatched the tongues of that half score of boys ran on like the water over the wheel of the old mill, with a constant clatter. There was no necessity for all of them to remain at home to work on the new bunks, so Paul picked out several to assist him in that work. The others were at liberty to carry out such scout activities as most appealed to their fancy. Some planned to go off with the woodsman to see how he managed with his steel traps, by means of which, during the winter, he expected to lay by quite a good-sized bundle of valuable fur. Then there was wood to chop, pictures to be taken, favorable places to be found for setting the camera during a coming night so as to get a flashlight view of a fox or a mink in the act of stealing the bait, as well as numerous other pleasant duties and diversions, all of which had been eagerly planned for the preceding night as the boys sat before the crackling fire. CHAPTER XVII "TIP-UPS" FOR PICKEREL Tom Betts came up from the frozen creek. "I don't believe that little snow ought to keep us from trying the scheme we laid out between us, Jack," he said, looking entreatingly at the other. "Why, no, there wasn't enough to hurt the skating," replied the other, readily, much to Tom's evident satisfaction. "Bully for you, Jack!" he exclaimed. "There was more or less wind blowing at the time, and the snow was pretty dry, so it blew off the ice. We can easily make the lake in an hour I reckon, with daylight to help us. Besides, we know the way by this time, you see." "All right!" called out Frank, who had been detailed to assist Paul in the making of the extra bunks out of some spare boards that lay near by, having been brought into the woods for some purpose, though never used. "Remember, you two fishermen," warned Paul, "we'll all have our mouths set for pickerel to-night, so don't dare disappoint us, or there will be a riot in the camp." "We've just got to get those fish, Jack," said Tom, with mock solemnity, "even if we have to go in ourselves after them. Our lives wouldn't be worth a pinch of salt in this crowd if they had to go pickerelless to-night." "Oh! that'll do! Be off with you!" roared Jud Elderkin, making out to throw a frying-pan at Tom's head. When at the lake talking to the man who had agreed to look after their iceboats during their absence, the boys had learned that there was fine fishing through the ice to be had at this season of the year. Abe Turner had also informed them that should they care to indulge in the sport at any time, and should skate down to his cabin, he would show them just how it was done. What was more to the point, he had a store of live minnows in a spring-hole that never froze up, even in the hardest winter, he had been told. This then was the object that drew the two scouts, both of them exceedingly fond of fishing in every way. None of the boys had ever fished through the ice, it happened, though they knew how it was done. Accordingly, Tom and Jack set off down the creek, their skate runners sending back that clear ringing sound that is music in the ears of every lad who loves the outdoor sports of winter. Jack carried his gun along. Not that he had any particular intention of hunting, for others had taken that upon themselves as a part of the day's routine, but then a deer might happen to cross their path, and such a chance if it came would be too good to lose. "You see," commented Tom, after a mile or so had been placed to their credit, "the snow isn't going to bother us the least bit. And I never enjoyed skating any better than right now." "Same here," Jack told him. "And we certainly couldn't find ourselves surrounded by a prettier scene, with every twig covered with snow." "Listen!" Both of them stopped when Tom called in this fashion, and strained their ears to catch a repetition of the sound Tom had heard. "Oh! that's only a fox barking," said Jack. "I've heard them do it many a time. You know they belong to the dog family, just as the wolf and jackal and hyena do. Tolly Tip has a couple of fox pelts already, and he says they are very numerous this year. Come on, let's be moving again." So they pursued their winding way down the straggling creek, first turning to the right and then to the left. "It's been just an hour since we left camp," remarked Jack at length, "and there you can catch a glimpse of the lake through the trees yonder." Abe Turner was surprised as well as pleased to find two of the boys at his door that morning. "Didn't expect us back so soon, did you, Abe?" laughed Tom. "But in laying out the plans for to-day we found that some of the boys were fish hungry, so we decided to run down and take you up on your proposition." "Nothing would please me better," Abe told them. "And it is about as good a day for ice fishing as anybody'd want to set eyes on. I'll go right away and get my lines. Then we'll pick up a pail, and put some of my minnows in it." Before long they were out upon the ice of Lake Tokala, Tom carrying an axe, Jack the various lines and "tip-ups" that were to signal when a fish had been hooked, and Abe with the live bait in a tin bucket. The day was not a bitterly cold one, and this promised to make fishing agreeable work. "On the big lakes where they do a heap of this kind of work," explained their guide as they went toward Cedar Island, "the men build little shanties out on the ice, where they can keep fairly warm. You see sometimes the weather is terribly cold. But a day like this makes it a pleasure to be out." Coming to a place where Abe knew from previous experience that a good haul could be made, the first hole was cut in the ice. As winter was still young this did not prove to be a hard task. Abe had marked a dozen places where these holes were to be chopped, but the boys chose to watch him set his first line. After the novelty had worn off they would be ready to take a hand themselves. There are many sorts of "tip-ups" used in this species of sport, but Abe's kind answered all purposes and was very simple, being possibly the original "tip-up." He would take a branch that had a certain kind of fork as thick around as his little finger. In cutting this he left two short "feet" and one long one. To Tom's mind it looked something like an old-fashioned cannon, with the line securely tied to the short projecting muzzle. When the fish took hold this point was pulled down, with the result that the longer "tail" shot up into the air, the outstretched legs preventing the fork from being drawn into the hole. At the end of the long "tail" Abe had fastened a small piece of red flannel. When a dozen lines were out it often kept a man busy running this way and that to attend to the numerous calls as signaled by the upraised red flags. "Now that we know just how it's done," said Tom, after they had seen the bait fastened to the hook and dropped into the lake, "we'll get busy cutting all those other holes. My turn next, Jack, you remember. Watch my smoke." They had hardly finished the second hole before they heard Abe laughing, and glancing toward him discovered that he was holding up a two-pound, struggling pickerel. "First blood for Abe!" cried Tom. "But if they keep on biting it'll be our chance soon, Jack. My stars! but that is a beaut, though. A dozen like that would make the boys stare, I tell you." When Abe had arranged four lines he would not hear of the boys cutting any more holes. "I'll dig out a couple to make an even half dozen," he told them. "And the way the pike are biting to-day I reckon we'll get a good mess." "All right, then," agreed Tom, much relieved, for he wanted to be pulling in the fish rather than doing the drudgery. "I'll look after these two holes, Jack, and you skirmish around the others. And by jinks! if I haven't got one right now!" "The same here," shouted the equally excited Jack. "Whew! how he does pull though! Must be a whopper this time. I hope I don't lose him!" Fortune favored the ice fishermen, for both captives were saved, and they proved to be even larger than the first one taken. So the fun went on. At times it slackened more or less, only to begin again with new momentum. The pile of fish on the ice, rapidly freezing, once they were exposed to the air, increased until at noon they had all they could think of carrying home. "The rest of the day we'll take things easy, and lay in a stock for Abe here," suggested Tom; for the guide had told them he meant to cure as many of the fish as he could secure, since later on in the winter they would be much more difficult to catch, and it would be a long time until April came with its break-up of the ice. The boys certainly enjoyed every minute of their stay at the lake. Jack was wise enough to know that they had better start for camp about three o'clock. It might not be quite so easy going back, as they would be tired, and the wind was against them. They had skated for over half an hour, with their heavy packs on their backs, when again Tom called to his comrade to listen. "And believe me it wasn't a fox that time, Jack!" he declared, "but, as sure as you live, it sounded like somebody calling weakly for help!" CHAPTER XVIII THE HELPING HAND OF A SCOUT When Jack, listening, caught the same sound, he turned upon his companion with a serious expression on his face. "Let's kick off our skates and hang our packs up in the crotch of this tree, Tom," he said. "Then you expect to investigate, and find out what it means, do you?" "We'd feel pretty mean if we went on our way like the Levite in the old story of the Good Samaritan," remarked Jack, busily disengaging his bundle of fish which Abe had done up in a piece of old bagging. "I'm the last one to do such a thing," asserted Tom, "only I chanced to remember that there are some tough boys up here somewhere--Hank and his crowd--and I was wondering if this could be a trick to get us to put our fingers in a trap." Jack chuckled, and held up his gun. "We ought to be able to take care of ourselves with this," he told his chum. "Right you are, Jack! So let's be on the jump. There! that sounded like a big groan, didn't it? Somebody's in a peck of trouble. Maybe a wood-chopper has had a tree fall on him or cut his foot with his axe, and is bleeding badly." "Just what I had in mind," remarked the other, as they started into the shrubbery. The groans continued; therefore, the two scouts had no difficulty in going directly to the spot. In a few minutes Tom clutched his chum's sleeve and pointed directly ahead. "Ginger! it looks like Sim Jeffreys," he whispered. "No other," added Jack. "But what's the matter with the fellow?" continued Tom. "See how he keeps tugging away at his right leg. I bet you he's gone and got it caught in a root, and can't work it free. I've been through just such an experience." "We'll soon find out," remarked Jack, pushing forward. "Be mighty careful, Jack," urged the other, not yet wholly convinced that the groans were really genuine, for he knew how tricky Sim Jeffreys had always been. By this time the other had become aware of their presence. He turned an agonized face toward them, upon which broke a gleam of wild hope. If Sim Jeffreys were playing a part then, Jack thought, he must be a clever actor. "Oh, say! ain't I glad to see you boys," he called, holding both his hands out toward them. "Come, help me get free from this pesky old trap here!" "Trap!" echoed Tom. "Just what do you mean by that, Sim?" "I ain't tryin' to fool you, boys. Sure I ain't!" exclaimed the other, anxiously. "Seems to me like an old bear trap, though I never saw one before. I was out with my gun, lookin' for partridges, when all of a sudden it jumped up and grabbed me right by the leg." Neither of the boys could believe this strange story until they had taken a look. Then they saw that it was just as Sim had declared. The trap was old and very rusty. Jack saw that it had lost much of its former fierce grip, which was lucky for poor Sim, for otherwise he might have had his leg badly injured. Still the jaws retained enough force to hold the boy securely; though had Sim retained his presence of mind, instead of tugging wildly to break away, he might have found it possible to bear down on the weakened springs and set himself free. Tom and Jack quickly did this service for the other, who was profuse in his expressions of gratitude, though neither of the scouts believed in his sincerity, for Sim had a reputation for being slippery and double-faced. "Why, I might have frozen to death here to-night," he told them. "Even if I had lived till to-morrow I'd have starved sure. The bears would have got me too, or the wildcats." "Didn't you call when you first got caught?" asked Tom. "I should say I did, till I could hardly whisper, but nobody seemed to hear me shout," came the reply, as Sim rubbed his swollen and painful leg. "Guess I'll have to limp all the way back to the hole in the rocks where the rest of the boys are campin'." "How far away from here is it?" asked Jack, wondering whether they ought to do anything more for Sim or let him shift for himself. "Oh, a mile and more, due west," the boy told them. "Where that hill starts up, see? We haven't got much grub along with us, b'cause, you see, we depended on shooting heaps of game. But so far I've knocked down only one bird." "Do you think you can make it, Sim?" persisted Jack. The fellow limped around a little before replying. "I reckon I kin. Though I'll be pretty sore to-morrow like as not, after this silly thing grabbin' me the way it did. I know my way home, boys, never fear, and I'll turn up there sooner or later. Much obliged for your help." With that Sim started off as though eager to get his hard work over with. And as there was nothing more to be done, the two chums returned to the creek, shouldered their heavy packs after resuming their skates, and went on their way. It was just about dusk when they made the cabin on the bank of Snake Creek; and as the others discovered their burdens a shout of joy went up. "The country's safe," said Jud, "since you've brought home a stack of fine pickerel. Let's see what they look like, fellows." At sight of the big fish the boys were loud in their congratulations. "Wouldn't mind having a try at that fun myself one of these days," asserted Jud, enviously. "Paul, jot it down that I'm to be your side partner when you take a notion to go down to the lake." "Some of you get busy here fixing the fish, if we mean to have them to-night," remarked Jack, who was too tired to think of doing it himself. "Too late for that this evening. We've got supper all ready for you. The fish will have to keep till to-morrow," announced Bobolink. "What's this I smell in the air?" demanded Tom. "Don't tell me you've bagged a deer already?" "Just what we have!" said Bobolink, his eyes glistening so, that it required little effort to decide who the lucky hunter was. "Why, he wasn't away from camp an hour," asserted Phil Towns, "when we heard him whooping, and in he came with a young buck on his back. I never thought Bobolink was strong enough to tote that load a mile and more." "Huh! I'd have carried in an elephant if it had dropped to my gun, I felt that good!" declared the happy hunter. "But all the adventures haven't fallen to you fellows who stayed here in camp or wandered about in the adjacent woods," announced Tom, mysteriously. "What else have you been doing besides catching that dandy mess of fish?" asked the scout-master, voicing the curiosity of the entire crowd. "Say! did you shoot some game, too--a deer, a wildcat, or maybe a big black bear?" demanded Bobolink, eagerly. "No, the gun was never fired," continued Tom. "But we've got a right to turn our badges over for this day, because we performed a Good Samaritan act." "Go on and tell us about it!" urged Sandy Griggs. "We heard groans, and weak calls for help," said Tom, unable to keep back his news any longer, though he would have liked very much to continue tantalizing the others, "and after we had kicked off our skates and hung our packs in a tree, we went over into the woods and found----" "What?" roared several of the curious scouts in unison. "Who but our fellow townsman, Sim Jeffreys, whining and groaning to beat the band," continued the narrator. "It seems that he had got caught in a trap, and expected to be frozen to death to-night, or starve there to-morrow." "A trap, did ye say?" asked Tolly Tip. And Paul noticed a sudden look of enlightenment come into his face. "Tell us what sort of a trap, Tom?" urged Bobolink. "A regular bear trap!" replied the one addressed. "Oh, come now! you're trying to play some sort of trick on us, fellows," cried Spider Sexton. "How ever would a real bear trap come there?" "Ask Tolly Tip," suggested Paul. "That's right, lads, I know all about that trap," admitted the old woodsman, as he grinned at them. "I had an ole bear trap that had lost its grip and wasn't wuth much. I sot the same in the woods, but nothin' iver kim nigh it, and so I jest forgets all about the same. But bless me sowl I niver dramed it'd be afther grippin' a lad by the leg. All he had to do was to push down on the springs, and he'd been loose." "I could see that plainly enough," admitted Jack. "The trouble was Sim fell into a panic as soon as he found himself caught, and all he could do was to squirm and pull and shout and groan. It shows the foolishness of letting a thing scare you out of your seven senses." "But do you mean to say there are real, live bears around here, Tolly Tip?" demanded Bobolink, his eyes nearly round with excitement. "There's one rogue av a bear that I've tried to git for this two year, but by the same token he's been too smart for the likes av me." "That interests me a whole lot," remarked Paul; "and I mean to devote much of my spare time to trying to shoot that same bear with my camera in order to get a flashlight picture of him in his native haunts!" CHAPTER XIX NEWS OF BIG GAME "Faith and would ye mind tillin' me how that same might be done?" asked Tolly Tip, showing considerable interest. "I niver knowed that ye could shoot a bear with a shmall contraption like that black box." Some of the boys snickered, but Paul frowned on them. "When we speak that way," he went on to explain, "we mean getting an object in the proper focus, and then clicking the trigger of the camera. We are really just taking a picture." "Oh! now I say what ye mane," admitted the woodsman; "but I niver owned a camera in all me life, so I'm what ye'd call grane at it. Sure 'tis a harmless way av shootin' anything I should say." "But it gives a fellow just as much pleasure to get a cracking good picture of a wild animal at home as it does a hunter to kill," Phil Towns hastened to remark. Tolly Tip, however, shook his head in the negative, as though to declare that for the life of him he could not see it that way. "If you can show me a place that the black bear is using," Paul continued, "I'll fix my camera in such a way that when Bruin pulls at a bait attached to a cord he'll ignite the flashlight cartridge, and take his own photograph." At that the woodsman laughed aloud, so novel did the scheme strike him. "I'll do that same and without delay, me lad," he declared. "I've got a notion this very minute that I know where I might find my bear; and after nightfall I'll bait the ground wid some ould combs av wild honey." "Wild honey did you say?" asked Jud, licking his lips in anticipation, for if there was one thing to eat in all the wide world Jud liked better than another it was the sweets from the hive. "Och! 'tis mesilf that has stacks av the same laid away, and I promise ye all ye kin eat while ye stay here," the woodsman told them, at which Jud executed a pigeon-wing to express his satisfaction. "And did you gather it yourself around here, Tolly Tip?" he inquired. "Nawthin' else," acknowledged the old trapper. "Ye say, whin Mister Garrity do be staying down in town it's small work I have to do; and to locate a bee tree is a rale pleasure. Some time I'll till ye how we go about the thrick. Av course there's no use tryin' it afther winter sets in, for the bees stick in the hive." "And bears just dote on honey, do they, the same as Jud here does?" asked Frank. "A bear kin smell honey a mile away," the woodsman declared. "In fact, the very last time I glimpsed the ould varmint we've been spakin' about 'twas at the bee tree I'd chopped down. I wint home to sacure some pails, and whin I got back to the spot there the ould beast was a lickin' up the stuff in big gobs. Sure I could have shot him aisy enough, but I had made up me mind to take him in a trap or not at all, so I lit him go." "So he got his share of the honey, did he?" asked Jud. "Oh! I lift him all I didn't want, and set a trap to nab him, but by me word he was too smart for Tolly Tip." "Then I hope you salt the ground to-night," remarked Paul, "and that I can set my camera to-morrow evening and see what comes of it." It was not long before they were sitting down to the first real game supper of the excursion. Everybody spoke of it as "Bobolink's venison treat," and that individual's boyish heart swelled with pride from time to time until Spider Sexton called out: "Next thing you know we'll have a real tragedy hereabouts." "What do you mean?" demanded Phil Towns. "Why," explained Spider, "Bobolink keeps on swelling out his chest like a pouter pigeon every time somebody happens to mention his deer, and I'm afraid he'll burst with vanity soon." "And when the day's doings are written up," Bluff put in, "be sure and put in that another of our gallant band came within an ace of being terribly bitten by a savage wild beast." "Please explain what it's all about," begged Tom. "You see Jack and I were away pretty much all day. You and Sandy went off with Tolly Tip, didn't you, to see how he managed his traps? Was it then the terrible thing happened?" "It was," said Bluff, with a chuckle. "You see Tolly Tip kept on explaining everything as we went from trap to trap, and both of us learned heaps this morning. Finally, we came to the marsh and there a muskrat trap held a big, ferocious animal by the hind leg." "You see," Sandy broke in, as though anxious to show off his knowledge of the art of trapping, "as a rule the rat is drowned, which saves the skin from being mangled. But this one stayed up on the bank instead of jumping off when caught in the trap. Now go on, Bluff." "Sandy accidentally got a mite too close to the beast," continued the other. "First thing I knew I heard a snarl, and then Sandy jumped back, with the teeth of the muskrat clinging to the elbow of his coat sleeve. An inch further and our chum'd have been badly bitten. It was a mighty narrow escape, let me tell you." "Another thing that would interest you, Paul," Bluff went on to say, "was the beaver house we saw in the pond the animals had made when they built a dam across the creek, a mile above here." "Beavers around this section too!" exclaimed Jud, as though it almost took his breath away. "Only wan little colony," explained Tolly Tip. "I'd give something to get a picture of real, live beavers, at their work," Paul remarked. "Thin ye'll have till come up this way nixt spring time, whin they do be friskin' around like young lambs," the woodsman told him. "Jist now they do be snug in their winter quarters, and ye'll not see a speck av thim. If it's the house ye want to take a picture av, the chance is yours any day ye see fit." After supper was over Jack and Tom took a look at the new bunks. "A bully job, fellows!" declared the latter, "and one that does you credit. Why, every one of us is now fitted with a coffin. And I see we can sleep without danger of rolling out, since you've fixed a slat across the front of each bunk." "Taken as a whole," Frank announced, "I think the scouts have done pretty well for their first day at Camp Garrity. Don't you, fellows? Plenty of fish and venison in the locker, all these bunks built, lots of valuable information picked up, and last but not least, coals of fire poured on the head of the enemy." They sat around again and talked as the evening advanced, for there was an endless list of interesting things to be considered. Later Paul accompanied the old woodsman on his walk to the place where he believed the bear would pass. Here they set out the honey comb that had been carried along, to serve as an attractive bait. "Ye understand," explained Tolly Tip, as they wended their way homeward again in the silvery moonlight that made the scene look like fairyland, "that once the ould rascal finds a trate like that he'll come a sniffin' around ivery night for a week av Sundays, hopin' fortune wull be kind till him ag'in." As the boys were very tired after such a strenuous day, they did not sit up very late. Every lad slept soundly on this, the second night in camp. In fact, most of them knew not a single thing five minutes after they lay down until the odor of coffee brought them to their senses to find that it was broad daylight, and that breakfast was well under way. Paul and Jud left the camp immediately after breakfast intending to go to the place where the honey comb had been left as bait. Tolly Tip, before they went, explained further. "Most times, ye say, bears go into their winter quarters with the first hard cold spell, and hibernate till spring comes. This s'ason it has been so queer I don't know but what the bear is still at large, because I saw his tracks just the day before ye arrived in camp." When the pair came back the others met them with eager questions. "How about it, Paul?" "Any chance of getting that flashlight?" "Did you find the honey gone?" "See any tracks around?" Paul held up his hand. "I'll tell you everything in a jiffy, fellows, if you give me half a chance," he said. "Yes, we found that the honeycomb had been carried off; and there in the snow were some pretty big tracks left by Bruin, the bear!" "Good!" exclaimed Frank Savage, "then he'll be back to-night. It's already settled that you'll coax him to snap off his own picture." CHAPTER XX AT THE BEAVER POND The second day in camp promised to be very nearly as full of action as that lively first one had been. Every scout had half a dozen things he wanted to do; so, acting on the advice of Paul, each made out a list, and thus followed a regular programme. Jud, having learned that there were partridges about, set off with his shotgun to see if he could bag a few of the plump birds. "Don't forget there are ten of us here, Jud!" called Spider Sexton, "and that each one of us can get away with a bird." "Have a heart, can't you?" remonstrated the Nimrod, laughingly. "Cut it down to half all around, and I might try to oblige you. Think of me, staggering along under such a load of game as that. Guess you never hefted a fat partridge, Spider." "I admit that I never _ate_ one, if that suits you, Jud," replied the other, frankly. Paul on his part had told Tolly Tip he would like to accompany him on his round of the traps on that particular morning. "Of course, I've got an object in view when I say that," he explained. "It is to take a look at the beaver house you've been telling me about. I want to take my camera along, and snap off a few views of it. That will be better than nothing when we tell the story." "Count me in on that trip, Paul," said Spider Sexton. "I always did want to see a regular beaver colony, and learn how they make the dam where their houses are built. I hope you don't object to my joining you?" "Not a bit. Only too glad to have you for company, Spider," answered the scout-master. "Only both of us are under Tolly Tip's orders, you understand. He has his rules when visiting the traps, which we mustn't break, as that might ruin his chances of taking more pelts." "How can that be, Paul?" demanded the other. "Oh! you'll understand better as you go along," called out Bluff, who was close by and heard this talk. "Sandy Griggs and I learned a heap yesterday while helping him gather his harvest of skins. And for one, I'll never forget what he explained to me, it was all so interesting." "The main thing is this," Paul went on to say, in order to relieve Spider's intense curiosity to some extent. "You must know all these wild animals are gifted with a marvelous sense of smell, and can readily detect the fact that a human being has been near their haunts." "Why, I never thought about that before, Paul," admitted Spider; "but I can see how it must be so. I've hunted with a good setter, and know what a dog's scent is." "Well, a mink or an otter or a fox is gifted even more than the best dog you ever saw," Paul continued, "and on that account it's always up to the trapper to conceal the fact that a human being has been around, because these animals seem to know by instinct that man is their mortal enemy." "How does he do it then?" asked Spider. "You'll see by watching Tolly Tip," the scout-master told him. "Sometimes trappers set their snares by means of a skiff, so as not to leave a trace of their presence, for water carries no scent. Then again they will wade to and from the place where the trap is set." "But in the winter-time they couldn't do that, could they?" protested Spider. "Of course not, and to overcome that obstacle they sometimes use a scent that overpowers their own, as well as serves to draw the animal to the fatal trap." "Oh! I remember now seeing some such thing advertised in a sporting magazine as worth its weight in gold to all trappers. And the more I hear about this the stronger my desire grows to see into it. Are we going to start soon, Paul?" "There's Tolly Tip almost ready to move along, so get your gun, and I'll look after my camera, Spider." At the time they left Camp Garrity it presented quite a bustling picture. There was Bobolink lustily swinging the axe and cutting some wood close by the shed where a winter's supply of fuel had been piled up. Tom Betts was busying himself cleaning some of the fish taken on the preceding day. Jack was hanging out all the blankets on several lines for an airing, as they still smelled of camphor to a disagreeable extent. Several others were moving to and fro engaged in various duties. As the two scouts trotted along at the heels of the old woodsman they found many things to chat about, for there was no need of keeping silent at this early stage of the hike. Later on when in the vicinity of the trap line it would be necessary to bridle their tongues, or at least to talk in whispers, for the wary little animals would be apt to shun a neighborhood where they heard the sound of human voices. "One reason I wanted to come out this morning," explained Paul, "was that there seems to be a feeling in the air that spells storm to me. If we had a heavy fall of snow the beaver house might be hidden from view." "What's that you say, Paul--a storm, when the sun's shining as bright as ever it could? Have you had a wireless from Washington?" demanded Spider, grinning. "Oh! I seem to _feel_ it in my bones," laughed Paul. "Always did affect me that way, somehow or other. And nine times out of ten my barometer tells me truly. How about that, Tolly Tip? Is this fine weather apt to last much longer?" The guide seemed to be amused at what they were saying. "Sure and I'm tickled to death to hear ye say that same, Paul," he replied. "By the powers I'm blissed wid the same kind av a barometer in me bones. Yis, and the signs do be tilling me that inside of forty-eight hours, mebbe a deal less nor that, we're due for a screecher. It has been savin' up a long while now, and whin she breaks loose--howly smoke, but we'll git it!" "Meaning a big storm, eh, Tolly Tip?" asked Spider, looking a bit incredulous. "Take me worrd for the same, lads," the woodsman told them. "Well, if your prediction comes true," said Spider, "I must try to find out how to know what sort of weather is coming. I often watch the predictions of the Weather Bureau tacked up at the post office, but lots of times it's away off the track. Bobolink was saying only this morning that he expected we'd skip all the bad weather on this trip." At mention of Bobolink's name, the trapper chuckled. "'Tis a quare chap that same Bobolink sames to be," he observed. "He says such amusin' things at times. Only this same mornin' do ye know he asks me whether I could till him if that short tramp's hand had been hurted by a cut or a burrn. Just as if that mattered to us at all, at all." Paul did not say anything, but his eyebrows went up as though a sudden thought had struck him. Whatever was in his mind he kept to himself. When they arrived at the marsh where Tolly Tip had several of his traps set he told his companions what he wanted them to do. Under certain conditions they could approach with him and witness the process of taking out the victim, if fortune had been kind to the trapper. Afterwards they would see how he reset the trap, and then backed away, removing every possible evidence of his presence. Both scouts were deeply interested, though Spider rather pitied the poor rats they took from the cruel jaws of the Newhouse traps, and inwardly decided that after all he would never like to be a gatherer of pelts. Later on Tolly Tip led them to the frozen creek, where they picked up a splendid mink and an otter as well. Shrewd and sly though these little wearers of fur coats were, they had not been able to withstand the temptation of the bait the trapper had placed in their haunts, with the result that they paid the penalty of their greed with their lives. Finally the trio reached the pond where the beaver lived. It was, of course, ice covered, but the conical mound in the middle interested the boys very much. Paul took several pictures of it, with his two companions standing in the foreground, as positive evidence that the scouts had been on the spot. They also examined the strong dam which the cunning animals had constructed across the creek, so as to hold a certain depth of water. When the boys saw the girth of the trees the sharp teeth of the beavers had cut into lengths in order to form the dam, the scouts were amazed. "I'd give a lot to see them at work," declared Paul. "If I get half a chance, Tolly Tip, I'm going to come up here next spring if you'll send me word when they're on the job. It would be well worth the trip on horseback from Stanhope." Upon arriving at the camp toward noon the boys and their guide found everything running smoothly, and a great deal accomplished. Jud had not come back as yet, but several times distant shots had been heard, and the boys were indulging in high hopes of what Jud would bring back. "You musn't forget though," Paul warned these optimists, "that we're not the only pebbles on the beach. There are others in these woods, some of them with guns, and no mean hunters at that." "Meaning the Lawson crowd," remarked Bobolink. "Your statement is quite true, for I've seen Hank do some mighty fine shooting in times past. He likes nothing so much as to wander around day after day in the fall, with a gun in his hands, just as old Rip Van Winkle used to do." "Yes," remarked Jack, drily, "a gun in hand has served as an excuse for a _loaf_ in more ways than getting the family bread." "Hey!" cried Bluff, "there comes Jud right now. And look what he's got, will you?" CHAPTER XXI SETTING THE FLASHLIGHT TRAP "Jud's holding up one measly rabbit, as sure as anything!" exclaimed Bobolink, with a vein of scorn in his voice, as became the lord of the hunt, who on the preceding day had actually brought down a young buck, and thus provided the camp with a feast for supper. "We'd soon starve to death if we had to depend on poor old Jud for our grub!" remarked Tom Betts, with a sad shake of his head. "All that waste of ammunition, and just a lone rabbit to show for it! They say successful hunters must be born, not made!" Sandy Griggs went on to say. Other sarcastic remarks went the rounds, while Jud just stood meekly, seeming to be very much downcast. "Are you all through?" he finally asked, looking up with a grin. "Because before you condemn me entirely as a poor stick of a hunter I want to ask Bobolink here, and Spider Sexton to walk over to that low oak tree you can see back yonder, and fetch in what they find in the fork. I caved on the home stretch and dropped my load there." "Good for you, Jud!" exclaimed Paul. "I suspected something of the kind when I saw the soiled condition of the game pockets in your hunting-coat, and noticed that a partridge feather was sticking to your hair. Skip along, you two, and make amends for joshing Jud so." Of course Bobolink and Spider fairly ran, and soon came back carrying seven plump partridges between them, at sight of which a great cheer arose. Like all fickle crowds, the boys now applauded Jud just as strongly as they had previously sought to poke fun at him. "Oh! I don't deserve much credit, boys," he told them. "These birds just tree after you scare them up, and make easy shots. If they flew off like bullets, as they do in some parts of the country, that would be a bag worth boasting of. But they'll taste mighty fine, all the same, let me tell you!" During the afternoon the scouts found many things to interest them. Tolly Tip, of course, had to take care of the pelts he had secured that day, and his manner of doing this interested some of the boys considerably. He had a great many thin boards of peculiar pattern to which the skins were to be attached after stretching, so that they would dry in this shape. "Most skins ye notice are cut open an' cured that way," the old woodsman explained to his audience, as he worked deftly with his knife; "but some kinds are cased, bein' taken off whole, and turned inside out to dry." "I suppose you lay them near the fire, or out in the sun, to cure," remarked Tom Betts. "I know that's the way the Indians dry the pemmican that they use in the winter for food." "Pelts are niver cured that way," explained the trapper, "because it'd make thim shrink. We kape the stretcher boards wid the skins out in the open air, but in the shade where the sun don't come. Whin they git to a certain stage it's proper to stack the same away in the cabin, kapin' a wary eye on 'em right along to prevint mould." All such things proved of considerable interest to the scouts, most of whom had very little practical knowledge along these lines. They were eager to pick up useful information wherever it could be found, and on that account asked numerous questions, all of which Tolly Tip seemed delighted to answer. So another nightfall found them, with everything moving along nicely. "Guess your old barometer didn't hit it far wrong after all, Paul," remarked Sandy Griggs, about the time supper was nearly ready, and the boys were going in and out of the cabin on different errands. "It has clouded up to be sure," said the scout-master, "and may snow at any time, though I hope it will hold off until to-morrow. I mean to set my camera trap to-night, you remember, with another comb of wild bee honey for a bear lure." "I heard Tolly Tip saying a bit ago," continued Sandy, "that he didn't believe the storm would reach us for twelve hours or more. That would give you plenty of time to get your chance with old Bruin, who loves honey so." "Jud's promised to go out with me and help set the trap," Paul remarked. "You know it's a walk of nearly a mile to the place, and these snowy woods are pretty lonely after the dark sets in." "If Jud backs out because he's tired from his tramp this morning, Paul, call on me, will you?" "Bobolink said the same thing," laughed the scout-master, "so I'm sure not to be left in the lurch. No need of more than one going with me though, and I guess I can count on Jud. It's hard to tire him." "Wow! but those birds do smell good!" exclaimed Sandy, as he sniffed the air. "And that oven of Tolly Tip's, in which he says he often bakes bread, seems to do the work all right. Looks to me like one of the kind you get with a blue flame kerosene stove." "Just what it is," Paul told him. "But it works splendidly on a red coal fire, too. We're going to try some baking-powder biscuits to-morrow, Bobolink says. He's tickled over finding the oven here." The partridges were done to a turn, and never had those hungry boys sat down to a better feast than several of their number had prepared for them that night. The old woodsman complimented Bobolink, who was the chief cook. "I ralely thought I could cook," Tolly Tip said, "but 'tis mesilf as takes a back sate whin such a connysure is around. And biscuits is it ye mane to thry in the mornin'? I'll make it a pint to hang around long enough to take lissons, for I confiss that up till now I niver did have much success with thim things." Again some of the scouts had to warn Bobolink that he was in jeopardy of his life if he allowed his chest to swell up, as it seemed to be doing under such compliments. After that wonderful supper had been disposed of, Paul busied himself with his camera, for he had several things to fix before it would be ready to serve as a trap to catch the picture of Bruin in the act of stealing the honey bait. Jud fondled his shotgun, having thoughtfully replaced the bird shells with a couple of shells containing buckshot that he had brought along in the hope of getting a deer. "No telling what we may run across when trapsing through the woods with a lantern after nightfall," he explained to Phil Towns, who was watching his operation with mild interest, not being a hunter himself. "What would you do if you came face to face with the bear, or perhaps a panther?" asked Phil. "Tolly Tip said he saw one of the big cats last winter." "Well, now, that's hardly a fair question," laughed Jud. "I'm too modest a fellow to go around blowing my own horn; but the chances are I wouldn't _run_. And if both barrels of my gun went off the plagued beast might stand in the way of getting hurt. Figure that out if you can, Phil." After a little while Paul arose to his feet and proceeded to light the lantern they had provided for the outing. "I'm ready if you are, Jud," he remarked, and shortly afterwards the two left the cabin, Tolly Tip once more repeating the plain directions, so that there need be no fear that the boys would get lost in the snowy woods. Paul was too wise a woodsman to be careless, and he took Jud directly to the spot which the bear had visited the preceding night. "Don't see anything of the creature around, do you?" asked Jud, nervously handling his gun as he spoke. "Not a sign as yet," replied Paul. "But the chances are he'll remember the treat he found here last night, and come trotting along before many hours. That's what Tolly Tip told me, and he ought to know." "Strikes me a bear is a pretty simple sort of an animal after all," chuckled Jud. "He must think that honey rains down somehow, and never questions but that he'll find more where the first comb lay. Tell me what to do, Paul, and I'll be only too glad to help you." The camera was presently fixed just where Paul had decided on his previous visit would be the best place. Long experience had taught the lad just how to arrange it so that the animal of which he wished to get a flashlight picture would be compelled to approach along a certain avenue. When it attempted to take the bait the cord would be pulled, and the cartridge exploded, producing the flash required to take the picture. "There!" he said finally, after working for at least fifteen minutes, "everything is arranged to a dot, and we can start back home. If Mr. Bear comes nosing around here to-night, and starts to get that honeycomb, I reckon he'll hand me over something in return in the shape of a photograph." "Here's hoping you'll get the best picture ever, Paul!" said Jud, earnestly, for he had been deeply impressed with the clever manner in which the photographer went about his duties. They had gone almost a third of the way over the back trail when a thrilling sound came to their ears almost directly in the path they were following. Both boys came to a sudden halt, and as Jud started to raise his gun he exclaimed: "Unless I miss my guess, Paul, that was one of the bobcats Tolly Tip told us about." CHAPTER XXII WAYLAID IN THE TIMBER "Stand perfectly still, Jud," cried Paul, hastily, fearful that his impulsive companion might be tempted to do something careless. "But if he starts to jump at us I ought to try to riddle him, Paul, don't you think?" pleaded the other, as he drew both hammers of his gun back. Paul carried a camp hatchet, which he had made use of to fashion the approach to the trap. This he drew back menacingly, while gripping the lantern in his left hand. "Of course, you can, if it comes to a fight, Jud," he answered, "but the cat may not mean to attack us after all. They're most vicious when they have young kits near by, and this isn't the time of year for that." "Huh! Tolly Tip told me there was an unusual lot of these fellows around here this season, and mighty bold at that," Jud remarked, drily, as he searched the vicinity for some sign of a creeping form at which he could fire. "Yes, I suppose the early coming of winter has made them extra hungry," admitted the scout-master; "though there seems to be plenty of game for them to catch in the way of rabbits, partridges and gray squirrels." "Well, do we go on again, Paul, or are you thinking of camping here for the rest of the night?" demanded Jud, impatiently. "Oh! we'll keep moving toward the home camp," Jud was informed. "But watch out every second of the time. That chap may be lying in a crotch of a tree, meaning to drop down on us." A minute later, as they were moving slowly and cautiously along, Jud gave utterance to a low hiss. "I see the rascal, Paul!" he said excitedly. "Wait a bit, Jud," urged the other. "Don't shoot without being dead sure. A wounded bobcat is nothing to be laughed at, and we may get some beauty scratches before we can finish him. Tell me where you've glimpsed the beast." "Look up to where I'm pointing with my gun, Paul, and you can see two yellow balls shining like phosphorus. Those are his eyes and if I aim right between them I'm bound to finish him." Jud had hardly said this when there came a loud hoot, and the sound of winnowing wings reached them. At the same time the glowing, yellow spots suddenly vanished. "Wow! what do you think of that for a fake?" growled Jud in disgust. "It was only an old owl after all, staring down at us. But say, Paul! that screech didn't come from him let me tell you; there's a cat around here somewhere." As if to prove Jud spoke the truth there came just then another vicious snarl. "Holy smoke! Paul, did you hear that?" ejaculated Jud, half turning. "Comes from behind us now, and I really believe there must be a pair of the creatures stalking us on the way home!" "They usually hunt in couples," affirmed Paul, not showing any signs of alarm, though he clutched the hatchet a little more firmly in his right hand, and turned his head quickly from side to side, as though desirous of covering all the territory possible. "Would it pay us to move around in a half circle, and let them keep the old path?" asked Jud, who could stand for one wildcat, but drew the line at a wholesale supply. "I don't believe it would make any difference," returned the scout-master. "If they're bent on giving us trouble any sign of weakness on our part would only encourage them." "What shall we do then?" "Move right along and pay attention to our business," replied Paul. "If we find that we've got to fight, try to make sure of one cat when you fire. The second rascal we may have to tackle with hatchet and clubbed gun. Now walk ahead of me, so the light won't dazzle your eyes when I swing the lantern." The two scouts moved along slowly, always on the alert. Paul kept the light going back and forth constantly, hoping that it might impress the bold bobcats with a sense of caution. Most wild animals are afraid of fire, and as a rule there is no better protection for the pedestrian when passing through the lonely woods than to have a blazing torch in his hand, with lusty lungs to shout occasionally. "Hold on!" exclaimed Jud, after a short time had elapsed. "What do you see now, another owl?" asked Paul, trying to make light of the situation, though truth to tell he felt a bit nervous. "This isn't any old owl, Paul," asserted the boy with the gun. "Besides the glaring eyes, I can see his body on that limb we must pass under. Look yourself and tell me if that isn't his tail twitching back and forth?" "Just what it is, Jud. I've seen our tabby cat do that when crouching to spring on a sparrow. The beast is ready to jump as soon as we come within range. Are you covering him, Jud?" "Dead center. Trust me to damage his hide for him. Shall I shoot?" "Use only one barrel, mind, Jud. You may need the other later on. Now, if you're all ready, let go!" There was a loud bang as Jud pulled the trigger. Mingled with the report was a shrill scream of agony. Then something came flying through the air from an entirely different quarter. "Look out! The second cat!" yelled Paul, striking savagely with his hatchet, which struck against a flying body, and hurled it backward in a heap. The furious wildcat instantly recovered, and again assailed the two boys standing on the defensive. Jud had clubbed his gun, for at such close quarters he did not think he could shoot with any degree of accuracy. Indeed, for some little time that beast kept both of them on the alert, and more than once sharp claws came in contact with the tough khaki garments worn by the scouts. After a third furious onslaught which ended in the cat's being knocked over by a lucky stroke from Jud's gunstock, the animal seemed to conclude that the combat was too unequal. That last blow must have partly tamed its fiery spirit, for it jumped back out of sight, though they could still hear its savage snarling from some point near by. Both lads were panting for breath. At the same time they felt flushed with victory. It was not every scout who could meet with such an adventure as this when in the snowy forest, and come out of it with credit. "If he only lets me get a glimpse of his old hide," ventured Jud, grimly, "I'll riddle it for him, let me tell you! But say! I hope you don't mean to evacuate this gory battle-ground without taking a look to see whether I dropped that other beast or not?" "Of course not, Jud! I'm a little curious myself to see whether your aim was as good as you believe. Let's move over that way, always keeping ready to repel boarders, remember. That second cat may get his wind, and come for us again." "I hope he will, that's what!" said Jud, whose fighting blood was now up. "I dare him to tackle us again. Nothing would please me better, Paul." A dozen paces took them to the vicinity of the tree in which Jud had sighted the crouching beast at which he had fired. "Got him, all right, Paul!" he hastened to call out, with a vein of triumph in his excited voice. "He fell in a heap, and considering that there were twelve buckshot in that shell, and every one hit him, it isn't to be wondered at." "A pretty big bobcat in the bargain, Jud, and well worth boasting over. Look at his long claws, and the sharp teeth back of those short lips. An ugly customer let me tell you. I'm glad we didn't have him on our shoulders, that's all." "I'm bound to drag the creature all the way to the cabin, to show the boys," announced the successful marksman. "Now don't say anything against it, Paul. You see I'll hold my gun under my arm ready, and at the first sign of trouble I'll let go of the game and be ready to shoot." "That's all right, Jud, you're entitled to your trophy, though the skin is pretty well riddled with that big hole through it. Still, Tolly Tip may be able to cure it so as to make a mat for your den at home. Let's be moving." They could still hear that low and ominous growling and snarling. Sometimes it came from one side, and then again switched around to the other, as the angry cat tried to find an avenue that would appear to be undefended. Every step of the way home they felt they were being watched by a pair of fiery eyes. Not for a second did either of the boys dream of abating their vigilance, for the sagacity of the wildcat would enable him to know when to make the attack. Indeed, several times Jud dropped his trailing burden and half raised his gun, as he imagined he detected a suspicious movement somewhere close by. They proved to be false alarms, however, and nothing occurred on the way home to disturb them. When not far from the cabin they heard loud voices, and caught the flicker of several blazing torches amidst the trees. "It's Tolly Tip and the boys," announced Paul, as soon as he caught the sounds and saw the moving lights. "They must have heard the gunshot and our shouts, and are coming this way to find out what's the trouble." A few minutes later they saw half a dozen hurrying figures approaching, several carrying guns. As the anxious ones discovered Paul and Jud they sent out a series of whoops which the returning scouts answered. And when those who had come from the cabin saw the dead bobcat, as well as listened to the story of the attack, they were loud in their praises of the valor of the adventurous pair. CHAPTER XXIII THE BLIZZARD "Whew! but it's bitter cold this morning!" shouted Sandy Griggs, as he opened the cabin door and thrust his head out. "Looks like a few flakes of snow shooting past, in the bargain," added Bobolink. "That means that the long expected storm is upon us." Paul turned to Jack at hearing this, for both of them were hurriedly dressing after crawling out of their comfortable bunks. "A little snow isn't going to make us hedge on that arrangement we made the last thing before turning in, I hope, Jack?" he asked, smilingly. "I should say not!" came the prompt reply. "Besides, if it's going to put a foot or two of the feathery on the ground, it strikes me you've just got to get that expensive camera of yours again. I'm with you, Paul, right after breakfast." Tolly Tip was also in somewhat of a hurry, wishing to make the round of his line of traps before the storm fully set in. So it came about that Paul and his closest chum, after a cup of hot coffee and a meagre breakfast, hurried away from the cabin. "We can get another batch when we come back, if they save any for us, you know," the scout-master remarked, as they opened the door and passed out. "Kape your bearin's, lads," called the old woodsman. "If so be the storm comes along with a boom it'll puzzle ye to be sure av yer way. And by the same token, to be adrift in thim woods with a howler blowin' for thray days isn't any fun." When the scouts once got started they found that the air was particularly keen. Both of them were glad they had taken the precaution to cover up their ears, and wear their warmest mittens. "Something seems to tell me we're in for a regular blizzard this time," Jack remarked as they trudged manfully along, at times bowing their heads to the bitter wind that seemed to cut like a knife. "I wouldn't be a bit surprised if that turned out to be true," Paul contented himself with saying. They did not exchange many words while breasting the gale, for it was the part of wisdom to keep their mouths closed as much as possible. Paul had taken note of the way to the spot where the camera trap had been set in the hope of catching Bruin in the act of taking the sweet bait. A number of times he turned around and looked back. This was because he had accustomed himself to viewing his surroundings at various angles, which is a wise thing for a scout to do. Then when he tries to retrace his steps he will not find himself looking at a reverse picture that seems unfamiliar in his eyes. In the course of time the boys arrived at their destination. "Don't see anything upset around here," observed Paul, with a shade of growing disappointment in his voice; and then almost instantly adding in excitement: "But the bait's gone, all right--and yes! the cartridge has been fired. Good enough!" "Here you can see faint signs of the tracks of the bear under this new coating of snow!" declared Jack, pointing down at his feet. Paul, knowing that he would not go for his camera until after broad daylight, had managed to so arrange it, with a clever attachment of his own construction, that an exposure was made just at the second the cord firing the flashlight was drawn taut. It was a time exposure--the shutter remaining open for a score of seconds before automatically closing again. This was arranged so that pictures could be taken on moonlight nights as well as dark ones. He had tried it on several previous occasions, and with very good results. Brushing the accumulated snow from his camera, he quickly had the precious article in his possession. "Nothing else to keep us here, is there, Paul?" asked Jud. "No, and the sooner we strike a warm gait for the cabin the better," said the scout-master. "You notice, if anything, that wind is getting sharper right along, and the snow strikes you on the cheek like shot pellets, stinging furiously. So far as I'm concerned we can't make the camp any too soon." Nevertheless, it might have been noticed that Paul did not hurry, in the sense that he forgot to keep his wits about him. The warning given by Tolly Tip was still fresh in his ears, and even without it Paul would hardly have allowed himself to become indiscreet or careless. Jack, too, saw that they were following the exact line they had taken in coming out. As a scout he knew that the other did not get his bearings from any marks on the ground, such as might easily be obliterated by falling snow. Trees formed the basis of Paul's calculations. He particularly noticed every peculiarly shaped tree or growth upon the right side while going out, which would bring them on his left in returning. In this fashion the scout-master virtually blazed a path as he went; for those trees gave him his points just as well as though they represented so many gashes made with a hatchet. "I'm fairly wild to develop this film, and see whether the bear paid for his treat with a good picture," Paul ventured to say when they were about half way to the camp. "Do you know what I was thinking about just then?" asked Jack. "Something that had to do with other fellows, I'll be bound," replied the scout-master. "You were looking mighty serious, and I'd wager a cookey that you just remembered there were other fellows up here to be caught in the blizzard besides our crowd." Jack laughed at hearing this. "You certainly seem to be a wizard, Paul, to guess what was in my mind," he told his chum. "But it's just as you say. Sim Jeffreys told us the other day that they had come up with only a small amount of food along. If they've stayed around up to now they're apt to find themselves in a pretty bad pickle." "That's a fact, Jack, if this storm keeps on for several days, and the snow happens to block all the paths out of the woods. Let's hope they gave it up, and went back home again. We haven't seen a thing of them since then, you remember." Jack shook his head. "You know how pig-headed Hank Lawson always is," he told his chum. "Once he gets started in a thing, he hates everlastingly to give up. He came here to bother us, I feel sure, and a little thing like a shortage of provisions wouldn't force him to call the game off." "Then it's your opinion, is it, Jack, they're still in that hole among the rocks Sim spoke of?" "Chances are three to one it's that way," quickly replied Jack. "They have guns, and could get some game that way, for they know how to hunt. Then if it came to the worst perhaps Hank would try to sneak around our cabin, hoping to find a chance to steal some of our supplies." A short time later they sighted the cabin through the now thickly falling snow, and both boys felt very glad to be able to get under shelter. Tolly Tip did not return until some hours had passed. By that time the snow carried by a furious wind that howled madly around the corners, was sweeping past the windows of the cabin like a cloud of dust. Everybody was glad when the old woodsman arrived. He flung several prizes down on the floor, not having taken the time to detach the pelts. "'Tis a screecher av a blizzard we're after havin' drop in on us, by the same token," he said, with quivering lips, as he stretched out his hands toward the cheerful blaze of the fire. Being very eager to ascertain what measure of success had fallen to him with regard to the bear episode, Paul proceeded to develop the film. When he rejoined the other boys in the front room some time later he was holding up the developed film, still dripping with water. "The best flashlight I ever got, let me tell you!" Paul exclaimed. At this there was a cheer and a rush to see the film. There was the bear, looking very much astonished at the sudden brilliant illumination which must have seemed like a flash of lightning to him. All day long the storm howled, the snow drifted and scurried around the cabin. Whenever the boys went for wood they had to be very careful lest they lose their way even in such a short distance, for it was impossible to see five feet ahead. When they went to bed that night the same conditions held good, and every one felt that they were in the grip of the greatest blizzard known for ten years. CHAPTER XXIV THE DUTY OF THE SCOUT When two days had passed and the storm still raged, the scouts began to feel more anxious than ever. The snow continued to sweep past the cabin in blinding sheets. It was difficult to know whether all this came from above, or if some was snatched up from the ground and whirled about afresh. In some places enormous drifts abounded, while other more exposed spots had been actually swept bare by the wind. The scouts had not suffered in the least, save mentally. The cabin proved to be fairly warm, thanks to the great fire they kept going day and night; and they certainly had no reason to fear for any lack of provisions with which to satisfy their ever present appetites. Still, from time to time, murmurs could be heard. "One thing sure!" Sandy Griggs was saying toward noon on this third day of the blizzard, "this storm is going to upset a whole lot of our plans." "Knock 'em into a jiffy!" added Bluff. "We'll never be able to skate down the creek to the lake, if it's covered with two feet of snow," Sandy growled. "Oh! for all we know," laughed Paul, "this wind has been a good friend to us, and may keep the smooth ice clear of snow. We'd better not cry until we know the milk has really been spilled." "But any way," Bluff continued, bound to find some cause for the gloomy feelings that clung like a wet blanket, "we'll never be able to run our iceboats back home. Chances are we'll have to drag them most of the way." "All right, then," Paul told him, "we'll make the best of a bad bargain. If you only look hard enough, Bluff and Sandy, you'll find the silver lining to every cloud. And no matter how the storm upsets some of our plans we ought to be thankful we've got such a snug shelter, and plenty of good things to eat--thanks to Mr. Garrity." "Yes, that's what I just had in mind, Paul," spoke up Bobolink. "Now, you all needn't begin to grin at me when I say that. I was thinking more about the fellows who may be shivering and hungry, than of our own well-fed crowd." "Oh! The Lawsons!" exclaimed Bluff. "That's a fact. While we're having such a royal time of it here they may be up against it good and hard." Perhaps all of the boys had from time to time allowed their thoughts to stray away, and mental pictures of the Lawson crowd suffering from hunger and cold intruded upon their minds. They forgot whatever they chanced to be doing at that moment, and came around Paul. "In one way it would serve them right if they did get a little rough experience," observed Spider Sexton, who perhaps had suffered more at the hands of the Stanhope bully and his set than any of the other scouts. "Oh, that sort of remark hardly becomes you, Spider," Paul reminded him. "If you remember some of the rules and regulations to which you subscribed when joining the organization you'll find that scouts have no business to feel bitter toward any one, especially when the fellows they look on as enemies may be suffering." "Excuse me, Paul, I guess I spoke without thinking," said Spider, with due humility. "And to prove it I'm going to suggest that we figure out some way we might be of help to Hank and his lot." "That's more like it, Spider!" the scout-master exclaimed, as though pleased. "None of us fancy those fellows, because so far we've failed to make any impression on them. Several times we've tried to make an advance, but they jeered at us, and seemed to think it was only fear on our part that made us try to throw a bridge across the chasm separating us. It's going to be different if, as we half believe, they're in serious trouble." "But Paul, what could we do to help them?" demanded Bluff. "With this storm raging to beat the band," added Tom Betts, "it would be as much as our lives were worth to venture out. Why, you can't see ten feet away; and we'd be going around in a circle until the cold got us in the end." "Hold on, fellows, don't jump at conclusions so fast," Paul warned them. "I'd be the last one to advise going out into the woods with the storm keeping up. But Tolly Tip told me the snow stopped hours ago. What we see whirling around is only swept by the wind, for it's as dry as powder you know. And even the wind seems to be dying down now, and is blowing in spasms." "Paul, you're right, as you nearly always are," Jack affirmed, after he had pressed his nose against the cold glass of the little window. "And say! will you believe me when I say that I can see a small patch of blue sky up yonder--big enough to make a Dutchmen's pair of breeches?" "Hurrah! that settles the old blizzard then!" cried Sandy Griggs. "You all remember, don't you, the old saying, 'between eleven and two it'll tell you what it's going to do?' I've seen it work out lots of times." "Yes," retorted Jud, "and fail as often in the bargain. That's one of the exploded signs. When they come out right you believe in 'em, and when they miss, why you just forget all about it, and go on hoping. But in this case I reckon the old storm must have blown itself about out, and we can look for a week of cold, clear weather now." "We'll wait until after lunch," said Paul, in his decided fashion that the boys knew so well; "then, if things brighten up, we'll see what we can do. Those fellows must be suffering, more or less, and it's our duty to help them, no matter whether they bother to thank us or not." "Scouts don't want thanks when they do their duty," said Phil Towns, grandly. "But I suppose you'll hardly pick me out as one of the rescue party, Paul?" "I'd rather have the hardiest fellows along with me, Phil," replied the scout-master, kindly; "though I'm glad to know you feel willing to serve. It counts just as much to _want_ to go, as to be allowed to be one of the number." Bobolink especially showed great delight over the possibility of their setting out to relieve the enemy in distress. A dozen times he went to the door and passed out, under the plea that they might as well have plenty of wood in the cabin; but on every occasion upon his return he would report the progress of the clearing skies. "Have the sun shining right away now, boys," he finally announced, with a beaming face. "And the wind's letting up, more or less. Times are when you can see as far as a hundred feet. And say! it's a wonderful sight let me tell you." Noon came and they sat down to the lunch that had been prepared for them, this time by Frank and Spider, Bobolink having begged off. The sun was shining in a dazzling way upon the white-coated ground. It looked like fairyland the boys declared, though but little of the snow had remained on the oaks, beeches and other forest trees, owing to the furious and persistent wind. The hemlocks, however, were bending low with the weight that pressed upon their branches. Some of the smaller ones looked like snow pyramids, and it was plain to be seen that during the remainder of the winter most of this snow was bound to hang on. "If we only had a few pairs of snow-shoes like Tolly Tip's here," suggested Bobolink, enthusiastically, "we might skim along over ten-foot drifts, and never bother about things." "Yes," Jud told him, a bit sarcastically, "if we knew just how to manage the bally things, we might. But it isn't so easy as you think. Most of us would soon be taking headers, and finding ourselves upside down. It's a trick that has to be learned; and some fellows never can get the hang, I've been told." "Well, there's no need of our talking about it," interposed Paul, "because there's only one pair of snow-shoes in the cabin, and all of us can't wear those. But Tolly Tip says we're apt to find avenues swept in the snow by the wind, where we can walk for the most part on clear ground, with but few drifts to wade through." "It may make a longer journey av the same," the old woodsman explained; "but if luck favors us we'll git there in due time, I belave, if so be ye settle on goin'." Nothing could hold the scouts back, it seemed. This idea of setting forth to succor an enemy in distress had taken a firm hold upon their imaginations. Besides, those days when they were shut up in the storm-besieged cabin had been fearfully long to their active spirits, and on this account, too, they welcomed the chance to do something. There could no longer be any doubt that the storm had blown itself out, for the sky was rapidly clearing. The air remained bitter cold, and Paul advised those whom he selected to accompany him to wrap themselves up with additional care, for he did not wish to have them take the chance of frosting their toes and their noses. Those who were fortunate enough to be drafted for the trip were Jack, Jud, Bobolink and Tom Betts. Some of the others felt slighted, but tried to be as cheerful over their disappointment as possible. Of course, Tolly Tip was to accompany them, for he would not have allowed the boys to set out without his guidance, under such changed and really hazardous conditions. A trained woodsman would be necessary in order to insure the boys against possible disaster in the storm-bound forest. Well bundled up, and bearing packs on their backs consisting in the main of provisions, the six started off, followed by the cheers and good wishes of their comrades, and were soon lost to view amidst the white aisles of the forest. CHAPTER XXV AMONG THE SNOWDRIFTS "This is hard work after all, let me own up!" announced Jud Elderkin, after they had been pushing on for nearly half an hour. "To tell you the truth," admitted Tom Betts, "we've turned this way and that so often now I don't know whether we're heading straight." "Trust Tolly Tip for that," urged Paul. "And besides, if you'd taken your bearings as you should have done when starting, you could tell from the position of the sun that right now we're going straight toward that far-off hill." "Good for ye, Paul!" commented the guide, who was deeply interested in finding out just how much woods lore these scouts had picked up during their many camp experiences. "Well, here's where we're up against it good and hard," observed Bobolink. The clear space they had been following came to an abrupt end, and before them lay a great drift of snow, at least five or six feet deep. "Do we try to flounder through this, or turn around and try another way?" asked Jud, looking as though, if the decision rested with him, he would only too gladly attack the heap of snow. Before deciding, Tolly Tip climbed into the fork of a tree. From this point of vantage he was able to see beyond the drift. He dropped down presently with a grin on his face. "It's clear ag'in beyant the hape av snow; so we'd better try to butt through the same," he told them. "Let me go first, and start a path. Whin I play out one av the rist av ye may take the lead. Come along, boys." The relief party plunged into the great drift with merry shouts, being filled with the enthusiasm of abounding youth. The big woodsman kept on until even he began to tire of the work; or else guessed that Jud was eager to take his place. In time they had passed beyond the obstacle, and again found themselves traversing a windswept avenue that led in the general direction they wished to go. A short time afterwards Jud uttered a shout. "Hold on a minute, fellows!" he called out. "What ails you now, Jud--got a cramp in your leg, or do you think it's time we stopped for a bite of lunch?" demanded Bobolink. "Here's the plain track of a deer," answered Jud, pointing down as he spoke. "And it was made only a short time ago you can see, because while the wind blows the snow some every little while, it hasn't filled the track." "That's good scout logic, Jud," affirmed Paul; and even the old woodsman nodded his head as though he liked to hear the boy think things out so cleverly. "Here it turns into this blind path," continued Jud, "which I'd like to wager ends before long in a big drift. Like as not if we chose to follow, we'd find Mr. Stag wallowing in the deepest kind of snow, and making an easy mark." "Well, we can't turn aside just now, to hunt a poor deer that is having a hard enough time of it keeping life in his body," said Tom Betts, aggressively. "No, we'll let the poor beast have his chance to get away," said the scout-master. "We've started out on a definite errand, and mustn't allow ourselves to be drawn aside. So put your best foot forward again, Jud." Jud looked a little loth to give up the chance to get the deer, a thing he had really set his mind on. However, there would still be plenty of time to accomplish this, and equal Bobolink's feat, whereby the other had been able to procure fresh venison for the camp. "How far along do you think we are, Tolly Tip?" asked Tom Betts, after more time had passed, and they began to feel the result of their struggle. "More'n half way there, I'd be sayin'," the other replied. "Though it do same as if the drifts might be gittin' heavier the closer we draw to the hill. Av ye fale tired mebbe we'd better rist up a bit." "What, me tired!" exclaimed Tom, disdainfully, at the same time putting new life in his movements. "Why, I've hardly begun to get started so far. Huh! I'm good for all day at this sort of work, I'm so fond of ploughing through the snow." The forest seemed very solemn and silent. Doubtless nearly all of the little woods folk found themselves buried under the heavy fall of snow, and it would take time for them to tunnel out. "Listen to the crows cawing as they fly overhead," said Jud, presently. "They're gathering in a big flock over there somewhere," remarked Paul. "They're having what they call a crow caucus," explained Jack. "They do say that the birds carry on in the queerest way, just as if they were holding court to try one of their number that had done something criminal." "More likely they're getting together to figure it out where they can find the next meal," suggested Bobolink, sensibly. "This snow must have covered up pretty nearly everything. But at the worst they can emigrate to the South--can get to Virginia, where the climate isn't so severe." As they pushed their way onward the boys indulged in other discussions along such lines as this. They were wideawake, and observed every little thing that occurred around them, and as these often pertained to the science of woodcraft which they delighted to study, they found many opportunities to give forth their opinions. "We ought to be getting pretty near that old hill, seems to me," observed Tom, when another hour had dragged by. Then he quickly added: "Not that I care much, you know, only the sooner we see if Hank and his cronies are in want the better it'll be." "There it is right now, dead ahead of us!" exclaimed Jud, who had a pair of wonderfully keen eyes. Through an opening among the trees they could all see the hill beyond, although it was so covered with snow that its outlines seemed shadowy, and it was little wonder none of them had noticed it before. "Not more'n a quarter of a mile off, I should say," declared Tom Betts, unable to hide fully the sense of pleasure the discovery gave him. "But all the same we'll have a pretty tough time making it," remarked Jud. "It strikes me the snow is deeper right here than in any place yet, and the paths fewer in number." "How is that, Tolly Tip?" asked Bobolink. "Ye say, the hill shunted off some av the wind," explained the other without any hesitation; "and so the snow could drop to the ground without bein' blown about so wild like. 'Tis a fine blanket lies ahead av us, and we'll have to do some harrd wadin' to make our way through the same." "Hit her up!" cried Tom, valiantly. "Who cares for such a little thing as snow piles?" They floundered along as best they could. It turned out to be anything but child's play, and tested their muscular abilities from time to time. In vain they looked about them as they drew near the hill; there was not a single trace of any one moving around. Some of the scouts began to feel very queerly as they stared furtively at the snow covered elevation. It reminded them of a white tomb, for somewhere underneath it they feared the four boys from Stanhope might be buried, too weak to dig their way out. Tolly Tip led them on with unerring fidelity. "How does it come, Tolly Tip," asked the curious Jud as they toiled onward, "that you remember this hole in the rocks so well?" "That's an aisy question to answer," replied the other, with one of his smiles. "Sure 'twas some years ago that I do be having a nate little ruction with the only bear I iver kilt in this section. He was a rouser in the bargain, I'd be after tillin' ye. I had crawled into the rift in the rocks to say where it lid whin I found mesilf up aginst it." "Oh! in that case I can see that you would be apt to remember the hole in the rocks always," commented Jud. "A fellow is apt to see that kind of thing many a time in his dreams. So those fellows happened on the old bear den, did they?" "We're clost up to the same now, I'm plazed to till ye," announced the guide. "If ye cast an eye beyont ye'll mebbe notice that spur av rock that stands out like a ploughshare. Jist behind the same we'll strike the crack in the rocks, and like as not find it filled to the brim wid the snow." When the five scouts and their guide stood alongside the spur of rock, looking down into the cavity now hidden by ten feet of snow, they were somehow forced to turn uneasy faces toward one another. It was deathly still there, and not a sign could they see to indicate that under the shroud of snow the four Stanhope boys might be imprisoned, almost dead with cold and hunger. CHAPTER XXVI DUG OUT The boys realized that they had heavy work before them if they hoped to dig a way down through that mass of snow and reach the cleft in the rocks. "Just mark out where we have to get busy, Tolly Tip," called out Bobolink, after they had put aside their packs, and primed themselves for work, "and see how we can dig." "I speak for first turn with the snow shovel!" cried Jud. "It'll bring a new set of muscles into play, for one thing, and that means relief. I own up that my legs feel pretty well tuckered out." The woodsman, however, chose to begin the work himself. After taking his bearings carefully, he began to dig the snow shovel deep down, and cast the loosely packed stuff aside. In order to reach the cleft in the rocks they would have to cut a tunnel through possibly twenty feet or more of snow. So impatient was Jud to take a hand that he soon begged the guide to let him have a turn at the work. Tolly Tip prowled around, and some of the boys wondered what he could be doing until he came back presently with great news. "'Tis smoke I do be after smellin' beyant there!" he told them. "Smoke!" exclaimed Bobolink, staring up the side of the white hill. "How can that be when there isn't the first sign of a fire?" "You don't catch on to the idea, Bobolink," explained Paul. "He means that those in the cave must have some sort of fire going, and the smoke finds its way out through some small crevices that lie under a thin blanket of snow. Am I right there, Tolly Tip?" "Ye sure hit the nail on the head, Paul," he was told by the guide. "Well, that's good news," admitted Bobolink, with a look of relief on his face. "If they've got enough wood to keep even a small fire going, they won't be found frozen to death anyhow." "And," continued Jud, who had given the shovel over to Jack, "it takes some days to really starve a fellow, I understand. You see I've been reading lately about the adventures of the Dr. Kane exploring company up in the frozen Arctic regions. When it got to the worst they staved off starvation by making soup of their boots." "But you mustn't forget," interposed Bobolink, "that their boots were made of skins, and not of the tough leather we use these days. I'd like to see Hank Lawson gnawing on one of _his_ old hide shoes, that's what! It couldn't be done, any way you fix it." The hole grew by degrees, but very slowly. It seemed as though tons and tons of snow must have been swept over the crest of the hill, to settle down in every cavity it could find. "We're getting there, all right!" declared Bobolink, after he had taken his turn, and in turn handed over the shovel to Paul. "Oh! the Fourth of July is coming too, never fear!" jeered Jud, who was in a grumbling mood. "Why, Tolly Tip here says we've made good progress already," Tom Betts declared, merely to combat the spirit manifested by Jud, "and that we'll soon be half-way through the pile. If it were three times as big we'd get there in the end, because this is a never-say-die bunch of scouts, you bet!" "Oh! I was only fooling," chuckled Jud, feeling ashamed of his grumbling. "Of course, we'll manage it, by hook or by crook. Show me the time the Banner Boy Scouts ever failed, will you, when they'd set their minds on doing anything worth while? We're bound to get there." The work went on. By turns the members of the relief party applied themselves to the task of cutting a way through the snow heap, and when each had come up for the third time it became apparent that they were near the end of their labor, for signs of the rock began to appear. Inspired by this fact they took on additional energy, and the way the snow flew under the vigorous attack of Jud was pretty good evidence that he still believed in their ultimate success. "Now watch my smoke!" remarked Tom Betts, as he took the shovel in his turn and proceeded to show them what he could do. "I've made up my mind to keep everlastingly at it till I strike solid rock. And I'll do it, or burst the boiler." He had hardly spoken when they heard the plunging metal shovel strike something that gave out a positive "chink," and somehow that sound seemed to spell success. "Guess you've gone and done it, Tom!" declared Jud, with something like a touch of chagrin in his voice, for Jud had been hoping he would be the lucky one to show the first results. There was no slackening of their ardor, and the boys continued to shovel the snow out of the hole at a prodigious rate until every one could easily see the crevice in the rocks. "Listen!" exclaimed Jud just then. "Oh! what do you think you heard?" asked Bobolink. "I don't know whether it was the shovel scraping over the rock or a human groan," Jud continued, looking unusually serious. They all listened, but could hear nothing except the cold wind sighing through some of the trees not far away. "Let me finish the work for you, Tom," suggested Paul, seeing that Tom Betts was pretty well exhausted from his labors. "I guess I will, Paul, because I'm nearly tuckered out," admitted the persistent worker, as he handed the implement over, and pushed back, though still remaining in the hole. Paul was not very long in clearing away the last of the snow that clogged the entrance to the old bears' den. They could then mark the line of the gaping hole that cleft the rock, and which served as an antechamber to the cavity that lay beyond. "That does it, Paul," said Jack, softly; though just why he spoke half under his breath he could not have explained if he had been asked, except that, somehow, it seemed as though they were very close to some sort of tragedy. The shovel was put aside. It had done its part of the work, and could rest. And everybody prepared to follow Paul as he pushed after the guide into the crevice leading to the cave. The smell of wood smoke was now very strong, and all of them could catch it. So long as the entrapped boys had a fire there was no fear that they would perish from the cold. Moreover, down under the rocks and the snow the atmosphere could hardly be anything as severe as in the open. Indeed Paul had been in many caves where the temperature remained about the same day in and day out, through the whole year. Coming from the bewildering and dazzling snow fields it was little wonder that none of them could see plainly at the moment they started into the bears' den. By degrees, as their eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness that held sway below, they would be able to distinguish objects, and make discoveries. Stronger grew the pungent odor of smoke. It was not unpleasant at all, and to some of the scouts most welcome, bearing as it did a message of hope, and the assurance that things had not yet come to the last stretch. Half turning as he groped his way onward, the guide pointed to something ahead--at least Paul who came next in line fancied that Tolly Tip was trying to draw his attention to that quarter. In turn he performed the same office for the next boy, and thus the intelligence was passed along the line, from hand to hand. They could, by straining their eyes, discover some half huddled figures just beyond. A faint light showed where the dying fire lay; and even as they looked one of the partly seen figures was seen to stir, and after this they noticed that a little flame had started up. Paul believed that the very last stick of wood was on the fire and nearing the end. Bobolink could not help giving a low cry of commiseration. The sound must have been heard by those who were huddled around the miserable fire, for they scrambled to their knees. As the tiny blaze sprang up just then, it showed the scouts the four Stanhope boys looking pinched and wan, with their eyes staring the wonder they must have felt at sight of the newcomers. Hank was seen to jab his knuckles into his eyes as though unable fully to believe what he beheld. Then he held out both hands beseechingly toward the newcomers. They would never be able to forget the genuine pain contained in his voice as he half groaned: "Oh! have you come to save us? Give us somethin' to eat, won't you? We're starvin', starvin', I tell you!" CHAPTER XXVII "FIRST AID" Possibly the case was not quite as bad as Hank declared, but for all that those four lads were certainly in a bad way. Paul took charge of affairs at once, as became the acting scout-master of the troop. "It's a good thing we thought to pick up some wood as we came along," he remarked. "Fetch it in, boys, and get this fire going the first thing. Then we'll make a pot of coffee to begin with." "Coffee!" echoed the four late prisoners of the cave. "Oh, my stars! why! we went and forgot to bring any along with us. Coffee! that sounds good to us!" "That's only a beginning," said Bobolink, as he came back with his arms filled with sticks, which he began to lay upon the almost dead fire. "We've got ham and biscuits, Boston baked beans, potatoes, corn, grits, and lots of other things. Just give us a little time to do some cooking, and you'll get all you can cram down." Paul knew the hungry boys would suffer all sorts of tortures while waiting for the meal to be cooked. On this account he saw that they were given some crackers and cheese, to take the keen edge of their voracious appetites off. It was a strange spectacle in that hole amidst the rocks, with the fire leaping up, Bobolink bending over it doing the cooking with his customary vim, the rest of the scouts gathered around, and those four wretched fellows munching away for dear life, as they sniffed the coffee beginning to scent the air with its fragrance. As soon as this was ready Paul poured out some, added condensed milk, and handed the tin cup to Hank. He was really surprised to see the rough fellow turn immediately and give it to Sid Jeffreys and hear him say: "I reckon you need it the wust, Sid; git the stuff inside in a hurry." Then Paul remembered that Sid had recently been injured. And somehow he began to understand that even such a hardened case as Hank Lawson, in whom no one seemed ready to place any trust, might have a small, tender spot in his heart. He could not be _all_ bad, Paul decided. Hank, however, did not refuse to accept the second cup, and hastily drain it. Apparently, he believed the leader should have first choice, and meant to impress this fact upon his satellites. What to do about the four boys had puzzled Paul a little. To allow them to accompany him and his chums back to Deer Head Lodge would make the remainder of their outing a very disagreeable affair. Besides, there was really no room for any more guests under that hospitable roof; and certainly Tolly Tip would not feel in the humor to invite them. So Paul had to figure it out in some other way. While Hank and his three cronies were eating savagely, Bobolink having finished preparing the odd meal for them, Paul took occasion to sound the one who occupied the position of chief. "We've brought over enough grub to last you four a week," he started in to say, when Hank interrupted him. "We sure think you're white this time, Paul Morrison, an' I ain't a-goin' to hold back in sayin' so either, just 'cause we've been scrappin' with your crowd right along. Guess you know that we come up here partly to bother you fellers. I'm right glad we ain't had a chance to play any tricks on you up to now. An' b'lieve me! it's goin' to be a long time 'fore we'll forgit this thing." Paul was, of course, well pleased to hear this. He feared, however, that in a month from that time Hank was apt to forget the obligations he owed the scouts, and likely enough would commence to annoy them again. "The question that bothers me just now," Paul continued, "is what you ought to do. I don't suppose any of you care to stay up here much longer, now that this blizzard has spoiled all of the fun of camping out?" "I've had about all I want of the game," admitted Jud Mabley, promptly. "Count me in too," added Sim Jeffreys. "I feel pretty sick of the whole business, and we can't get back home any too soon to suit me." "Same here," muttered Bud Phillips, who had kept looking at Paul for some time in a furtive way, as though he had something on his mind that he was strongly tempted to communicate to the scout leader. "So you see that settles it," grinned Hank. "Even if I wanted to hang out here all the rest o' the holidays, three agin one is most too much. We'd be havin' all sorts o' rows every day. Yep, we'll start fur home the fust chance we git." That pleased Paul, and was what he had hoped to hear. "Of course," he went on to say to Hank, "it's a whole lot shorter cutting across country to Stanhope than going around by way of Lake Tokala and the old canal that leads from the Radway into the Bushkill river; but you want to be mighty careful of your compass points, or you might get lost." "Sure thing, Paul," remarked the other, confidently; "but that's my long suit, you ought to know. Never yet did git lost, an' I reckon I ain't a-goin' to do it now. I'll lay it all out and make the riffle, don't you worry about that same." "We came over that way, you know," interrupted Jud Mabley, "and left blazes on the trees in places where we thought we might take the wrong trail goin' back." "That was a wise thing to do," said Paul, "and shows that some of you ought to be in the scout movement, for you've got it in you to make good." "Tried it once you 'member, Paul, but your crowd didn't want anything to do wi' me, so I cut it out," grumbled Jud, though he could not help looking pleased at being complimented on the woodcraft of their crowd by such an authority as the scout-master. Paul turned from Jud and looked straight into the face of the leader. "Hank," he said earnestly, "you know just as well as I do that Jud was blackballed not because we didn't believe he had it in him to make an excellent scout, but for another reason. Excuse me if I'm blunt about it, but I mean it just as much for your good as I did bringing this food all the way over here to help you out. Every one of you has it in him to make a good scout, if only he would change certain ways he now has." Hank looked down at his feet, and remained silent for a brief time, during which he doubtless was having something of an inward fight. "All right, Paul," he suddenly remarked, looking up again grimly. "I ain't a-goin' to git mad 'cause you speak so plain. If you fellers'd go to all the trouble to fight your way over here, and fetch us this food, I reckon as how I've been readin' you the wrong way." "You have, Hank! You certainly have!" affirmed Bobolink, who was greatly interested in this effort on the part of Paul to bring about a change in the boys who had taken such malicious delight in annoying the scouts whenever the opportunity arose. "Believe this, Hank," said Paul earnestly; "if you only chose to change your ways, none of you would be blackballed the next time you tried to join the organization. There's no earthly reason why all of you shouldn't be accepted as candidates if only you can subscribe to the iron-bound rules we work under, and which every one of us has to obey. Think it over, won't you, boys? It might pay you." "Reckon we will, Paul," muttered Hank, though he shook his head at the same time a little doubtfully, as though deep down in his heart he feared they could never overcome the feeling of prejudice that had grown up against them in Stanhope. "I wouldn't be in too big a hurry to start back home," continued Paul, thinking he had already said enough to fulfill his duty as a scout. "In another day or so it's likely to warm up a bit, and you'll find it more comfortable on the way." "Just what I was thinkin' myself, Paul," agreed Hank. "We've got stacks of grub now, thanks to you and your crowd, and we c'n git enough wood in places, now you've opened our dooryard fur us. Yep, we'll hang out till it feels some warmer, and then cut sticks fur home." "Here's a rough map I made out that may be useful to you, Hank," continued the scout-master, "if you happen to lose your blazed trail. Tolly Tip helped me get it up, and as he's been across to Stanhope many times he ought to know every foot of the way." "It might come in handy, an' I'll take the same with thanks, Paul," Hank observed, with all his customary aggressive ways lacking. There is nothing so well calculated to take the spirit out of a boy as acute hunger. When they had talked for some little time longer, Paul decided that it was time for him and his chums to start back to the cabin. Those afternoons in late December were very short, and night would be down upon them almost before they knew it. It was just then that Bud Phillips seemed to have made up his mind to say something that had been on the tip of his tongue ever since he realized under what great obligations the scouts had placed him and his partners. "Seems like I oughtn't to let you get away from here, Paul, without tellin' somethin' that I reckon might be interestin' to you all," he went on to say. "All right, Bud, we'll be glad to hear it," the scout-master observed, with a smile, "though for the life of me I can't guess what it's all about." "Go ahead Bud, and dish it out!" urged Bobolink, impatiently. CHAPTER XXVIII MORE STARTLING NEWS Bud Phillips looked somewhat confused. Apparently, he did not figure any too well in what he felt it his duty to confess to Paul and his chums. "I'm ashamed that I kept mum about it when the old man accused some of you fellers of startin' the fire, an' gettin' at his tight wad," he went on to say; and it can be easily understood that this beginning gave Paul a start. "Oh! it's about that ugly business, is it?" the scout-master remarked, frowning a little, for, naturally, he instantly conceived the idea that Hank and his three reckless cronies must have had a hand in that outrage. That Hank guessed what was flitting through the other's mind was plainly indicated by the haste with which he cried out: "Don't git it in your head we had anything to do with that fire, Paul, nor yet with tappin' the old man's safe. I know we ain't got any too good reputations 'round Stanhope, but it's to be hoped we ain't dropped so low as that. Skip along, Bud, an' tell what you saw." "Why, it's this way," continued the narrator, eagerly. "I chanced to be Johnny-on-the-spot that night, being 'mong the first to arrive when old Briggs started to scream that his store was afire. Never mind how it came that way. And Paul, I saw two figures a-runnin' away right when I came up, runnin' like they might be afraid o' bein' seen an' grabbed." "Were they close enough for you to notice who they were?" asked Paul, taking a deep interest in the narration, since he and his chums had been accused of doing the deed in the presence of many of Stanhope's good people. "Oh! I saw 'em lookin' back as they hurried away," admitted Bud. "And, Paul, they were those same two tramps we had the trouble with that day. You remember we ran the pair out o' town, bombardin' 'em with rocks." Paul could plainly see the happening in his memory, with the two hoboes turning when at a safe distance to shake their fists at the boys. Evidently their rough reception all around had caused them to have a bitter feeling toward the citizens of Stanhope, and they had come back later on to have their revenge. "Now that I think of it," Paul went on to say, "they had just come out of the store when you ran afoul of the pair. The chances are that Mr. Briggs treated them as sourly as he does all their class, and they were furiously mad at him." "Yes," added Bobolink, "and while in there they must have noticed where he had his safe. Maybe they saw him putting money in it." "I'm glad you told me this, Bud," the scout-master confessed, "because it goes part way to clear up the mystery of that fire and robbery." "Bud was meanin' to tell all about it when we got back," said Hank. "He kept still because he heard Briggs accuse you scouts of the fire racket, and Bud just then thought it too good a joke to spoil. But we've been talkin' it over, and come to the conclusion we owed it to the community to set 'em right." This sounded rather lofty, but Paul guessed that there must be another reason back of the determination to tell. These fellows had decided that possibly suspicion might be directed toward them, and, as they had had enough trouble already without taking more on their shoulders, it would be the part of wisdom to start the ball rolling in the right quarter. "Well, we must be going," said Paul. "Do you reckon on stayin' out your time up here?" queried Hank. "We haven't decided that yet," replied the scout-master; "but the chances are we shall conclude to cut the trip short and get back home. This heavy snow has spoiled a good many plans we'd laid out; and we might be having a better time of it with the rest of the fellows at home. We're going to talk it over and by to-morrow settle on our plans." "Here's where we get busy and start on the return hike," announced Tom Betts, just as cheerily as though he were not already feeling the effects of that stiff plunge through the deep snowdrifts, and secretly faced the return trip with more or less apprehension. Hank and his followers came out of their den to wave a hearty farewell after their late rescuers. Just then all animosities had died in their hearts, and they could look upon the scouts without the least bitterness. "Sounds all mighty fine, I must say," remarked Bobolink, as they pushed along, after losing sight of the quartette standing at the foot of the snowy hill, "but somehow I don't seem to feel it's going to last. That Hank's got it in him to be a tough character, and it'd be next door to a miracle if he ever changed his ways." "Do _you_ think he will, Paul?" demanded Jud, flatly. "Ask me something easy," laughed the scout-master. "It all depends on Hank himself. If he once took a notion to make a man of himself, I believe he could do it no matter what happened. He's got the grit, but without the real desire that isn't going to count for much. Time alone will tell." "Well, we've seen something like that happen right in our town, you know," Bobolink went on to say, reflectively, as he trudged along close to the heels of the one in front of him, for they were going "Indian-file," following the sinuous trail made during their preceding trip. "I was talking with the other Jud," remarked Jud Elderkin just then, "and he gave me a pointer that might be worth something. I don't know just why he chose to confide it to me, instead of speaking out, but he did." "Was it, too, about the fire and the robbery?" asked Tom Betts. "It amounted to the same thing, I should say," replied Jud, "because it was connected with the hoboes." "Go on and tell us then," urged Bobolink. "He says they're up in this part of the country," asserted the other. "Wow! that begins to look as if we might be running across the ugly pair after all!" exclaimed Tom Betts, his face lighting up with eagerness. "Now wouldn't it be queer if we managed to capture the yeggs and turn 'em over to the authorities? Paul, how about that now?" "Oh! you're getting too far ahead of the game, Tom," he was told. "We must know a good deal more about this business before we could decide to take such desperate chances." "But if the opportunity came along, wouldn't it be our duty to cage the rascals?" the persistent Tom demanded. "Perhaps it might," Paul told him. "But Jud, did he explain to you how he came to know the tramps were up here in the woods above Lake Tokala?" "Just what he did," replied the other, promptly. "It seems that Jud, while he was out hunting, had a glimpse of one of the ugly pair the day before this storm hit us. It gave him a chance to trail the man in order to see what he was worth in that line. And, Paul, he did his work so well that he followed the fellow all the way to where the two of them had put up." "And that was where, Jud?" demanded the leader of the troop. "There's an old dilapidated cabin half-way between here and the lake," explained Jud. "Maybe Tolly Tip knows about it." "Sure that I do!" responded the woodsman. "'Twas used years ago by some charcoal burners, but has been goin' to decay this long time. Mebbe now they've patched up the broken roof, and mane to stay there awhile. It's in a snug spot, and mighty well protected from the wind in winters." "That's the place," Jud assured them. "The hoboes are hanging out there, and seem to have plenty to eat, so Jud Mabley told me. If we concluded to take a look in at 'em on our way home it could be done easy enough, I'd think." "We'll talk it over," decided Paul. "We must remember that in all likelihood they're a desperate pair, and well armed. As a rule scouts have no business to constitute themselves criminal catchers, though in this case it's a bit different." "Because we've been publicly accused by Mr. Briggs of being the persons who set his old store on fire, just in spite!" declared Bobolink, briskly enough. "And say! wouldn't it be a bully trick if we could take those two tramps back with us, having the goods on them? Then we'd say to Mr. Briggs: 'There you are, sir! These are the men you want! And we'd trouble you to make your apology just as public as your hasty accusation was.'" "Hurrah!" cried Tom Betts. "That's the ticket." But Paul was not to be hurried into giving a decision. He wanted more time to consider matters, and settle his plan of campaign. The other scouts, however, found little reason to doubt that in the end he would conclude to look favorably on the bold proposition Jud had advanced. Just as they had anticipated, the return journey was not anywhere nearly so strenuous an undertaking as the outward tramp had been. Even where they had to cross great drifts a passage had been broken for them, and the wind, not being high, had failed to fill up the gaps thus far. The rescue party arrived in the vicinity of the cabin long before sundown, and could catch whiffs of the wood smoke that blew their way, which gave promise of the delightful warmth they would find once inside the forest retreat. CHAPTER XXIX THE WILD DOG PACK "Well! well! what under the sun's been going on here while we've been away?" Bobolink burst out with this exclamation the very minute he passed hastily in at the cabin door. A jolly fire blazed on the hearth, and the interior of the cabin was well lighted by the flames. Paul, as well as all the other arrivals, stared. And well they might, for Sandy Griggs and Bluff were swathed in seemingly innumerable bandages. They looked a bit sheepish too, even while grinning amiably. "Oh! 'tisn't as bad as it seems, fellows!" sang out Spider Sexton, cheerfully. "Phil thought it best to wash every scratch with that stuff we keep for such things, so as to avoid any danger of blood poisoning. But shucks! they got off pretty easy, let me tell you." "What happened?" demanded Jud Elderkin, curiously. "Did they run across that old bear after all, and get scratched or bitten?" "Or was it the other bobcat that came around to smell the pelt of his mate, and gave you something of a tussle?" asked Bobolink. "Both away off your base," said Bluff, with a fresh grin. "It was dogs, that's all." "Dogs!" echoed Jud, unbelievingly. "You must mean wolves, don't you? They look a heap like some kinds of mongrel dogs." "'Tis the lad as knows what he is talkin' about, I guess," remarked Tolly Tip just then. "Sure, for these many moons now there's been a pack av thim wild dogs a-runnin' through the woods. Many a night have I listened to the same bayin' and yappin' as they trailed after a deer." A flash of understanding came into Jud's face. "Oh! now I see what you mean," he went on to say. "Wild dogs they were, that for some reason have abandoned their homes with people, and gone back to the old free hunting ways of their ancestors. I've heard about such things. But say! how did it happen they tackled you two?" Bluff and his guilty companion exchanged looks, and as he scratched his head the former went on to confess. "Why, you see, it was this way," he began. "Sandy and I began to get awful tired of staying indoors after you fellows went away. Three days of it was just too much for our active natures to stand. So we made up a plan to take a little walk around, and see if we could run across any game." At that Sandy held up a couple of partridges. "All we got, and all we saw," he remarked, "but they were enough to set that savage bunch of wild dogs on us. Whew! but they were hungry and reckless. But you go on and tell the story, Bluff." "When we saw them heading our way," continued the other, "we thought they were just ordinary dogs running loose. But as they came closer both of us began to see that they were a savage looking lot. In the lead was a big mastiff that looked like a lion to us." "But you had your guns with you, didn't you?" asked Jud. "That's right, we did," replied Bluff. "But you see before we made up our minds the kiyi crowd was dangerous they were nearly on us, yelping and snapping like everything. That big chap in the lead gave me a shiver just to look at him; and there were three others coming full-tilt close behind him." "We've since made up our minds," again interrupted Sandy, "that they must have scented our birds, and were crazy to get them. Though even if we'd thrown the partridges away I believe the pack would have attacked us like so many tigers." "At the very last," Bluff went on, "I knew we ought to be doing something. So I yelled out to Sandy who had the shotgun to pepper that big mastiff before he could jump us, and that I'd take care of the next creature." "Well, I tried to do it," Sandy affirmed, "but my first shot went wild, because Bluff here knocked my elbow just when I pulled the trigger. But I had better luck with the second barrel, for I brought one of the other dogs down flat on his back, kicking his last." "I'd shot a second creature meanwhile," said Bluff; "and then the other two were on us. Whew! but we did have a warm session of it about that time, let me tell you, fellows! It was at close quarters, so I couldn't use my gun again to shoot; but we swung the weapons around our heads as though they were clubs." "I made a lucky crack," declared Sandy, "and bowled the smaller cur over, but he was up like a flash and at me again, scratching and biting like a mad wolf. I never would have believed family pets could go back to the wild state again like that if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes." "I suppose the big beast tackled you then, did he, Bluff?" asked Jack. "You just b-b-bet he did!" exclaimed the other, excitedly. "And s-s-say, I had all I could do to k-k-keep him from knocking me over in a h-h-heap. Lots of t-t-times I cracked him with the b-b-butt of my rifle, and staggered him, but he only c-came at me again full tilt. Oh! but we had a g-g-glorious time of it I tell you!" "And how did it end?" queried Jud. "Since we find you two here right-side-up-with-care we must believe that in the final wind-up you got the better of your canine enemies." "C-c-canine d-d-don't seem to fit the c-c-crime this time, Jud," expostulated Bluff. "It sounds so mild. Well, we lathered 'em right and left, and took quite a number of s-s-scratches in return. B-b-both of us were getting pretty well winded, and I was b-b-beginning to be afraid of the outcome, when all at once I remembered that I had other b-b-bullets in my gun." "Wise old head, that of yours, Bluff," commented Jud, with a touch of satire in his voice. "Better late than never I should say. Well, what did you do then?" "Next chance I got I managed to turn my gun around and grip the stock," and as he said this Bluff reached over to pick up his repeating rifle to exhibit the dents, as well as the half dried blood spots on the walnut shoulder piece, all of which went to prove the truth of his story as words never could have done. "That was the end of Mr. Mastiff then, eh?" continued Jud. "Oh, well! I hated to do it," Bluff told them, "for he was a beaut of a beast, so strong and handsome; but then those shining teeth looked pretty ugly to me, and he was wild to get them at my throat, so there wasn't really any choice." "I should say not!" declared Phil Towns, shuddering at the picture Bluff was drawing of the spirited encounter. "So I shot him," said Bluff, simply. "And at that the remaining beast lit out as fast as he could, because with the fall of the leader of the pack he lost his grit. Course after that Sandy'n I couldn't think of hunting any longer. We figured that we ought to get back home and have our cuts looked after. And Paul, Phil has done a dandy job with that potash stuff." "Glad to hear it," said the scout-master, quickly, "though I'll take a look myself to make sure. Scratches from carnivorous animals are very dangerous on account of the poison that may cling to their claws. It's always best to be on the safe side, and neutralize the danger." "And Paul," continued Bluff, "will you accept one of these fat birds from us?" "Not much I will!" declared the other immediately. "Why should I be favored over the rest of the crowd? You and Sandy earned the right to enjoy a feast, and we'll see to it that you have it to-morrow. Let them hang until then; game is always better for lying a few days before being eaten, you know." Of course, those who had remained at home were curious to know whether the rescue expedition had been successful or not. "We needn't ask if you found Hank and his crowd," declared Spider Sexton, wisely, "for as scouts we are educated to observe things, and first of all we notice that none of you has come back with the pack he took away. That tells us the story. But please go on and give the particulars, Paul." "We managed to find them just when they had their last stick on the fire," the scout-master commenced to relate. "We had to dig a way in to them, for there was an enormous drift banked up against their exit that they hadn't even begun to cut through." "How lucky you got there on time!" cried Frank Savage. "Once more scouts have proved themselves masters of circumstances. Bully for Stanhope Troop! I bet you they were glad to see you! Yes, and like as not told you they were sorry for ever having done anything to annoy our crowd." "You've hit it to a dot, Frank," admitted Jud. "Hank shows some signs of meaning to turn over a new leaf, and Paul even believes there's a hope; but somehow the rest of us reckon its the old story over again. Once they get on their own stamping grounds, by degrees they'll forget all we've done for them, and be back at their old tricks again. What's bred in the bone can't easily be beaten out of the flesh, my father says." "But it does happen once in a while," admonished Paul; "so we'll drop the subject for the present. If Hank starts in to do the right thing, though, remember that it's our duty as scouts to give him all the help we can. And now let's settle on the menu for supper, because we're all of us as hungry as wolves." While some of the boys were busying themselves around the fire, Paul took a look at the slight injuries of the two aspiring hunters, and complimented the pleased Philip on the clever way he had attended to their necessities. CHAPTER XXX A CHANGE OF PLANS That night, as the lads sat before the fire, those who had gone on the expedition of succor had to tell further particulars, for the others were curious to know about everything. When they heard how Bud Phillips had seen the two tramps running away from the vicinity of the fire before hardly any one else was around, of course Bluff and the four other scouts were fully agreed that the mystery of the blaze had been as good as explained. "All the same," Jud remarked, "unless we can show some clinching evidence our theory won't hold water with a lot of people who always have to be given solid proof. That brings up the subject, we talked about on the way home--should we pay a visit to that charcoal burners' cabin, and try to make prisoners of the yeggs?" "Great scheme, I'd say!" burst out Frank Savage without any hesitation. "B-b-bully idea, let me tell you!" added Bluff. "Whee!" exclaimed Sandy. "Nearly takes my breath away just to hear you mention such a bold thing; but I'm game to try it if the rest are." Paul smiled. Truth to tell he had discounted all this, knowing what an impetuous lot his followers were, and how prone to push aside all thought of personal danger when tempted to perform some act that might redound to their credit. "Plenty of time yet to talk that over," he told them. "We needn't decide too hastily, and will let the subject rest for the present, though I don't mind saying that the chances are we'll conclude to do something along those lines when on our way home." "Is the charcoal burners' shack far away from the creek, Tolly Tip?" questioned Bobolink, anxiously. "By the same token I do belave it lies not more'n a quarrter av a mile off from the strame. I c'n lade ye to the same with me eyes shut," announced the woodsman, evidently just as eager to take part in the rounding up of the vagrants as any of the enthusiastic scouts; for his eye was still a little discolored from the blow he had received in the fight with the desperate tramps. As their time was limited, Paul knew that they should plan carefully if they were to accomplish all the things they were most desirous of carrying through. On that account he had each one make up his mind just what was dearest to him, and set about accomplishing that one thing without any unnecessary delay. As for Paul himself, he most of all regretted the fact that on account of the deep snowdrifts and the bitter cold he would probably be unable to get any more flashlight pictures. "You see," he explained to some of the others when they were asking why he felt so disappointed, "most of the smaller animals are buried out of sight by the snow. Like the squirrels, they take time by the forelock, and have laid in a supply of food, enough to last over this severe spell, so none of them will be anxious to show up in a hurry." "But I heard Tolly Tip giving you a real tip about the sly mink along the bank of the creek. How about it, Paul?" asked Jud. "Well, that's really my only chance," admitted the scout-master. "It seems that minks have a perfect scorn for wintry weather around here, Tolly says, and are on the job right along, no matter how it storms. He knows of one big chap who has a regular route over which he travels nearly every night, going in and out of holes in the banks as if going visiting." "I don't believe you've ever had a good snapshot of a live mink, have you, Paul?" inquired Bluff, showing more or less interest, though still somewhat stiff with the painful scratches he had received on the previous day. "I've always wanted to get such a flashlight," admitted Paul, "because the mink is said to be one of the shyest of all small, fur-bearing animals, even more so than Br'er Fox, and considerably more timid than Br'er 'Coon." "You'll have to set the trap to-night then, won't you?" asked Tom Betts. "We've made all arrangements looking to such a thing," Tom was assured. "I'm glad that it still stays clear and cold. We may only have a couple more nights in Camp Garrity." "But it's getting a little milder, don't you think?" inquired Bobolink. "It's a big improvement on yesterday, and I imagine to-morrow will see a further change," the scout-master remarked. "Then if those fellows in the cave mean to strike out for home they'll like as not find their chance by to-morrow," observed Jud. "Course they've got enough grub to keep them for a week. But it isn't much fun staying cooped up in a cave, and I reckon they've had enough of it. Sim and Jud acted that way, not to mention Bud Phillips." "Before we make our start I'd like to take a last turn over that way," Paul observed, as though he had been thinking the matter over. "I'd just like to see if they did strike out across the timber. Their trail would tell the story, and we'd know what to expect." "I speak to go with you then," flashed back Jud, even as Bluff opened his mouth to give utterance to the same desire. "T-t-that's what a fellow gets for being a stutterer," grumbled Bluff. "I meant to say just those words, but Jud--hang the l-l-luck--was too speedy for me. Huh!" "Oh! as for that," laughed Paul, "both of you can go along if you care to." As the day dragged along the scouts busied themselves in a dozen different ways according to their liking. Some preferred to swing the axe and chop wood, though doubtless if they had been compelled to do this at home, loud and bitter would have been their lamentations. During the afternoon several went out for a walk, carrying guns along so as to be prepared for either game, or another pack of hungry wild dogs, though Tolly Tip assured them that, so far as he knew, there had existed only the one pack, with that enormous mastiff as leader. "If ye follow the directions I've been after givin' yees, it may be ye'll come on a bevy av pa'tridges," the woodsman told them as they were setting out. "For by the same token whin we've had a heavy snowfall I've always been able to knock down a lot av the birrds among the berry bushes. 'Tis there they must go to git food or be starved entirely. Good luck to ye, boys, an' kape yer weather eye open so ye won't git lost!" "Remember," added Paul, "if you do lose your bearings stop right still and fire three shots in rapid succession. Later on try it again, and we'll come to you. But with such clever woodsmen along as Jack and Bobolink we don't expect anything of that kind to happen, of course." Paul himself went with the keeper of the woods lodge to follow the frozen creek up to a certain place where there were numerous holes in the bank. Here Tolly Tip pointed out little footprints made he said by the minks on the preceding night. "Av course," the woodsman went on to say, "ye do be knowin' a hape better nor me jist where the best place to set the trap might be. All I c'n do is to show ye the p'int where the minks is most like to travel to-night." "That is just what I want you to do!" exclaimed Paul. "But you can help me out in fixing things, so when the mink takes the bait and pulls the string he'll be sure to crouch directly in front of my camera trap." Between them they eventually arranged matters, and then the trapper removed all traces of their presence possible, after which they returned to the cabin. "If the trap isn't sprung to-night I'll have another try-out," Paul affirmed, "for it may be a long while before I'll get another such chance to snap off Mr. Sly Mink in his own preserves." "Oh! make your mind aisy on that score," said Tolly Tip, reassuringly. "I do be knowing the ways av the crature so well I c'n promise ye there'll be no hitch. That bait I set is sure to fetch him ivery time. I've sildom known it to fail." The afternoon came to an end, and the glow of sunset filled the heavens over in the west. The hunters came trooping in, much to the satisfaction of some of the stay-at-homes, who were beginning to fear something might have happened to them. "We heard a whole lot of shots away off somewhere," asserted Phil Towns, "so show us what you've got in the game pockets of your hunting coats to make them bulge out that way." "I've got three fat partridges," said Jack. "Two for me--one in each pocket!" laughed Bobolink. Then Jack and Bobolink looked expectantly toward Jud as though expecting him to make a still better showing. At that Jud began to unload, and before he stopped he had laid six birds on the rough deal table. At that there was much rejoicing. "Just enough to go around!" exclaimed Sandy Griggs. "I was beginning to be sorry Bluff and I had gone and cooked our birds, but now it's all right. Here's for a bully mess to-morrow." "We've certainly made a big hole in your partridge supply since coming up here, Tolly Tip," announced Bobolink, proudly. "And there's one deer less, too." "Only one," said Jud, regretfully; and Paul knew he must be thinking of the stag responsible for the tracks seen on that day when they were on duty bent, and could not turn aside to do any hunting. "Well, to-morrow may be our last day here," remarked the scout-master, "so every one of you had better wind up your affairs, to be ready to start home." CHAPTER XXXI GOOD-BYE TO DEER HEAD LODGE "I think I'll sleep a whole lot better to-night," announced Bobolink, as he gave a huge yawn, and stretched his arms high above his head. "What's the reason?" demanded Jud, quickly. "Are you happy because we're going to break camp so much sooner than we expected, owing to everything being snowed under up here in the woods?" "Bobolink doesn't get enough to eat, I reckon," suggested Tom Betts. "If he doesn't it's his own fault then," Jack went on to say, "because he has more to do with the cooking end of the game than any of us." "I guess I know what he means," hinted Spider Sexton, mysteriously. "Then get a move on you, Spider, and enlighten the rest of us," coaxed Sandy, as he cuddled a bit closer to the crackling fire, for the wind had arisen again, and parts of the cabin were chilly, despite the roaring blaze. "Why, the fact of the matter is, Bobolink has a new girl to take to barn dances and all that this winter," said Spider, boldly. "It's that pretty Rose Dexter belonging to the new family in town. Oh! you needn't grin at me that way, Bobolink. I own up I was doing my best to cut in on you there, but you seemed to have the inside track of me and I quit. But she is a peach if ever there was one!" "Well, do you blame me then for feeling satisfied when we talk of going home?" demanded the accused scout. "All the same you're all away off in your guesses. I'm hoping to sleep soundly to-night just because my mind is free from wondering who set that incendiary fire and tapped Mr. Briggs' safe." "Oh! so that's the reason, is it?" laughed Paul. "I've been watching you more or less since we came up here, and I wondered if you hadn't been trying to figure that mystery out. I'm glad for your sake, as well as for some others' sakes, that we've been able to clear that thing up." "All I hope now is that on our way back home we can stop off and pay the hoboes a little friendly visit," continued Bobolink. "Same here," Jud added, quickly. "Even if our outing hasn't been everything we hoped for, it would even things up some if we could march into Stanhope and hand the guilty men over to the police." Indeed, Bobolink was not the only scout who slept "like a rock" on that night. Most of the boys were very tired after the exertions of the day, and, besides, now that it had been decided to return home, they really had a load removed from their minds. Of course, all of them could have enjoyed a much longer stay at Deer Head Lodge had the conditions been normal. That tremendous fall of snow, something like two feet on the level, Paul felt, had utterly prostrated many of their best plans, and facing a protracted siege of it did not offer a great deal of attraction. With the coming of morning they were once more astir, and were soon as busy as a hive of bees. Each scout seemed intent on getting as much done as possible while the day lasted. Tolly Tip alone looked sober. The quaint and honest fellow had taken a great liking to his guests, and looked forward to their speedy departure with something akin to dismay. "Sure the rist av the winter will same a dreary time with not a hearty young voice to give me gratin' av a mornin'," he told Paul. "Indade, I don't know how I'm goin' to stand for the same at all, at all." "I'll tell you this, Tolly Tip," replied the scout leader emphatically. "If we get off during the Easter holidays some of us may take a run up here to visit you again. And perhaps you'll find occasion to come to Stanhope in some business dealings with Mr. Garrity. In that case you must let us know. I'll call a special meeting of the scouts, and you'll be our honored guest." The old woodsman was visibly affected by these hearty words. He led a lonely life of it, although until the coming of these merry boys it had not seemed especially so. They had aroused long buried memories of his own boyhood, and given him a "new lease of life," as he declared. Nothing remarkable happened on this last day in camp, though numerous things took place. Paul saw to it that in the afternoon the boys got everything ready to pack so there would be little delay in the morning, and they could get an early start if the weather conditions were at all favorable. The weather remained good. The great storm must have covered a considerable stretch of territory east of the Mississippi and the Great Lakes and cleared the atmosphere wonderfully, for again the morning dawned without a threatening cloud to give cause for anxiety. There was considerable bustle inside the cabin and out of it about that time. Packs were being done up, though in much smaller compass than when the boys arrived at the camp, since only enough food was being taken along to serve for a couple of meals. All the rest they only too gladly bequeathed to their genial host. Many were the silent resolves on the part of the boys as to what they would send up to Deer Head Lodge if ever the chance arrived, tobacco for Tolly Tip's pipe being of course the main idea, since he seemed to lack nothing else. On Tolly Tip's part, he forced each of the lads to pack away a particular pelt which they were to have made into some sort of small article, just to remember the glorious outing in the snowy woods by. At last the time came to say good-bye to the camp, and it was with unanimous agreement that the scouts clustered in a bunch, swung their hats, and gave three parting cheers for the lodge in the wilderness. Tolly Tip had laid out their course, and on the way the main body halted while he and Paul tramped over to the foot of the hill where the cave among the rocks lay. Paul was pleased to find the cave empty and the ashes cold where the fire had burned, thus proving that Hank and his three companions had started overland for home on the previous day. Once more joining the others, they continued on their way. "Next in line come our friends, the hobo yeggmen!" remarked Jud, with a grim closing of his lips. "Listen," said Paul, impressively, "for the last time I want to caution you all to follow the directions I've given. We must try to creep up on that old shack, and find out what the tramps are doing before we show our hand." "Well, what have scouts been learning woodcraft for if they can't do a bit of spy work?" asked Jud, boldly. "All you have to do, Paul, is to pick those you want to keep you company when you make the grand creep; while the rest hang out close by, ready to jump in at the signal and make it unanimous." It might have been noticed, were one watching closely, that Jud said this with a complacent smile hovering about his lips. The reason was easily guessed, because Jud really had no peer among the members of Stanhope Troop of Boy Scouts when it came to creeping up on game or some pretended enemy. He had often proved his superiority in this respect, and could therefore take it for granted that the scout-master would pick him out to accompany him on an occasion like this. "All right, Jud," said Paul, smilingly, for he understood very well how the other felt, "I'll take Jack with me, Bobolink, and Tom Betts as well--yes, and you may come along too, I guess." Some of them snickered at this, while Jud glared haughtily around and shrugged his shoulders, looking aggrieved, until Paul took occasion to whisper in his ear: "That was meant for a joke you understand, Jud. Of course, I couldn't think of doing this thing without your help." Later on Tolly Tip announced that they would now leave the creek and head in the direction of the abandoned charcoal burners' shack. All the scouts felt more or less of a thrill in anticipation of what was to come. "I only hope," Jud was heard to mutter, aggressively, "that they haven't gone and skedaddled since Bud Phillips saw 'em in the place. That'd make me feel pretty sore, let me tell you!" "Not much chance of that happening, Jud," Jack assured the grumbler, "unless by some accident their supplies got low. And Bud said they seemed to have enough on hand to last for weeks. Everything's going to turn out as we want it, make up your mind to that." The old woodsman knew every rod of territory around that section, and could have led his charges in a bee-line to the shack except for the snowdrifts. Of course, these caused more or less meandering, but in the end they came to a place where Tolly Tip raised a warning finger. Every boy knew by that they must be close upon the shack. Indeed, a whiff of wood smoke floated their way just then, announcing that the goal was at hand. They moved on for a couple of minutes. Then all could glimpse the dilapidated cabin amidst the snow piles, with smoke oozing from its disabled mud and slab chimney. Paul made a gesture that they recognized, whereupon part of the company came to a halt and hid, while the others crept on with the leader. CHAPTER XXXII THE CAPTURE OF THE HOBO YEGGMEN Long practice had made the scouts adepts at this sort of work. They could creep up on an unsuspecting sentry almost as cleverly as those copper-colored natives of the American woods whom all Boy Scouts copy when studying woodcraft. Then again the piles of snow helped, as well as hindered, them more or less. But except for that column of blue wood smoke drifting lazily upward over the cabin there was really no sign of life about the place. Paul, Tolly Tip and the others of the scouting party soon reached the rear of the shack. They could easily see where the two tramps had actually worked to close up most of the chinks between the logs, to keep the bitter cold air and the driving snow out of their refuge. Men of their sort would never think of staying for a week or two amidst such barren surroundings so long as there remained a warm county jail ready to accommodate them with free lodging--that is, unless they had a good reason for wanting to avoid civilization. Paul, believing that they had set that fire and robbed Mr. Briggs' safe, could understand just why they remained here in seclusion. They doubtless feared suspicion may have been pointed in their direction, and that something of a search was being indulged in looking to their ultimate capture. As soon as they arrived close to the walls of the shack the boys searched for some crevice through which they might gain a view of the interior. Several managed to dig peep-holes by detaching the frozen mud that the tramps had plastered over open chinks. They applied their eyes to such crevices, and first of all discovered a blazing fire. Then a movement on one side drew their attention to the taller vagrant sitting quietly smoking his black pipe as though quite contented with his lot of idleness, so long as his wants were fairly well supplied. It happened that the wind had gone down, and there brooded over the snowy forest a deep silence. This fact allowed the listeners without to catch the sound of voices inside the hut, for one of the tramps talked heavily, and the other had a high-pitched voice that carried like a squeaking fife. What they were saying just then instantly riveted the attention of the listeners, for as though by some strange freak it had an intimate connection with the object of the scouts' coming to the spot. The shorter man seemed to have been doing some work on his injured hand, for he was now carefully wrapping a fresh rag around it. At the same time he was grumbling because of the pain his injury gave him. "I never knowed how bad a burn was till now, Billy," was the burden of his complaint. "I've been shot and hurted in every other way, but this here's the fust time I ever got licked by fire. It's a-goin' to be the last time too, if I knows it." "Any fool had ought to know better'n to play with fire," the other told him between his teeth as he sucked at his pipe. "I reckons that ye'd been wuss hurt nor that if I hadn't slapped a pail o' water over ye, and put ye out. Gotter stand fur it, Shorty, till the new skin comes along. A burn is wuss nor a cut any day." "I on'y hopes as how it's well afore we skip outen this hole," the sufferer went on to say, still unappeased. "If we git in a tight hole I'd need both my fins to do business with. A one-handed man ain't got much chance to slip away when the cornfield cops make a raid." "They ain't goin' to bother us any! Make up yer mind to that same, boy," continued the tall vagrant, complacently. "When the time comes, an' the weather lets up on us a bit, why, we'll jest flit outen this region by the back door. I'm only mad as hops 'bout one thing." "Yep, an' I know what it be, 'cause ye been harpin' on that subject right along, Billy. Yer disapp'inted 'cause the old man didn't have a bigger haul in his cracked safe." "Well, that's what ails me," admitted the other in a grumbling way. "We'd a been fixed fur a year to come if only he'd had a good wad lyin' low, 'stead of a measly bunch of the long green." "Better luck next time, Billy, say I," continued the shorter tramp, as he finished fastening the soiled rag about his left hand and wrist. It can be easily understood that Paul had heard quite enough by this time. There was not the slightest doubt in the world that Billy and his partner had been guilty of setting fire to Mr. Briggs' store, and had also broken open his ancient safe to extract whatever amount of money happened to be in it at the time. Paul drew back and touched each one of his companions in turn. They knew just what the gesture he made signified. The time for action had come, and they were thus invited to take part with him in the holding up of the desperate pair. That the tramps belonged to this class of wandering criminals there could not be the least doubt after hearing snatches of their conversation. This affair of Mr. Briggs' store was apparently but one of many similar episodes in their careers. The little party now proceeded to creep around to the front of the shack. They knew, of course, that the door had been repaired and that it was also closed tightly, but Paul hardly believed they would find any difficulty in pushing it open. Arriving at the point that was to witness their sudden attack, Paul marshaled his followers in a compact mass. He meant to imitate in some degree the flying wedge used upon the football field with such good effect. Tolly Tip was given the post of honor in the van. This was done partly because of the fact that he was a man, and the boys felt the tramps would be likely to feel more respect for a company of invaders led by a grown-up. After the woodsman came Paul and Jud. Jack, Bobolink and Tom Betts formed the base of the triangle which was to push through the opening with all possible speed, once the door had been thrown open. Even though they found it fastened by some sort of bar or wooden pin, Paul had arranged in his mind just how such fastenings could be broken without trouble. He had noted quite a good-sized log lying near by, used by the vagrants in their seclusion to chop their firewood on. And Paul had decided that this log would make an admirable battering ram. The door was old and feeble, so that one good slam would doubtless hurl it back, and give them free ingress. There was no need of all this display of energy, however, for upon investigation Paul discovered that he could easily move the door, once he got his hand on the wooden latch. He only waited to make sure that the others were ready, and then fell back into his pre-arranged place, leaving to Tolly Tip the honor of opening the way. When the woodsman felt a hand jab him in the short ribs he recognized this as the signal from Paul for which he had been waiting. He immediately threw the door back with such violence that it crashed to the floor, its weak hinges giving way under the strain. In through the opening the whole six of them poured. The boys' hunting guns were instantly leveled in the direction of the astounded tramps, who started to scramble to their feet, but, cowed by the display of force, sank back again in dire dismay. "Hold up your arrms!" roared Tolly Tip, just as he had been instructed to do by the scout-master. Both hoboes made ludicrous haste to elevate their hands as far as they could. In the excitement of the moment, having only caught glimpses of khaki uniforms, they imagined that a detachment of the State militia had been called out to search the woods for the firebugs guilty of trying to destroy Mr. Briggs' establishment in Stanhope. By the time they realized that five of the invaders were only boys it was too late to attempt anything like defiance. Besides, those shotguns and rifles, even when held in boyish hands, had just as grim a look as though gripped by grown-up warriors. "Jud, you've got the thongs I supplied!" called out Paul, "so get busy, with Jack to help you, and tie their hands behind them. Slip those mitts on before you do it, because we've got a long way to go, and it would be cruel to have their fingers frost-bitten on the road to Stanhope." The men dared not offer any objections, though they kept using strong language, much to the disgust of some of the scouts. "Paul, tell them that unless they close their mouths and quit that swearing we'll gag them both," said Jack, unable to endure it any longer. "I was just about to say that when you took the words out of my mouth!" declared the scout-master, indignantly. "I've got a couple of gags ready here, made for the occasion. If you know when you're well off, you fellows, keep still, and accept your fate like men. You're only going to get what you deserve after all." "It was a bad day for you both when you struck Stanhope," said Jud, with one of his tantalizing grins. "I only wish I knew the tramp signs, so I could write a warning on every fence outside the town so's to keep other hobo yeggs away." Having accomplished the object of their mission without any trouble they now went back to join their comrades, who were anxiously waiting for the signal Paul was to give in case their help was needed. And great was the disappointment of Bluff, Sandy, Frank, Spider and Phil when they found that they had been left out of the game. CHAPTER XXXIII CONCLUSION Once more striking the frozen creek the boys, accompanied by Tolly Tip still, headed down the stream, bent upon reaching Lake Tokala early in the afternoon. The two prisoners were well looked after, though there was little danger of their giving any trouble. Upon searching them the boys had found some money and several small articles of more or less value that they suspected had been taken from the storekeeper's safe at the time of the robbery. These would perhaps assist materially to convict "Billy" and "Shorty" when the time for their trial came. The men, stolid, after their kind, seemed to have become reconciled to their fate. Nevertheless, Paul did not mean to relax his vigilance in the least degree. He knew very well that such cunning characters would be ready to take advantage of the least opportunity to break away. In fact all of the scouts had resolved to be constantly on the watch. They were in imagination already receiving the hearty congratulations from some of the leading townspeople for capturing the guilty rogues, and did not mean to be cheated out of their pleasure through careless handling of the case. "There's the lake!" announced Jud Elderkin, presently. "Yes, and I can see smoke coming from the cabin of Abe Turner!" Bobolink hastily added, for he knew just where to look for the humble domicile of the man Mr. Garrity had stationed at the lake to make preliminary preparations for the extensive logging operations he meant to start on the following spring. Abe heard their shouts and greeted them warmly. Of course, he was interested on discovering that they had captured the two tramps, and admitted that there could be no reasonable doubt of their guilt, once he heard the story, and saw Shorty's scorched hand. But the boys did not mean to stay over night at the lake. That would make their next day's journey too long, for they hoped to get into Stanhope before the setting of another sun. Tolly Tip said good-bye sorrowfully. He concluded that he might as well stay with Abe that night for company. "'Tis harrd to say ye go away, lads," the old woodsman told them, as he wrung each scout's hand with a vim that made him wince. "Depind on it, I'll often think av ivery one av ye as the days crape along. Here's a good luck to the whole bunch! And be sure to remimber me to Mr. Garrity." "We will, Tolly Tip, and here's three cheers for you!" cried Bobolink; and no doubt the vigorous shouts that arose would ring pleasantly in the ears of the old woodsman for many a day. The boys managed to cross the lake and use their iceboats in the bargain, for the violence of the wind had kept most of the surface clear of snow. It was a new experience to the two vagrants, and one they hardly fancied; though the boats they were placed on did not make any remarkable time, the breeze being very light. Once on the Radway river, the boys found it necessary to drag the boats pretty much all the way. They kept on, however, until the sun was setting, and then concluded to camp for the night. Paul knew that this would be the time when the most danger would arise concerning the possible escape of the prisoners. He was more than ever determined that such a catastrophe should not occur, even if he himself had to sit up and keep watch all through the night. The boys chose a very good spot for a camp, in that there was an abundance of loose wood at hand that could be used for fuel. Jud also suggested that they build two fires, so that they would have a certain amount of warmth on either side. "That's a good idea," said Paul, falling in with it immediately, for he saw how it would simplify matters in connection with their prisoners. He did not dare allow these men to have the freedom of their arms, for there could be no telling what they might not attempt in the desire to gain their freedom. And with their hands tied the lack of circulation might cause their extremities to freeze unless looked after. Supper was cooked, and things made as cheerful as the conditions allowed. Indeed, most of the boys thought that it was rather in the nature of a novel experience to be forced to sleep amidst the snow banks, and with only a scanty brush shelter between themselves and the clear, cold sky. Few of them secured much sleep, it may as well be admitted. Paul himself was on the alert most of the night. Dozens of times his head bobbed up, and his suspicious eyes covered the cowering forms of the two prisoners, who had been placed where they would get the full benefit of the twin fires. Then again the fires needed frequent attention, and Paul took it upon himself to see that they did not die down too low; for the night was still bitter cold. As an abundant supply of wood had been gathered by willing hands it was not very hard to toss a few armfuls on each fire from time to time. Morning came at last, and the scouts were up with the break of day. The fires were again attended to, and breakfast started, for the lads knew they would have a hard day's journey before them. There was a strong possibility that they would encounter some huge drifts which might block their passage; and it was this that gave Paul the most concern. It was nearly eleven when they finally sighted the place where the one-time canal merged its waters with the Radway river, forming the connecting link between that waterway and the home stream. "Looks like an old friend," asserted Jud, when they had turned off the wider stretch and started to follow the canal. "But see the snow piles ahead of us, will you?" cried Bobolink in dismay. "We're going to have some jolly work climbing through those!" "If you only look," remarked Paul, "in most cases you'll find you're able to go around the hills that bar your way." It was very much as Paul said, for, as a rule, they were able to find a passage around the huge drifts. Still progress was very tedious, and when the scouts finally reached the river the afternoon was well along. "Look! will you?" called out Sandy Griggs, exultantly. "The dear old Bushkill is swept as clear as a barn floor, and the ice is gilt-edged!" "Why!" echoed Bobolink, equally pleased, "our troubles have vanished just like smoke wreaths. We can run all the way home with this nice breeze that's coming up the river as fair as anything. Whoop! we're in great luck, fellows!" Stanhope was reached half an hour before sundown. There were a good many people on the ice, mostly boys and girls, and the coming of the iceboat flotilla created something of a stir. This was considerably augmented when it was learned that the scouts who had gone off on a trip to the snow woods had brought back two vagrants, who were responsible for the fire and the robbery that had recently occurred in the town. Of course, the men were easily convicted with so much evidence against them. Mr. Briggs publicly declared that he was very sorry for saying what he had in connection with the scouts, and that from that time on they could count on him as a friend of the organization. Some of the boys believed they would never again have the opportunity of engaging in such interesting events as had come their way during the midwinter outing. There were others, however, who declared that such an enterprising group of scouts would surely meet with new adventures while pursuing the study of Nature's mysteries. That these latter were good prophets the reader may learn from the succeeding volume of this series. At the very next meeting of the Banner Boy Scouts Mr. Thomas Garrity was an honored guest, and had the privilege of hearing an account read that covered all the doings of the ten lads during their midwinter outing. At the conclusion of the meeting it was only proper that a vote of thanks should be given to their benefactor for his kindness. This was done and was followed by three cheers that made Mr. Garrity's ears ring, and a smile of sympathy for these boyish hearts linger on his lips. 
39668	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print archive. AT START AND FINISH BY THE SAME AUTHOR APPLES OF ISTAKHAR AT START AND FINISH William Lindsey [Illustration] Boston Small, Maynard & Company 1899 _Copyright, 1896,_ by COPELAND AND DAY * * * * * _Copyright, 1899,_ by SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY TO THE ATHLETIC TEAMS OF OLD ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND, OXFORD, CAMBRIDGE, HARVARD, AND YALE, WHO MET IN LONDON JULY 22, 1899, GOOD WINNERS AND PLUCKY LOSERS, I DEDICATE THIS BOOK NOTE. In the present volume I have drawn freely on my previous collection (now out of print), "Cinder-path Tales," omitting some material, but adding much more that is new. I have also added headpieces, in which my suggestions have been very cleverly carried out by the artist, W. B. Gilbert. W. L. CONTENTS PAGE OLD ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND 1 MY FIRST, FOR MONEY 36 THE HOLLOW HAMMER 62 HIS NAME IS MUD 91 HOW KITTY QUEERED THE "MILE" 107 ATHERTON'S LAST "HALF" 131 THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE 153 A VIRGINIA JUMPER 176 AND EVERY ONE A WINNER 213 [Illustration: Old England and New England] It is something of an experience for an Englishman, after thirty years' absence, to stand on the steps of "Morley's" and face the sunlight of Trafalgar Square. He may not own a foot of English soil, he may have no friend left to meet him, he may even have become a citizen of the Great Republic, but he cannot look at the tall shaft on which the "little sailor" stands without a breath of pride, a mist in his eye, and a lump in his throat. It was early afternoon of a warm July day. There was barely enough wind to blow the spray of the fountains, and the water itself rose straight in the soft air. I stood contentedly watching the endless procession of busses, hansoms, and four-wheelers, with the occasional coster's cart, and asked for nothing more. Long-eared "Neddy" dragging "Arry," "Arriet," and a load of gooseberries was a combination on which my eye rested with peculiar fascination. No amateur "whip" in a red coat on a bottle-green coach could handle the "ribbons" over four "choice uns" with a finer air than "Arry" as he swung through the line and came clicking up the street. I would rather see him pass than the Lord Mayor in his chariot. I must have stood on the top step of "Morley's" for a good half-hour, not caring even to smoke, so sweet was the smell of a London street to me. I was thinking, as a man must at such a time, of old days and old friends,--not dismally, but with a certain sense of loss,--when a tall gentleman came slowly up the steps and stopped immediately in front of me. I moved aside, although there was plenty of room for him to pass; but still he looked at me gravely, and at last held out a big brown hand and said, as if we had parted only yesterday, "Well, Walter, old man, how are you?" I was a bit in doubt at first. He was so tall that his eyes were nearly on a level with my own, his figure erect and soldierly, his face bronzed as if from long exposure to a tropic sun. Only when he smiled did I know him, and then we gripped hands hard, our fingers clinging until we saw we were attracting the notice of those around us. Then our hands unclasped, and feeling a bit foolish over our emotion, we sat down together. At first we talked of commonplaces, though all the time I was thinking of an evening more than thirty years ago when we stood together on the river path, under the shadows of old Oxford towers, and said, "Good-bye." He then offered to stand by me when the friendship would have cost him something, and I declined the sacrifice. Would it have been better? Who can tell? Our first thoughts were a bit serious, perhaps, but our second became decidedly cheerful at meeting again after so long a time. I learned that he was "Colonel" Patterson, having gained his regiment a good ten years ago; that he had spent nearly all his time in India; that he had been invalided home; that he was, like myself, unmarried, and that he found himself rather "out of it" after all these years away from the "old country." I told how I had gone to America, where, finding all other talents unmarketable, I had become first a professional runner, and later a college trainer. To this occupation, in which I had been something of a success, I had given many years until a small invention had made me independent, and a man of leisure in a modest way. I saw he was a bit disappointed when I told him I had been forced to "turn pro." in order to obtain my bread and butter. I knew exactly how he felt, and well did I remember my sorrow when I dropped the "Mr." from my name. It is not a particularly high-sounding title, but to appreciate it at its true value a man need only to lose it and become plain "Smith," "Jones," or "Robinson." That nothing could raise the "pale spectre of the salt" between Frank Patterson and myself, not even going outside the pale of the "gentleman amateur," I was very certain. But when I told him a little later that I had become a full-fledged citizen of the United States, he could not conceal his surprise, although he said but little at first. We talked of other things for a while, and then my friend came back to what I knew he had been thinking about all the time, and he asked me bluntly how it was I had come to give up the nation of my birth. "It seemed only fair," I answered, "that I should become a citizen of the country in which I obtained my living, whose laws protected me, in which most of my friends were resident, and where I expected sometime to be buried." At this the Colonel was silent for a little while, and then he remarked rather doubtfully: "I cannot make up my mind just what the Americans are like. Are they what Kipling declared them in the 'Pioneer Mail' some ten years ago, when he cursed them root and branch, or what the same man said of them a few years later, when he affirmed just as strongly, 'I love them' and 'They'll be the biggest, finest, and best people on the surface of the globe'? Such contradictory statements are confusing to a plain soldier with nothing more than the average amount of intelligence. What is the use, too, of calling them Anglo-Saxon? They are, in fact, a mixture of Celt, Teuton, Gaul, Slav, with a modicum of Saxon blood, and I know not what else." I could not help smiling a little at the Colonel's earnestness. I tried to tell him that the American was essentially Anglo-Saxon in spite of all the mixture; that his traditions, aims, and sentiments were very much like his own; that he had the same language, law, and literature; that the boys read "Tom Brown at Rugby," and the old men Shakespeare, Browning, and Kipling. I told him that the boys played English games with but slight changes, and that they boxed like English boys, and their fathers fought like English men. "Yes," said the Colonel, at last interrupting my flow of eloquence, "I heard the statement made at the Army and Navy Club only last night, that the American soldier was close to our 'Tommy,' and that the Yankee sailor was second to none. Yet all the time I cannot adjust myself to the fact that he is 'one of us.' Perhaps if I saw some typical Americans I should be a little less at sea." "Well," I answered, "if that is what you want, I can give you plenty of opportunity. This afternoon occur the athletic games between Oxford and Cambridge on the one hand, and Harvard and Yale on the other. I am going with a party of Americans; we have seats in the American section, and I have a spare ticket which you can use as well as not. You can study the 'genus Americana' at your leisure, and see some mighty good sport meanwhile." "That would suit my book exactly," declared the Colonel; and he had scarcely spoken before I saw Tom Furness standing in the entrance of the hotel evidently looking for me. He was clad, despite the heat, in a long Prince Albert coat which fitted him like a glove, and wore a tall silk hat as well. He saw me almost immediately, and a moment later was shaking hands with the Colonel. The latter was dressed in a loose-fitting suit of gray flannel and sported a very American-looking straw hat, so that Tom really appeared the more English of the two. Which was the finer specimen of a man it would be hard to say, and one might not match them in a day's journey. They were almost exactly of a height, the Colonel not more erect than Tom, and not quite as broad of chest. The latter certainly had not the Colonel's clean-cut face, but there was something about his rather irregular features that would attract attention anywhere. I was pleased to see, too, that he gave to the Colonel a touch of the deference due his age and rank, which I admit some of Tom's countrymen might have forgotten. Furness was very cordial, too. "We are in great luck," he declared, "to have the Colonel with us, for a little later we should have been gone. It is about time to start now, after, of course, a little something to fortify us against the drive." So he took us into the smoking-room, where he introduced the Colonel to Harry Gardiner and Jim Harding. He also made him acquainted with a Manhattan cocktail, which the Colonel imbibed with some hesitation, but found very decidedly to his liking. Tom explained that he had taught them how to make it himself that very morning, and that it could not be bettered in all London. Furness always constitutes himself host if he has the least excuse for so doing. It is a way he has. Nothing but a man's own hearthstone in his own particular castle stops him. He takes possession of all neutral ground like that of a hotel, and considers it his duty to make matters pleasant for all around him. Harding and Gardiner were a half-dozen years younger than Furness, and it was not many years since I had trained them for very much the same kind of games as those of the afternoon. Harding was a big fellow, with broad shoulders, and a mop of yellow hair. He had been a mighty good man in his day with both "shot" and "hammer." Harry Gardiner had been a sprinter,--one of the best starters I ever knew,--and a finisher, too, which does not always follow. The Colonel got along very well with them all,--a little reserved at first, and studying all three of them in a very quiet way. He could sometimes not quite make out what Harding, who had a very choice vocabulary of Americanisms, was driving at, and one or two of Tom's jokes he failed utterly to comprehend; but he seemed to understand the men themselves fairly well, nevertheless. We chatted together a few minutes, and then Furness declared it was time to start, producing cigars which would have tempted a modern Adam more than any apple in the Garden of Eden. So the Colonel and myself left the others, and were soon comfortably ensconced in a clean hansom, behind a good piece of horseflesh, and bowling along toward the Queen's Club Grounds at a very respectable rate of speed. We enjoyed our ride very thoroughly, and arrived at the Comeragh Road entrance almost too soon, for the crowd was only beginning to gather. We obtained programmes, and entering the gateway found ourselves in full view of the grounds at once. A mighty fine sight they were, too, the stretch of level greensward, hard and velvety, with the dark brown cinder-path encircling it. The seats rose on all sides but one, and there, outside the fence, was the fringe of waving trees, and the red brick houses, trim and neat. Over all was the soft blue sky, with here and there a drifting cloud. I could see the Colonel's eyes glisten. He had spent the best part of his life in a country which alternated between the baked brown clay of the dry season and the wild luxuriance that followed the rains. He went to the very outside edge of the track, and took a careful step or two on it, examining it with the eye of a connoisseur, for he knew something of a track, although he had not seen one for many years. "'Tis fast," said he, knowingly. "With the heat and calm the conditions are right enough, and the men will have nobody to blame but themselves if they do not come close to the records." We walked slowly by the telegraph office, and back of the tennis courts. As we passed the Tea-room we could see a few people at the tables, and quite a little group was gathered around the Members' Pavilion. We went by the Royal Box, with its crimson draperies, and found our seats close to the finish of the hundred-yard, half, mile, and three-mile runs. The Colonel gave himself at once to the careful examination of the programme, as did I myself. The "Oxford and Cambridge" was printed in dark blue ink, and "Harvard and Yale" in crimson. For stewards there were C. N. Jackson and Lees Knowles, the former once the finest hurdler in England. For the Americans, E. J. Wendell and C. H. Sherrill officiated; many a bit of red worsted had I seen the latter break across the sea. Judges, referee, and timekeeper were alike well known on both continents, and had all heard the crunch of a running shoe as it bit into the cinders. Wilkinson of Sheffield was to act as "starter." "He has the reputation of never having allowed a fraction to be stolen on his pistol," remarked the Colonel. "Let him watch Blount to-day then," I said. The Colonel ran his finger down the list. "Nine contests in all. One of strength, three of endurance, two of speed, two of activity, and the 'quarter' only is left where speed and bottom are both needed. How will they come out?" he asked. "About five to four," I answered, "but I cannot name the winner. On form Old England should pull off the 'broad jump,' the 'mile' and 'three miles,' and New England is quite sure of the 'hammer' and 'high jump.' This leaves the 'hundred' and 'hurdles,' the 'quarter' and 'half' to be fought out, although of course nothing is sure but death and taxes." "I suppose it will be easy to distinguish the men by their style and manner," said the Colonel. "You will not see much difference," I replied. "The Americans wear the colors more conspicuously, Harvard showing crimson, and Yale dark blue. 'Tis the same shade as Oxford's. The Americans have also the letters 'H' and 'Y' marked plainly on the breasts of their jerseys. There are some of the contestants arriving now," I remarked, pointing across the track; "would you like to see them before they strip?" "I certainly would," he answered; and we slipped out of our seats and around the track to the Members' Pavilion, in front of which they stood. Just before we reached them, however, we met Furness, Harding, and Gardiner, the former holding a little chap about ten years old by the hand, who was evidently his "sire's son," for his eyes were big with excitement and pleasure. "Which are they?" inquired the Colonel, a little doubtfully. "That chap in front is an English lad or I miss my guess," looking admiringly at a young giant apparently not more than twenty years old, and perhaps the finest-looking one of the lot. His hat was in his hand, his eyes were bright, and skin clear, with a color that only perfect condition brings. "No," I answered, rather pleased at his mistake; "that is a Harvard Freshman, though he bears a good old English name. Since Tom of Rugby, the Browns have had a name or two in about every good sporting event on earth. Would you like to know him?" I asked, for just then the young fellow spied me out and came forward to meet me with a smile of recognition. I was quite willing to introduce H. J. Brown to the Colonel, although it was hardly fair to present him as a sample of an American boy. As Tom would have said, it was showing the top of a "deaconed" barrel of apples. The young fellow shook the Colonel's hand with an easy self-possession, coloring a little under his brown skin at the older man's close scrutiny, who said a quiet word concerning the games, and asked him if he felt "fit." "I'm as fit as they can make a duffer," he answered. "Boal, over there," pointing to an older man with a strong face full of color and who was a bit shorter and even more strongly built,--"Boal is the man who throws the hammer. He's better than I by a dozen feet." "Yes," remarked Tom, coming forward and shaking Brown's hand with a hearty grip, "this young man is not an athlete at all; he worked so hard at his studies that they sent him over here to recruit his health, impaired by too close application. He is strong only in his knowledge of Greek verbs and logarithms." At this there was quite a laugh, in which Brown joined heartily and the Colonel came in with a quiet chuckle, for he had come to quite enjoy Tom's "little jokes;" and under cover of our amusement the young fellow left us and disappeared in the dressing-room. The Colonel watched the little string of well-groomed fellows file along, taking particular notice of the smallest chap of all, who came laughing by, swinging his dress-suit case as if it weighed a scant pound. "What does he do?" the Colonel asked. "That's Rice, the high jumper," spoke up Tom. "He is good for six feet before or after breakfast. Indeed I think he could do the distance between every course of a long dinner, with perhaps an extra inch or two before the roast." "He has the best style of any man we have," volunteered Gardiner, "and goes over the bar as if he had wings." I tried to get the Colonel to look over the English lads. "Oh, they 're all right, I know. I want to see how near the American boys can come to them," said he, for the Colonel was loyal to his own, and after his long absence thought all the more of everything the Old Country produced. We did get a look at one or two, among them Vassall, an Oriel man, whom Tom pointed out, although how he knew him I could not guess. He was a grand-looking fellow, very strongly put together, and he walked as if on eggs. "He looks like a winner, sure enough," said I. "Yes," continued the Colonel, "old Oriel always has a good thing or two on field and river both." By this time the seats were filling rapidly, the stands were becoming crowded, and around the track were rows of people seated on the grass. We elbowed our way to our own places, and were settled at last, the Colonel on my left, little Billy Furness next, and Tom last of the row. In front of us were Gardiner and Harding, and behind, four or five American girls, two of them pretty, and all of them well dressed, with plenty of crimson and blue in their costumes. We had scarcely taken our seats when one of the girls discovered the royal carriage, jumping to her feet so hurriedly that she rather disturbed the Colonel's hat, for which she apologized so prettily that he must have felt indebted to her, despite the trouble. We all rose as the royal party alighted from their carriage, and the London Victoria Military Band played as only they can on such an occasion. We could see the Prince plainly, and with his light clothes and hat he set a good example of comfort to others. He looked to me much as he did when I saw him last on a Derby day many years ago. A good patron of sport has he always been, and his presence now gave color and zest to the whole affair. When he appeared in the box, he stood for a few moments, his eyes wandering over the grounds, and a smile of pleasure on his face. A royal sight it was, too, for the sun was shining brightly on the many-colored bank of spectators that circled the track. The hurdles stood in straight rows on the farther side, and right in front were the twin flag-staffs, at the feet of which hung the Union Jack and Stars and Stripes ready to hoist as one or the other country won. In the middle of the field were the blackboard and a megaphone, suspended from a tripod for indicating to eye and ear the results of the contest and records made. The first contestants to show were the "hammer throwers," and the big fellows were greeted with a rattling round of applause as they crossed the track, Greenshields of Oxford, Baines of Cambridge, Boal and Brown of Harvard, chatting cordially together as they walked over the field to their places in the farther corner. The little girl behind us offered the Colonel her field-glasses, which he was glad to get, and for which he thanked her heartily. "Take them whenever you want," she said with a smile; "you'll find them right here in my lap." Now this certainly was a freedom to which the Colonel was not accustomed, but I noticed that he seemed to adjust himself to it very easily. It was not, perhaps, the manner of the "Vere de Veres," but was very cordial, which was something better still. "Who is expected to win?" inquired the Colonel, as Greenshields began to swing the hammer around his head. "This is supposed to be a sure thing for Boal of Harvard," I answered. "Yes," spoke up little Billy, "and I know him too. Case Boal is a daisy." "A daisy is he?" asked the Colonel, looking down at the little fellow's flushed face. "He looks to me more like a big red rose. Do you throw the hammer too?" "No," answered Billy, gravely, "though I've got a cousin, most fifteen, who throws the twelve-pound hammer, and is a 'cracker jack.'" "A cracker jack, is he?" inquired the Colonel; "and are you a cracker jack too?" "Oh no," answered Billy, "I'm not much. I sprint a little, and won second place in the 'hundred' at my school games this spring. I want to run the 'quarter,' but dad won't let me till I'm older. That was his distance, and when I go to college I shall try for the quarter too." "Bless his heart," said the Colonel to me. "Are there many American boys like him?" "The woods are full of them," I answered. "There goes Brown; I want you to see him throw. He will not do Boal's distance, but is improving every day, and has a very pretty style. He is probably a few yards better than Greenshields, and Baines can hardly get the hammer away at all. The Englishmen have really no show in this event, for it is not cultivated as it should be in the Universities." "Why, then," asked the Colonel, "did our men include it with no hope of winning?" "It was a very sportsmanlike thing to do," declared Furness, "and arranged in much the same spirit as the three-mile run, which is a distance unknown in America, and in which we have not the least chance." "Yes," said I, "I cannot remember a contest in which there was so little jockeying in the preliminaries. They were conducted in the most liberal manner on both sides, and many concessions were made. One of the best illustrations is the 'hurdle race,' which will be run over turf, as is the custom here, while the hurdles will be movable, as is usual in America." "That is the true spirit of amateur sport," said the Colonel, "and is a mighty fine thing, whichever wins." Now I must confess that at this moment I found myself in a very peculiar state of mind. I was not sure which team I preferred to carry off the odd event. This was very unusual for me, as I am always something of a partisan, and cannot see two little chaps running a barefooted race along the street without picking a favorite, being a bit pleased if he wins and disappointed if he loses. But to-day there was on one side the country of my birth and on the other that of my adoption, and between them I was utterly unable to choose. So evenly did they draw upon my sentiment that I made up my mind I should be satisfied either way, and meanwhile I could enjoy myself without prejudice. "There's the jumpers," suddenly cried out little Billy, whose quick eye had first discovered them emerging from the crowd that fringed the track in front of the dressing-rooms. Sure enough, there were Daly and Roche in their crimson sweaters looking over the ground. The former carefully paced off his distance from the joist and marked his start, and as he did so, Vassall and Beven appeared, sporting respectively the dark and light blue, and shook hands with their opponents. "Who is the favorite here?" inquired the Colonel. "Oh, Vassall will win in a walk," answered Tom. At this the Colonel was entirely at sea. "But," said he, "I did not think there was to be a walk at all," examining his programme carefully. Then catching Tom's meaning, he continued, "You mean he wins easily? Well, I'm glad of that. I should like to see one first at least pulled off by the old college." "Nothing will stop him but an attack of apoplexy before his first jump," declared Tom, positively. "He will not need to take another. I saw him in the spring games, and a more natural jumper I never saw. He is at least a foot better than Daly, who I believe never made a broad jump in public until it was known he might be needed by his college." "You ought to see him play football," said Billy here, looking up at the Colonel with admiring eyes. "He's a 'dandy,' and just as cool as that 'measurer' over there," pointing to a gentleman who had bent over the many throws of the hammer until he was in a most profuse perspiration. At this there was a laugh from all round, which was followed by another as Billy's example of coolness wiped his beaded brow. The "hammer" and "long jump" are not very rapid events at best, but they answered very well while the late-comers were finding their seats. I was particularly pleased to note that Tom had eyes only for Vassall, whose easy style took his fancy amazingly, while the Colonel saw nothing to admire but the Americans' exhibition with the weight. He borrowed the glasses from the little girl behind him, with whom he had become very friendly for so reserved a man, and watched Brown carefully as he planted his feet firmly in the seven-feet circle, swung the heavy hammer around his head again and again without moving from his ground, until with a last fierce effort he sent the missile whirling through the air in a long arc to strike with a dull thud. Just as the Colonel started to comment on it admiringly, however, he was interrupted by a cheer as on one of the flag-poles that rose side by side in front of the royal box the Union Jack was hoisted to indicate that England had won the first event. A little later on the other pole the Stars and Stripes were run up, and we knew that the "hammer throw" had gone to the Americans, and honors were easy. The blackboard showed that Vassall had jumped his twenty-three feet, and Boal had thrown one hundred and thirty-six feet eight and one-half inches, both very excellent performances. The Colonel was enjoying himself immensely, and I was gratified to see how much at home he had made himself. He found in Furness a very congenial spirit, Billy was a boy after his own heart, and the young ladies behind him were interesting enough to take quite a little of his attention. He was telling them something about a polo match in India when I interrupted him to point out the men going to their marks for the "hundred-yard dash." We could look along the splendid track with the narrow laneways made by the white cords. Hind of Oxford inside, then Quinlan with an "H" on his crimson jersey, then Thomas with the narrow stripes of dark blue, and outside Blount with a jersey of the same color and the "Y" on his breast. "Who wins here?" asked the Colonel. "I give it up," answered Tom; "this is a race." We could hear the starter's "Marks," "Set;" the wreath of smoke rose from his pistol, and before the sound reached us, they were off, Blount a bit the first, Hind and Quinlan close together, and Thomas a shade behind. Did Blount beat the pistol? I am not sure. He was certainly in the lead; then Quinlan came up, to be in turn collared by Thomas, who had a shade the best of it until the last few strides, when the big fellow in the crimson jersey made a supreme effort and shot by us, a winner by a foot. "Close work that," remarked Harding. "Yes," said Tom, "it was a close fit, and not much cloth left." When the American flag went up again, and the blackboard showed the ten seconds with no fraction to mar its symmetry, there was very hearty applause from the whole field. Even time in the "hundred"! Only the aristocracy belong here. This is where fractions tell, this race "that is run in a breath." There are thousands good for ten-two, tens are equal to the ten-one, but the men who can do the straight ten can be counted on the fingers of the hand, and even then the conditions must suit them. "Do you know," remarked the Colonel, with a far-away look in his eyes, "I can remember the day when I would have given a year of my life to have seen those figures after my name? I had a friend once who held the watch over me on a still June afternoon who showed the figure, but I never saw it again, and I fear that friendship made the watch stop a bit too soon." The "mile" was not a race at all. When Hunter of Cambridge romped in a winner by a good twenty yards, with Dawson of Oxford beating out Spitzer of Yale by a very determined finish, Tom declared that it was "a very pretty procession, with a big gap after the band wagon." Freemantle gave a beautiful example of pacemaking, and what Hunter might have done had he been forced is only guesswork. It now stood even again with a two to two, to which Oxford and Cambridge had each contributed a win, and Harvard two. Yale had not distinguished herself as yet; 1899 is certainly not Yale's year. As the men went to their marks for the hurdles, starting in the farther corner of the field and finishing far to our right, they were watched with particular interest, for this was considered by many to be the pivotal race. Paget-Tomlinson was known to be good for his sixteen seconds, and might knock a fraction off this. Just what Fox could do was more of a question, although the story of a very pretty trial had leaked out in some way. Tom told the Colonel it was a case of "horse and horse," which expression he was forced to explain, as it was a shade too doubtful. A hurdle-race is a pretty sight over cinders, but on turf as green and level as a billiard-table it was doubly beautiful. We could see Fox and Hallowell crouch for the start, and Tomlinson and Parkes bend forward. I did not hear the pistol, so fascinated was I, as the men came away, skimming over the ground like four swallows, and rising over the first row of hurdles as if they had wings. It is easy to judge a hurdle-race from any angle. All that is necessary is to watch the men rise, for the one that lifts first is certainly ahead. Sometimes a race is won in the "run in," but not often. At the first hurdle the men rose almost together, at the second Parks and Hallowell were a bit late, at the third they were plainly behind, and Paget-Tomlinson was also a bit tardy. From this out, Fox drew ahead all the time, finishing with a burst of speed that put the result entirely out of doubt. I had just remarked, after the applause had somewhat subsided, that Tomlinson must have been "off form" when the board showed a fifteen and three-fifths, and I revised my conclusion. The "Cantab" had done better time than ever, but Fox had demolished the record. It was right here that the Colonel received something of a shock, for a little behind us and on our right a young fellow suddenly sprang to his feet, and called out at the top of his voice: "All together now. Three long Harvards, and three times three for Harvard." And then from a hundred throats came "Harvard, Harvard, Harvard, rah rah rah rah rah rah rah rah rah, Harvard." The Colonel confessed to me afterward that his first thought was that some one had gone crazy. "By Jove," said he, "I have heard 'Fuzzy Wuzzy' make some queer noises in my time, but that beats them all." I explained to him that it was a custom among the American colleges to have a particular cheer to encourage or applaud, but I saw that it took all the Colonel's accumulated enthusiasm to carry him through. It did sound a bit queer on the Queen's Grounds, however it might go on the Soldiers' Field in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The events now stood three to two in favor of New England, and their chances did look very good to me. They needed but two more wins out of the four remaining, and one of these was the "high jump," which on form was a certainty for them. To be sure, it was whispered that Burke had "gone stale," but I had seen him win so many times when he was plainly not in condition, that I did not count him out. Then, again, there was Boardman in the "quarter," and Yale was "about due," according to Tom. At the very start of the "half" Struben started out to make pace in a very business-like manner, which the Americans might have copied to advantage. Indeed from first to last they showed little knowledge of this useful accomplishment. That Burke tailed on was a surprise to no one who had seen him run, for with his turn of speed his game is to keep close up and run his man down in the last fifty yards. Yet I did not like the way he took his first step. He seemed dead and in difficulties after the first lap. I heard the little girl behind us declare confidently, "Just wait till Tom Burke reaches the straight." We did wait, sure enough, but he never came. Graham passed Struben, and finished comfortably in one fifty-seven and one-fifth, with Adams a poor third. The score was now even again, with three to three, and, as Furness declared, he was "beginning to have a touch of 'heart disease.'" "It is certainly 'up to Boardman' now," said Tom, as the men went to their marks for the "quarter." "Unless he can pull this off we are counted out, and no mistake." The young Yale Freshman had before this run half round the track, to limber up a bit, and appeared right on edge. There was hardly a sound as the men waited for the signal. Nobody cared to talk as they took their places for that most punishing of all distances, the "quarter mile," and every one watched the little bunch of men in the far corner of the field. Hollins, the stocky little Oxford man, was away first, as if for one hundred yards. He drew Boardman and Fisher after him at a killing pace, Davison running easily behind. Round the first turn they came, Boardman inside and on practically even terms with Hollins, the tall Yale man looking a bit anxious even then. Down the stretch they sprinted, still at top speed. At the last turn Boardman shot ahead, and for a brief second looked all over a winner. It was only for a second, however, for Hollins swung wide, and Davison came through like a locomotive, as strong and speedy. Boardman made a plucky effort, but the big "Cantab" would not be denied; he came to the front thirty yards from the finish, and the best the Yale man could do was to stagger over, five yards to the bad, and dead run out. Whether or no he would have done any better if he had stayed back instead of following Hollins I cannot tell. "Poor old Yale," said Furness, contemplatively, when the applause had died out, the Americans joining gamely, although they knew their last hope went with this event. "Poor old Yale, it was not always thus. I can remember a time when Yale men had a very pretty knack of breaking the worsted and letting the other fellows run between the posts, but this is not Yale's day nor year." We now had time to watch the "high jumping," which was going on in front of us and a little to the right. The bar had reached five feet ten inches, and Paget-Tomlinson had gone out at five-five. Rotch comes first and is over, although he touches the bar, and it trembles a moment uncertain. Adair is over too. The English lad takes his run a bit across and goes over with a grand lift from his long legs. Here comes Rice, who has not yet pulled off his sweater, although the bar is already several inches over his head. The little chap bends forward, gets on his toes, gives a short run straight at it, lifts in the air like a bird, shoots over, turning in the air meanwhile, lands lightly with his face to the bar he has just cleared, and runs back under it to his place. It is the prettiest performance for a high jump that the Colonel has ever seen, and he applauds vigorously, as do many others. At the next lift of the bar Rotch goes out, for he has not been himself quite, and is not equal to the six feet which he has so often negotiated. We expected also to see Adair drop out here, for five eight and one-fourth had been his best record; but he showed daylight between himself and the bar, and for the first time I began to be anxious. I truly did not care which team won, but I did not want to see anything worse than a five-four, and it looked now as if it might be a six-three. Up goes the bar to five-eleven, and again both Adair and Rice are equal to the task before them. With Adair it is the performance of a grand natural jumper, but with Rice it is all this, and a style that must be worth inches to him. At six feet the Oxford man did not go at the bar with quite the determination he had previously shown, and down it came. Rice now pulls off his sweater for the first time, showing how well put together he is from head to foot. Straight for the bar he goes, just the same as when it was at five-six, and he clears it with apparently the same ease as at the lower distance. Adair struggles gamely, but his last try is unsuccessful, and the score stands four to four, with only the "three-mile" left. I could see very plainly now that the Colonel was getting a bit nervous. "Do you consider this a certain thing for Workman?" he asked me, after Tom had declared that the Americans had no chance at all, and that the contest was all over "but the shouting." "Yes," I answered. "None of the Americans have ever done the distance, and this is where condition tells. I doubt if they could pull it off on neutral ground; after a sea voyage and a few days in a different climate they are simply out of it." "Well," said the Colonel, "I shall feel better when it is over. I have seen enough of the Yankee boys to have considerable respect for them, even in a race they have no right to win." The six contestants took their places in that leisurely manner which is always shown in a distance run. This race is not won at the start,--not much. All the same the Britishers were quite willing to make pace, for they swung ahead at the beginning, and for several laps Workman of Cambridge, Smith and Wilberforce of Oxford, showed the way around at a fair pace. Tom had his watch out and caught four fifty-eight for the first mile. At the end of the fifth lap Smith retired, after having made pace for a considerable part of the journey, leaving his man, Workman, in the lead and running strongly. Only a little later Clarke, who had given no clue to his difficulties and had been running well, suddenly collapsed, dropping on the track without a word, almost without a stagger, and was carried to the grass completely "run out." It was a "run out" too, and not one of the grand-stand performances which we sometimes see. At the close of the two miles Wilberforce suddenly retired, having suffered badly with a stitch in his side which he could not overcome, and Workman, Palmer, and Foote only were left, the last dropping a bit behind all the time, but sticking doggedly to it nevertheless. "By Jove!" exclaimed the Colonel, in the middle of the seventh lap, "that man Palmer looks dangerous; he is clinging to Workman's heels and is running fully as easily." "He is doing well," I answered, "but I do not like his color. Look at Workman's face and you will see the difference." "Difference or not," spoke up the Colonel, excitedly, "there he goes;" and true enough, Palmer suddenly quickened his stride and took the lead. "He'll do it," cried the Colonel; but the "Cantab" immediately regained his premier place again, while a great cheer went up from the crowd. Twice after in the eighth lap did Palmer repeat the performance, but each time Workman came up again. Every one was now on his feet, as the bell rang for the last lap. There was a hoarse murmur of excitement; the Colonel muttered something under his breath. Tom was pressing his leg against mine as if he thought he could push his man along. Billy was jumping up and down, and the little girl behind us was laughing rather hysterically. Which would win, Old England or New England? It was settled in a most conclusive way by Workman himself, for the bell seemed to act like an elixir of life to him. Suddenly he began to lengthen and quicken his stride, and he left Palmer as if he were anchored. Round the track he swung as if it was the first lap of the "half," and when he broke the worsted he was raised by willing hands to the shoulder and carried to the dressing-room in triumph. The crowd surged onto the track, as they ought not, and interfered with Palmer's finish; but it did not harm him, for he was really "run out," and Foote was yards behind, though running pluckily. We were all mixed up together for a few minutes, shaking hands all round, all of us with flushed faces. Billy had a suspiciously red nose, and the little girl behind us one big tear on her cheek. Suddenly the Colonel caught my arm and pointed to the two flags, the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes waving side by side. "Look at that," he cried; "that's a sight worth coming far to see." "Yes," said Tom, uncovering, "and with lads like those who have fought it out to-day to defend them, it would be a bad job to try to pull them down." We lingered for a little while, and when we separated it was agreed that Tom and I should join the Colonel and a friend at the Army and Navy Club for dinner. There we talked of many things, but mostly of the two great nations which we represented. "'Tis the same breed, after all," declared the Colonel, oracularly. "Of course the cross strain is there, but it has not hurt at all as far as I can see. Do you know what did the most to convert me? Well, it was that handshake with young Brown. A Frenchman can't shake hands, and neither can a German, though good fellows both may be. But Brown had the good firm grip close to the crotch of the thumb, and looked me straight in the eye meanwhile. 'Tis only the Anglo-Saxon can do this properly." When the evening was well on, we drank a toast or two; for the Colonel's friend, who was a retired naval officer, declared that it was an occasion where a dry dinner would be a disgrace, and he was strongly seconded by Tom. So first came "The Queen, God bless her." Then "The President, God help him," as Tom piously ejaculated. We drank to the two teams, good winners and plucky losers both, and then to the flags. "I have nothing against the other bits of bunting," declared Tom, generously; "but what is the use of having more than two? Let us arrange it now. The Union Jack shall fly over the eastern, and the Stars and Stripes over the western hemisphere. The Frenchman, German, and Russian shall take what is left." "That leaves them the sea," I interposed. "The sea!" cried Tom; "why, that is ours already beyond dispute." It was just at midnight that we drank our last toast with all the honors. It was the "Anglo-Saxon Race." May its two great nations never meet in sterner conflict than that fought out in friendliness, on green field and brown cinder-path, under a smiling sky! [Illustration: First For Money] It was late in the winter of 186- that I arrived in Boston, having bade farewell to Old England for good and all. It was not an easy thing to do, and it was with a wrench of the heart that I made the break-away. I confess the separation was not entirely of my own choosing, that I left under a cloud I do not care to lift, that I had sinned the sins of youth and repented of them. Nothing more shall I say; but one thing I can never quite forget,--back in old Lancashire was I gentleman born and bred. When I landed, less than fifty dollars had I in my pocket; but that did not fret me, for I had been assured an Englishman of good birth and breeding had but to pick and choose in the "States." All my money and most of my conceit were gone when I met Arthur Hacking a month later. I had first stopped at a good hotel, and offered my services at genteel occupations, such as banking and school-teaching. But business men, very naturally, declined to trust a man without references who admitted that his past was not clear; and from school-teaching I was prohibited by a lamentable weakness in both mathematics and the languages. Indeed, I then realized for the first time that there were more important schools than that of the "cinder-path," and something more was needed to get on in the world than a highly cultivated pair of legs. As my money disappeared my ideas moderated. I moved to less and less pretentious quarters, until an attic-room and a sickly fire became luxuries I was likely soon to miss. As if it were yesterday do I remember the raw March morning, when, having spent a few cents out of my only remaining dollar, I set out to make a last desperate effort for employment other than that of the horny-handed son of toil. At noon I stood on the corner of Washington street and Cornhill, utterly at a loss what to do. My overcoat was in pawn, and an east wind, such as Boston only knows, was freezing my very marrow. The streets were full of half-melted snow and ice, and my feet were wet and cold. As I stood there with much of the feeling and something of the attitude of a lost dog, I suddenly recognized a man to whom I had applied a few days before for a position as bookkeeper. I stopped him and asked bluntly for work of any kind. He offered me a job as day laborer, cutting ice on some pond several miles away; for he was the manager of an ice company. I should have accepted at once had he not, with true Yankee shrewdness, argued from my evident necessity and unskilfulness that I should work for less than a regular day's pay. At this I demurred, but should certainly have yielded had not Hacking, by some freak of fortune, passing by, caught in my speech the accents of the "old Shire." He introduced himself without ceremony, and taking me by the arm, led me away, telling the ice-cutter to go to a place where the climate would give him no occupation, unless he changed his business. Hacking was a big, bluff chap with a red face, and not a bit of the Yankee about him, though he was then some ten years over. When he offered me his friendship, and suggested that we could talk better in a warm place, and after a lunch, you may be sure I did not refuse him. My heart and stomach were alike empty. All through my disappointments a stiff upper lip had I kept, but this first bit of kindness was almost too much for me, and I nearly played the woman for all my twenty years. We adjourned to the "Bell-in-hand," where I told as little as possible of my story to him, between alternate mouthfuls of cold beef and swallows of old ale. I confessed to him I was "dead broke," and could find no employment; that is, no employment for which I was fitted. He asked me for what I was fitted, and I told him I was blessed if I knew; that as near as I could discover day labor was about all I was good for. He clapped me on the back with a "Never say die, my lad!" but could think of no suggestion which promised me any relief, and finally invited me to drive home with him. He owned a little inn at Brighton, and promised me food and shelter for a few days until I could "gather myself together." That this very necessary feat could be performed in a "few days" I very much doubted; but the invitation I accepted gratefully, and five o'clock found me sitting beside him on the narrow seat of a light carriage, my portmanteau tied on behind. The road to Brighton was a very decent one, and the big roan mare he drove reeled off the miles in a way that opened my eyes to the possibilities of the trotting horse. I doubt if there was her equal in all England. A clock was striking six when we stopped before the door of the "Traveller's Rest," and I slid off the seat on to the frozen ground, my legs so stiff that I could scarcely walk. It was a large white house, with green blinds, and a piazza with tall white pillars in front. Cosy enough it seemed, too, with its lighted windows and its smell of hot meats; while from the bar in the corner came the sounds of a jingling piano and a good voice singing an Old Country ballad of "Jack and his Susan." I found the inside of the house as comfortable as the outside looked inviting, and it was after a better dinner than I had eaten for many days that I sat with Hacking in a little parlor off the bar, my feet toasting at a coal fire, taking a comforting pipe and an occasional sip of the "necessary." It did not take me long to find that Hacking was most interested in sporting matters, and our conversation gradually harked back to the cracks of the cinder-path who were in their glory when he left Lancashire, ten years before. A little information I gave him about old friends, and then we talked of those who had taken their places, Hacking bewailing the fact that there were none like the "good uns" of the past. "How many men are there to-day," he asked, "who can do the hundred in even time?" "There are very few good sound even-timers in all England," I answered, "and only two among the amateurs,--one a Cockney, the other a Yorkshireman. The only Lancashireman who can do the hundred in ten seconds is sitting with you to-night, and little likely to see the Old Country again for many a long year, if ever." At this, Hacking gave me a very comprehensive look, puffed a few times vigorously at his pipe, and said, "Young fellow, boasting is a very bad habit, particularly on sporting matters. I will bet you your board bill for a month against the pipe you smoke, that you cannot show me better than eleven seconds to-morrow morning." "Eleven seconds!" said I, "a school-boy should do that." "Yes, eleven seconds," spoke up Hacking again. "You are not in condition and the track is slow, which will even matters up, and I'll give you the advantage of the odd fraction." I accepted his proposition very promptly, though the pipe was the only friend I had, and a relic of old college days which I should have hated to lose. While I was certainly not in training, poverty and worry had left me no superfluous flesh, and it must be a bad track indeed which could pull me back to eleven. We talked and smoked until a little after ten, when I pleaded fatigue and went upstairs to bed, Hacking agreeing to call me at six o'clock the following morning, as he said he had reasons for wishing the trial private. He showed me to a very comfortable room on the second floor, which seemed luxurious after my experiences of the last two weeks. Although I had left home without the formalities of farewell calls, and under the cover of the night, I had put in my luggage, small as it was, a pair of running shoes, trunks, and jersey. Why I did this I could not have told; certainly not in expectation of using them again, for I thought there was no sport in America, and that I had run my last race. I think now it must have been the unconscious wish to keep one link with the good old days when I had carried the "dark blue" to the front, or thereabout, over brown cinder path and soft green sod. I did not sleep very well for all my comfortable quarters, and when Hacking knocked at my door on the following morning I had been up an hour or more, and was clad in full running togs, having ripped from trunks and jersey all trace of the well-loved color. When he looked me over his eyes glistened, for he had not seen an English athlete in a proper rig for many a long day. We went down the back stairs and through the barn yard to a little track behind the house. It was a foggy morning and one could barely see the length of the hundred yards. I jogged once or twice over the course to warm up, and discover some of the bad spots, and then announced that I was ready for the trial. Just then the sun came out, and as I waited at the start while Hacking went to the finish, he walked through a golden haze. It seemed a good omen. I felt more at home in my running-shoes than I had since I left the Old Country, and was once again happy, with my foot on the mark, drinking in full draughts of fresh air and waiting for the signal to be off. This was the drop of a handkerchief, for Hacking did not care to use a pistol. There was the quick spring, the crunch of the cinders, the rush of the soft wind, the ever-quickening stride, until with one last effort I passed the post with a rush. It was a rough trial, sure enough, but Hacking's watch showed ten and four-fifths. He announced himself satisfied, confirmed his promise, and my worry about food and shelter was over for a full long month. I now spent a number of days trying still to find something to do which I could fairly handle, going into the city each day, but entirely without result. I was at no expense, however, for I walked to and from town, and took a cold lunch with me. This last was attended to by Hacking's niece, a tall, fair-haired girl, a trifle awkward yet, for she was only sixteen, but pretty, and promising to be a real beauty later. She was very kind and gracious, as a good girl is sure to be toward one in trouble. Indeed, Jennie's sympathy soon became liking, and might perhaps have grown to something more had it received any encouragement. I do not mean by this that I was irresistible or that she was at all unmaidenly, for a more modest girl I never saw. But she was very lonely, her uncle allowing her not the least word with any of his customers. I was the first young fellow she had ever known, and sixteen is a romantic age. Never was I beast enough to have gone further than a mild flirtation with a girl like Jennie, and now I was bound in honor not to abuse the confidence of a friend, the only one I had. There were some old Lancashire memories, also, which would not down. I had not been long at the "Traveller's Rest" before, at Hacking's request, I went into mild training, and soon after he broached to me a plan by which I might make enough to keep me for some months, and incidentally a comfortable penny for his own purse. This was the plan: There was in Boston a man by the name of Simmons, who was yards better than any one in the country. Hacking plainly told me that while I ought to win, even I had no sure thing, but that he would risk a hundred dollars or more on my success; that he could get odds of at least two to one, and that he would give me one-third of the winnings. It may be a matter of surprise that I should decline this offer,--almost an object of charity, with everything to win and nothing to lose; but there was something very disagreeable to me in the thought of turning professional. The line between amateur and professional was then, and is now, much more closely drawn on the other side than here,--and rightly so, to my mind. While I do not propose to preach a sermon on this text, "I could, an' if I would." The jockeying in our American colleges, though very skilfully done, is bad in every way and hurts legitimate sport not a little. I felt, I say, that in running for a wager with a professional I was forfeiting my standing as a gentleman amateur, and my claim to be considered a gentleman at all. Jennie thought the same thing, and came mighty near a quarrel with her uncle over the matter. But he, led more by the ambition to pull off a good thing than by mercenary motives, would not give up his plan, though Jennie begged with tears in her eyes,--an argument which had never before been ineffectual. It was only when I had lived on his bounty a full week over the month that he hinted, delicately enough (for a right good fellow was he), that my time was up. There was nothing else to do but consent, and a week later the "Boston Herald" announced that there was "a match on between Chipper Simmons and Hacking's Unknown, $200 to $100, distance one hundred yards, to be run May 1, at Hacking's Brighton track, at four o'clock in the afternoon." I had three weeks of careful training on the wretched little track, and when the morning of May 1 dawned I was fit as possible, and able to run for my life. It was not an English May day, but more like what I was used to seeing in the Old Country a month earlier. The sky was blue, and across it drifted soft white clouds, for there had been showers in the night. There was the smell of the moist earth, and what little wind there was blew from the south, and carried the fragrance of the pear-blossoms from a young orchard to my window as I threw it open. I took my tub and Hacking gave me a right good rub down after; not a very artistic performance, but given with good will and with a strong hand. When it was done he looked me over with a critical eye, pronouncing me very fit, "barring a heavy pound or two;" but as I had done my work faithfully he could find no fault. He thought me a bit over-confident, and told me so; but I had never for a moment doubted my ability to defeat anything against me, and I paid little attention to his words. I was not conceited, but I knew there were not a half-dozen amateurs in all England in my class, and was sure an Old-Country crack must outclass anything the States could produce. As early as two o'clock the spectators began to arrive, and I, following my own inclination as well as Hacking's suggestion to "get under cover," went upstairs and knocked at the door of Jennie's little sitting-room. She greeted me most cordially with a handshake and a "good day to a good winner." She was dressed in her best gown, and had been sitting at the window to watch the arrivals. I took a seat by her side on the little chintz-cushioned window-seat, and watched with her. To those who to-day see the throngs of well-dressed and refined people, many of them ladies, who attend college, amateur, and even professional sports, it may not be amiss to describe the spectators of my first match at Hacking's Brighton track, back in the sixties, for a typical sporting crowd it was. They drove to the door in all sorts and descriptions of vehicles, drawn by animals as various. They soon filled the long sheds back of the house, and then a dilapidated fence was utilized for hitching-posts, and even a few trees of the young orchard. The drivers were many of them Englishmen, for the average American was too keen after the dollars in those days to leave them for sport of any kind. The adjournment to the bar was almost unanimous, where enough money was taken for fancy drinks to make good Hacking's stake had he lost. We could see them come swaggering up the steps, many of them carrying whip in hand, and there was much loud talk of passing Tom, Dick, or Harry on the road, with the "little bay" or the "brown colt." We could hear them plainly, for the window was up a bit, and they did not talk in whispers. Every now and again some one would chaff Hacking on his Unknown, telling him to "trot out the wonder," or "give us a sight of the man who runs Simmons even." It was three o'clock when a long moving wagon labelled "Boston Belle" drove up to the door, containing Simmons, his backers and immediate attendants; and the crowd at the bar sauntered out on the piazza to meet them, and hurried back in augmented numbers to patronize still further the tall bottles behind the mahogany. I had a glimpse of Simmons as he stepped out; but he was enveloped in a long ulster, and all I could discover was that he was extremely tall and dark. His supporters had plenty of money, and soon ran the odds up to three to one, at which figures Hacking accommodated them to a considerable extent. I had not another supporter, however, for they all seemed to consider that Hacking had quite lost his head, and took the match as a huge joke. It was very evident that, if I broke the tape, it would be a most unpopular, as well as unexpected, win. Hacking stuck to them well, but at last got all he wanted, and declined to risk any more. So confident was Simmons' principal backer that he proposed another match, though this was not yet pulled off, agreeing to concede three yards when we ran again. It is wonderful what effect such talk has on a contestant, no matter how confident he may be. I had not for a moment doubted the ability of a crack man like myself to beat anything in the States at my distance, but I now began to admit the possibility of defeat, and to consider that it meant almost starvation to me. You must remember I was barely twenty years old, in a strange country, and a man trained close to the limit is particularly liable to fancies. Jennie had been talking to me all the time in her quiet way, for she had the good old English habit of subdued speech; but little did I hear then, and now I remember almost nothing at all. I first noticed that she had become vastly indignant at a reflection on the courage of the "Unknown who dares not show himself." "Don't fret: you'll see him soon enough, my man," she said, with a toss of her head. She was giving me some absurd instructions about letting Simmons get the best of the start, and then sailing by him in the last few yards, so that the disappointment might be more intense, when some one in the crowd yelled out with a Yorkshire accent, "Fifteen dollars to five on the long-legged Chipper. Fifteen to five against the 'veiled lady.'" There was a loud laugh at this, which was too much for Jennie. She jumped up, went to her little desk in the corner, and took from one of those secret drawers, which are so evident, her purse, and emptying it in her lap counted out five dollars and a few cents over. She then called the chamber-maid, gave her the five dollars, and told her to give it to Jerry, the hostler, to bet on Mr. Brown. "'Tis an easy way to make money," she said, with an immense amount of disdain at my remonstrance. I sat with her a while longer, she doing all the talking, for my mind was occupied, to put it mildly. When the little clock on the shelf pointed to three-thirty, I left to get into my running-togs, she giving me a good grip with her soft warm hand, and saying, "I shall see you win from the attic window." When I reached my room, which Hacking told me to keep locked, I had a difficulty in finding the key-hole that I had never experienced, except "after dinner" or at late hours of the evening, my fingers being quite unsteady. As I stripped, my courage seemed to leave me with every garment. I remember I wondered if it would come back again when I put on my running-clothes. A little better I did feel, but at the last moment I broke the lace of my left shoe as I was pulling it tight. Now, there is an old superstition that this means a lost race, and though I had never thought of such a foolish thing before, it seemed now a sure omen of defeat. Indeed, I may as well confess first as last, that when Hacking knocked at my door, for the first time in all my life (and the last as well) I was in a blue funk. Yes, a rank quitter was I on that afternoon of May 1, 186-, and I am not sure I should not have cut and run, had there been the least chance to get away. Hacking discovered my condition at once, and grew mighty serious when his efforts to hearten me were unsuccessful. And truly the man had good reason to be serious,--a good three hundred dollars at risk, and here was his man with knees kissing and lips white. There was nothing to do but to go on with the game, though, to make it worse, as I walked down the back stairs, I caught my spikes in a crack and nearly put myself out of the race by a bad fall before the start. It is almost an absurd thing to say, but when I picked myself up and discovered I was entirely uninjured, I cursed the ill-luck which had not allowed me to be disabled. I did have pride enough to make a brace when I reached the open air, and flattered myself I did not show how badly I felt. I was enveloped in a long top-coat, which hid me completely, but as we forced our way to the track through the spectators, who crowded around to get a look at me, my teeth were set to keep them from chattering. There were several offers of three to one, and one of four to one, as we passed; but Hacking said he had enough, and I think he told the truth and could have said "more." He hurried on with me to the start, where Simmons stood with a little cluster of his most ardent admirers. As we approached, Simmons threw off his ulster, and came forward to meet me. His eye caught mine, and he smiled in a very peculiar way, discovering immediately my condition, and held out a long brown hand, without a word. I extended mine mechanically, expecting an ordinary handshake, but greatly to my surprise he gripped it in a most vicious squeeze which brought almost a cry of agony to my lips. I learned afterwards that this was a common trick to intimidate and dishearten, but was entirely unprepared for anything of the kind, having always run against gentlemen, where all proper courtesies were observed. The effect upon me was, however, directly opposite that expected. My trouble was not so much lack of courage as simple nervousness. With the shock of the pain this disappeared as if by magic, and in its place came at first a blind rage at the injury, which I could scarcely restrain, and then the determination to win, if I never ran again. I was a different man. I threw off my top-coat, and facing my opponent, looked him over critically and carefully. I am free to say I could not deny him a long breath of admiration. He was over six feet tall, dark and slender, showing signs of the infusion of Indian blood which was in his veins. He was clad in a common undershirt, far from clean. Instead of trunks he wore overalls cut off just above the knees, and on his feet were a pair of well-seasoned moccasins. Yet despite his unsportsmanlike and ludicrous costume, a better-built man for a sprinter I never saw, and I have seen some of the best. His legs were long and lithe, well-rounded, but not too heavily muscled, and every cord and sinew showed through the brown skin as fine and firm as a bowstring. He carried not an ounce of extra weight above the belt, although his chest was full and his arms sinewy. With the strong jaw and piercing black eyes, there could be no question of their possessor's determination. I knew my work was cut out for me with a big pair of shears; that I had met a man as good if not better than myself, and I must do all I knew to win. That I was to win I had now determined,--a grand, good condition of mind for a contestant to possess. Simmons observed me as critically as I did him, and I think that the more he saw of me the less he liked me. The contrast between us was as great as possible. I was as fair as he was dark, several inches shorter, and although without any superfluous flesh, much larger boned and muscled. Indeed I was built more like a "quarter-miler" than a sprinter. I must have bettered his weight by several pounds, and had not the top-coat covered me, and my nervousness shown itself, I question if he would have tried his little bit of brutality upon me. While the survey of my opponent was most comprehensive, it was the work of seconds. He suddenly produced a roll of dirty bank-bills, and shook them in my face with a "See here, young fellow, I go you one hundred to fifty you're a loser." I opened my mouth to decline the bet, but my words were drowned by a torrent of mingled abuse, invective, and I know not what of "billingsgate." It ended in an endless repetition of the very conclusive sentence, "Put up, or shut up," "Put up, or shut up," which evidently gave him an extreme amount of satisfaction. I was not then the possessor of fifty cents, and was pleased when the starter silenced him with the peremptory order to "Get on your marks." I went to the line at once, followed by Simmons, and as the crowd was being pressed back slowly behind the ropes, Hacking drew me a little aside and gave me his last instructions. "Now, my lad, listen to what I say. You've got your heart back all right, and can win if you use your head. The starter will hurry the pistol a bit, for he would like to see you win, and you need not be afraid of going away too soon. Get a yard to the good, and hold it, for if you cannot show clear at the tape, you will stand no show with the referee." I learned afterwards that while both were supposed to be fair and unprejudiced men, Hacking had practically named the starter, and Simmons' backer the referee. The former would give me all possible advantage, and the latter would see none but my opponent at the finish without opera-glasses unless I had him plainly beaten. To those who do not know, I will say that, in a sprint, very much depends on the start; that a contestant must be off with the pistol, or steal on it if he can. But if he gets away before the shot, he is brought back and penalized a yard for each offence. Knowing that the pistol would be a bit quick was a decided advantage to me, as I could start without fear of being set back. As I got in position, I had made up my mind to the following facts: First, that I had the best side of the track. It was the west or farthest from the house, and well I knew every inch of the brown cinder-path that stretched before me. For the first fifty yards there was nothing to choose; but on the east side, which Simmons had taken, just before the finish was a soft spot which would trouble him. Second, the rain of the previous night had made the track quite heavy, which should also help me, as my greater strength must push me through. Third, my appearance had not been without its effect on the crowd, and I had heard a word or two of approval of my "get-up," also of the quiet and business-like way in which I had met Simmons' tirade. We were on our marks and waiting for the word when suddenly my opponent discovered my running-shoes, and insisted that I must run in smooth soles like himself. He kept up a wordy warfare with Hacking on this subject for at least five minutes, Hacking arguing that there were no restrictions, and that I could wear top-boots or golden slippers if I chose. Simmons was silenced at last by the crowd, who plainly saw I would not run without spikes, and were bound to see a race. All this controversy, together with the continued brutality of my opponent, had put me fairly on edge. I was as cool as possible, ready to do all I knew, eager to start, and growing more determined if not more confident every minute. I had given an occasional glance at the attic window of the hotel where I could see Jennie, and every time I looked came the wave of a little handkerchief that did me a heap of good. As I "set myself," and looked down the track, fringed on either side by the crowds of spectators pressed close against the ropes, not one of whom was friendly to me, every nerve of my body tingled, and the "fighting blood" passed down to me through many generations of good old English stock was at a fever heat. Now I saw nothing and thought of nothing but the red worsted at the finish; I strained at the mark with every muscle tense, my weight well forward, and a buzz in my ears like the song of a huge top. From the starter's lips came the "On your marks,"--"Ready,"--"Set," and then a bit ahead of time came the "crack" of the pistol, and we were off. Can any one describe the mad ten seconds of a sprint? 'Tis over in a breath, and words are slow. I doubt I had a foot the best of the start, but Simmons was a trifle "phased" by the quick shot, and did not get his speed so quickly. But when he did get it, how he came! At fifty yards we were even, and at seventy-five (do all I could) Simmons had drawn a yard to the good. A yell went up from the crowd. It made him think he had me beat. But had he? His easy wins had taught a fatal fault of slowing at the finish. The soft ground helped it, and the yell that gave him a false confidence drove me mad with glory. I let out the last link in me, and passing like a shot, broke the tape, a clear winner by a yard. There was no mistake: Hacking's "Unknown" had won. I ran much farther over the finish than did Simmons, and when I worked my way to the referee through the crowd, the decision was announced, and my opponent was like a fiend. He threatened the referee, and swore he would break the neck of the d---- "ringer" with the spiked shoes. Although I was not looking for trouble, I should not have hesitated to show him I knew another game beside running if he had laid a hand on me. Thanks to his friends' persuasion, with some physical force added, he was pulled away and through the crowd. This last had now become quite friendly to me, having gone from curiosity to admiration for the man who could beat the "Chipper" even. Some shook my hand, others patted me on the back, and many suggested an adjournment to the bar with unlimited liquid refreshment as the "proper medicine for a good winner." They took my declining in good part, and soon Hacking forced his way to me, and tearing me from my admirers, gave me a chance to retire to my room. I found Jennie at the top of the stairs, with tears of joy in her eyes, and a bit hysterical from excitement. Greatly to my surprise (and her own as well, when she realized what she had done), she threw both arms round my neck, and kissed me twice before she came to herself. Then there was a bright blush, a quick turn, the rustle of skirts, and the slam of the door. I was glad enough to reach the solitude of my room, where from the window I saw Simmons bundled into the "Boston Belle" by a half-dozen dejected supporters, and with none to do him honor among the many. "_Le roi est mort, vive le roi_," is as true on the cinder-path as in the great world outside. But as I sat in my room, a winner, with the cheers still echoing in my ears, and good money awaiting me, it was a sad heart that beat under my jersey. For the "red pottage of Esau" I had sold my birthright. [Illustration: The Hollow Hammer] It was on a June day back in the late "sixties" that I first saw Angus MacLeod, the hero of my story of "The Hollow Hammer." I had given a boxing-lesson to a little jeweller in South Boston who was burdened with a pugilistic ambition, and was walking leisurely homeward, enjoying the fine weather and the exercise in the open air. As I sauntered along at an easy pace, with my eyes wandering here and there, something in the day or the neighborhood reminded me of the "Old Country," and particularly the ancient town of Bury. I think it must have been the sight of the iron-foundry down the street, with the flames streaming from its chimneys. I know I was harking back to almost forgotten scenes, and old acquaintances who had doubtless long ago forgotten me (excepting one, perhaps), when a chorus of rough voices brought me to myself with a start. The noise came from behind the high fence which shut in the iron-works yard, and I could not make out what it meant until I reached the open gate and looked in. It was the noon hour, and there were a lot of men lounging about, eating from their tin pails, smoking short black pipes, and doing whatever else they fancied. The yard was as level and smooth as a tennis-court, but without the least sign of turf except along the fence and fringing the foundation-stones of the foundry building. The noise came from a crowd of workmen, clustered together not far from the huge door. A row of them sat on the ground with their backs against the wall, and there were a dozen or more standing together in a bunch. These were mostly the younger men, who, not content with five hours' work since sunrise, were having a friendly test of strength in putting the shot. They were using for the purpose an old cannon-ball, which must have weighed a bit over the sixteen pounds by the size of it. Cannon-balls were plenty in those days, for the war was not many years over. Now, there is always something interesting to me in the sport of a lot of workingmen. They take a bit of a lark with all the more heartiness because they do not have too many of them. Then, again, this shot-putting contest was for the pure love of the game, and without the selfish incentives of money, prize, or glory. There was a running fire of good-natured chaff all the time, and at each "put," good, bad, or indifferent, the contestant was guyed unmercifully for his style or distance. Failing this, some old personality was raked up, the allusion to which brought out no end of laughter and applause. It was an interesting scene, with plenty of variety and color. The men were mostly big, brawny fellows, with sleeveless flannel shirts of red, blue, or gray, open at the breast; and grime or rust could not hide the splendid development of arms, chests, and shoulders. The sun was warm and bright, and here and there a tin pail would catch the light, and shine as clear, I warrant, as ever the shield of a good knight, back in the old days when there were sterner sports than tossing an iron shot. Many a good man could I see, but at the game they were trying they had much to learn. 'Twas a case of "bull beef," and little more. I watched them a few minutes, but was about to move on when there appeared at the door of the foundry a young fellow who caught my eye at once. He was stripped to the waist, fresh from a struggle with the stubborn iron, and his body was drenched and shining with sweat. His arms and shoulders were round and firm; but there was no abnormal development, or sign of a bound muscle, and he stood with an ease that proved good legs under him, though hidden by the thick corduroys. His hair was light and curly, and his face was smooth and clean cut. Many bigger and some stronger men have I seen, but none whose proportions were so perfect. Among the few remembrances of my books is that dialogue of Plato which describes the sensations of Socrates at first seeing the beautiful youth, Charmides. Well (may Socrates forgive me the comparison), I had the same feeling when I first looked at Angus MacLeod on that June day, back in the "sixties." Barring the difference in costume, and the grime which a little water would remove, I believe they were alike as two peas. The lad (he looked scarcely twenty years of age for all his development) stood a moment or two in the doorway, watching with an amused smile a big fellow put the shot a scant twenty feet, after an enormous amount of effort. Then he was noticed by some one who called out, "Come here, Mac, you porridge-eater, and show them how to do it." At this he laughed, shook his head, and would not budge. But the call was taken up by others, with a lot of chaff, like, "The lad's bashful," "A Scotch puddler's always shy except on pay-day," and a plenty more like it. At last a young fellow in a blue jersey, and an old chap, the color and material of whose shirt were alike doubtful, took each an arm, and led him, holding back a bit and laughing, to the circle within which the shot lay. He picked it up, dropped it while he drew his narrow belt a hole or two tighter, and then picked it up again. He rolled it a bit in his hand, raised it two or three times from his shoulder high above his head, balanced a moment on his right leg, with the left lifted, and then, with that easy wrist and hand motion, and that little "flick" at the end, he sent the old cannon-ball a good two yards farther than any who had tried. It was a right good "put," though not a phenomenal one, and hardly a fault could I find with the style, barring a little failure to get the full turn of the body. Almost as soon as the shot landed, and before the mingled applause and good-natured chaffing were over, he left them with a parting joke, and disappeared through the door, going back to his waiting furnace. This was my first sight of Angus MacLeod. I looked him up a few days later, got acquainted easily, and in fact hit it off right well with him from the beginning. I was just enough older for him to look up to me a bit in other matters beside athletics, and on this last subject he gave me credit for possessing all the knowledge in the market. I learned that he had been in this country some four years, that he lived with an uncle, one of the pillars of a Scotch Presbyterian church, and that Angus was himself a churchman, devout and regular in his habits. He had taken to athletics, with no other preparation than the school-boy sports of old Aberdeen, making a specialty of the "shot-put" and "hammer-throw." This last was his favorite sport, and by dint of regular practice in an open lot back of his house he was able to show about ninety feet as a best performance. He improved this at once under my instruction, working up to a regular hundred feet in a couple of weeks. This pleased him very much, and he took kindly to my suggestion that he enter some open competition, and see what he could do in a contest. Indeed, he was quite confident that he could give a good showing, making much of the fact that the MacLeods had been noted for their strength for centuries. Many stories he told me of old John M'Dhoil-vic-Huishdon, from whom he claimed to have descended. This John was the head of the MacLeods of Lewis. He lived in the days of James VI., and, though a man of small stature, was of matchless strength. Some of the tales, I confess, I should have doubted, had not Angus been both a Scotchman and a church member of good standing. It was quite easy for us to choose an opportunity for Mac's début, as there were some very convenient sports only a few weeks ahead. These games, Scotch and otherwise, were the principal attraction at an annual excursion of Caledonian societies, comprising all those within a radius of one hundred miles of Boston. Purses were small, but the enthusiasm great; and many a canny Scot, under the influence of a "wee drappie," would back an impossible winner for all his pockets might hold. These were the good old days of Duncan Ross and Captain Daily, and at one of these Caledonian excursions there afterward occurred that never-to-be-forgotten wrestling bout on the deck of a boat moored in the lake. So fierce was the struggle that the men worked overboard, and neither being willing to break hold, they were well filled with water, and in fact half-drowned before they separated. Angus belonged to one of the Boston clans, and naturally chose these Caledonian games for his first appearance, working hard, training faithfully, and saying nothing, for a very quiet chap was Mac. If all the men I have trained had been as easy to handle as MacLeod, I should have one or two less gray hairs than I now possess. Unfortunately, church members are not in as large a percentage as I would wish on the cinder-path. Now, I had at first no intention of pulling a dollar out of the affair, except my regular fee for training. Even this I at first declined, wishing to help my friend purely out of friendship. Mac would not have it, however, and as his pay was high, I allowed him to have his way. I had now been making a business of training athletes for nearly a year, getting a good living out of it, and had at the beginning a nice little nest-egg in the bank, ready for a rainy day. Exactly how this was accumulated I do not care to say. These tales are in no sense confessions, and I shall avoid the "strutting I" as much as possible. After my defeat of "Chipper" Simmons, at Hacking's Brighton track, there were a couple of years passed not at all to my liking, though profitably enough for one of small ideas. I took on matches wherever they promised a dollar. I ran everybody, and every distance, from a fifty-yard dash to a mile run, and almost invariably won, largely because of the pains I took with myself, and my careful training. I learned all the tricks of the trade, gave close finishes always, did an artistic "fainting act," and made myself a subject of regretful, not to say painful, remembrance to a large part of the sporting fraternity. They stood it all right for a couple of years, but the summer before I met MacLeod I suddenly discovered I had about squeezed the orange dry. They had, very naturally, grown more and more shy of me, until it had become impossible to obtain a match, except under prohibitive conditions. I tried giving good men eight yards in the "hundred" and one hundred yards in the mile for a while, but discovered it was a hard business, with nothing in it. My only profit, as far as I could see, was to run crooked, and fake a race or two, but at this, though not over-nice, I drew the line. I was willing to underrate my powers, and fool the fancy on my condition; to win by a scant yard with pretended effort, in order to pull on my opponent to another race; but to back him on the sly and lie down, to pull money from my friends, I could not. A gentleman I might not be, but honest I would be still. Indeed, despite the "winning way" I had, my reputation was of the best as a rare, good runner, as a square man who gave his backers a straight run for their money, and as the most knowing man in the States concerning work and training for the cinder-path. On this last I made up my mind to trade. I announced my absolute retirement as a contestant, and my intention to make a business of training and handling others. My prices startled them a bit at the beginning, but after I had made a few winners out of almost impossible timber, I was kept fairly well occupied. When the winter put a stop to my out-of-doors work, I became instructor in a gymnasium, and gave lessons in boxing and fencing. I even prepared one man for a ring contest, which he won, thanks to his perfect condition, after acting as a chopping-block to a better boxer for a couple of hours, this affair satisfying me at once and forever with the prize ring. At the coming of the spring I found my book very well filled, and would by June have been quite content to have trained Mac with no recompense whatever. Yet I had no objections to make money from others, and discovered a very fair opportunity, as I thought, about two weeks before the games. I then received a bit of information that there was a dark horse grooming for the hammer throw, in the person of an Irishman by the name of Duffy. He was an enormous fellow, as strong as an ox, could do nearly one hundred feet, and the tip made him a sure winner. Now, I was very confident I knew better, though ninety feet, in those days, was phenomenal for an amateur, and a throw of one hundred had not been made in any previous contest. The best of the news was kept for the last, and that was that Duffy had plenty of friends with good money to back him. I figured at once that MacLeod could just about call the trick, that being a smaller man would help the odds, and that, properly managed, there was a pretty penny in it. Mac was now doing from one hundred to one hundred and five in the most consistent manner, and I made up my mind to plunge on him a bit, keeping quiet so that Duffy's friends might show their hands first. This was easy enough, for Mac did all his work after supper in the vacant lot back of his house, where no one could pull a tape over his throws. It was prudent, also, for MacLeod had very rigid ideas about betting (gambling he called it), and would undoubtedly have protested, if he had not declined to show at all. Duffy's friends began very cautiously with small figures, and I took all that showed through a third party. When one hundred dollars was promptly covered, however, they made up their minds there was something else good, and became a bit shy. I let them alone until the evening before the excursion, when I sallied into the Duffy neighborhood, and at one to two offered to produce a man weighing under one hundred and seventy pounds who would win against all. Now, a hammer-thrower of this weight is rare, and I found all the money I cared to cover. Indeed, I exceeded my limit a trifle. Then I wandered over to Mac's field, pulled the tape over his throw of one hundred and eight, and went home and to sleep, for not a grain of anxiety had I over the result. I doubt if I should have given five per cent. to be insured a winner. The day dawned, fine and hot. We went down from Boston a good three hundred strong, men, women, and children, the last turning out a whole clan by themselves. There were bagpipes squealing, babies crying, and a Babel of rough Scotch tongues. Tartans were displayed in all the colors of the rainbow. Some were content to show only a tie, ribbon, or shawl, but a fair percentage were in full Highland costume, and far from comfortable many of them looked. The dress is wonderfully picturesque, and nothing is more becoming to an athletic man with straight legs and strong brown knees. But for a petty tradesman with legs like pipe-stems, knock-kneed, and ghastly white it is particularly trying, and many of the gallant Scots looked as if they would like to don the protecting "breeks" to which they had become accustomed. We all piled into the hot and dusty cars, and after an hour and a half were glad to get a breath of fresh air as we steamed down the bay. Indeed, when we reached the "Point," a little before noon, I was loath to go ashore, for the trees on a ridge of land cut off the wind, and the place was like a furnace. Nothing looked comfortable but a pair of bronze lions who flanked the roadway to the hotel, and had they been alive I am sure they would have found the day altogether too tropical. I could see the crowds flocking around the swings, merry-go-rounds, and the monkey cage, and there was a motley crowd in hired bathing-suits enjoying a dip in the salt water. Of these last only was I in the least envious. The clans, immediately upon landing, formed in procession, and marched off in the broiling sun, a half-dozen pipers playing "The Campbells are coming" as loudly as possible, skirling like so many pigs under a gate. The most conspicuous figure was an old fellow who blew as if his life depended on the effort, and until I feared he would burst his bagpipe if he did not rupture a blood-vessel first. He seemed to feel that the world was looking at him, and he was well conscious of its admiration. He was big-boned, loose-jointed, and so sandy that it was a riddle to guess his age. His shoulders were badly rounded, but he straightened up every few seconds in an abortive effort to appear erect on this occasion, if never again. He was clad in full Highland costume, even to dirk and claymore,--a rather unusual accompaniment, and dangerous as well, for a Scot on a merry-making where Scotch whiskey and Scotch ale mingle freely. He wore the MacNab tartan, and the kilt looked as if it had been slept in, all twisted and wrinkled. As the clans marched up the hill and between the lions, I could see the bright red tartans of the Frasers, the black and green of the Gordons, and the beautiful parti-colors of the Stewarts. There were many others, all showing bright in the sun; and there was a lift to the heels of the marchers which nothing could have caused but the shrill notes of the bagpipes. Indeed, they were enough to start the sluggish blood in my veins, though I suppose my ancestors had long years ago heard the same sounds with resentment, as the Scots swarmed over the border. As a parlor instrument I should admit it had its superiors, but for strong men going to battle I doubt if it has its equal. There were all kinds of men in the crowd, from the gray-haired veteran to the little fellow, born on American soil, who had never seen the tartan kilts except on a holiday. There were a number of contestants in the line, with strong, athletic figures, but not one could compare with Angus, in the yellow and black of the MacLeods, as he marched, almost the last. I saw the girls had their eyes on him, though Mac neither noticed nor cared, for he thought them "kittle cattle," and was much fonder of handling hammer and shot. I had seen little of Angus since the start, for he was a clan officer and had many duties, but found him, to my surprise, not in the least nervous, and quite confident of winning. Did not old John M'Dhoil-vic-Huishdon outclass all competitors in the old days, and was not Angus MacLeod a lineal descendant, to whom had come the family strength? He said he had heard that there had been considerable money bet on him to win, which he deplored, and that he would not have gone into the thing at all had he foreseen it. I told him he was very foolish, for a man might bet how long a Sunday sermon would last, and that if he did not risk anything himself, not to trouble himself about others. Though unable to argue, he shook his head, and was, I saw, uneasy, but I had no fear of his drawing out at this late day. When the crowd disappeared, I went to the hotel, and engaged a quiet room, on the cool side of the house, where Angus joined me as soon as the procession broke ranks. I made him lie down a little while, gave him a sponge and rub-down, and after a good lunch, such as a man should eat who expects soon to call upon the best powers of his body, he pronounced himself feeling strong enough to throw the hammer into the bay. We could see the crowd, contestants and all, file into the long dining-rooms, where "clam-bakes" were served. A very nice lunch for an excursionist, but about the most awful diet possible for an athlete, particularly if he gorge himself in a laudable ambition to get the full value of his fifty cents. We waited until it was after two o'clock, and found the games already started when we arrived at the place called in compliment the "athletic grounds." It was simply an enclosure roped off from an open field; track there was none, except as the feet of contestants had worn off the turf and the sun had baked the surface hard. There were no seats, and we found our way with some difficulty through the spectators, who crowded a dozen deep all the way round, and tested the strength of the rope and the firmness of the wooden posts through which it was drawn. An eager, hot, and perspiring crowd it was, jostling, pushing, and elbowing, and the last half-dozen rows might as well have been in the Orkneys, as far as seeing the sports was concerned. As usual the tall and strong were in front, and the short and weak were behind. We found the enclosure full of contestants and their friends, the latter an insupportable nuisance, in everybody's way, not excepting their own. We saw Duffy standing with a little knot of henchmen, and they gave Mac a critical glance as he walked by my side. It had leaked out in some way who my man was, and the interest in him was great. They knew I was not in the habit of taking up anything unless it was good, and some of Mac's friends from the foundry had got a day off, with their last pay envelopes with them. All the officials and two-thirds of the crowd were Caledonians, but the contests were nearly all open, and there was a large number of other nationalities represented, particularly the Irish. Of system there was next to none, changes were frequent, and orders given and countermanded in the same breath. The noise was deafening and the heat insupportable. The dust was like a good Scotch snuff as far as sneezing properties were concerned, and of about the same color. We were just in time to see the "fat men's race," in which the contestants ran themselves almost into apoplexies. I am sure some of these mountains of flesh must have permanently injured themselves, and endangered their lives by their exertions. I do not pretend to remember all the contests that followed, but there were opportunities for every one, man, woman, and child, old or young, to distinguish himself. Beside the regular sprints, runs, jumps, and weight contests, there were "sack," "wheelbarrow," "potato," and "three-legged" races, all opportunities for great laughter and applause. I ordered Mac back to the hotel when we learned that the "hammer-throw" was the very last event, and only sent for him when the afternoon had nearly dragged itself out. The last casts were then being made at "tossing the caber," which, being the most characteristic Caledonian game of all, had a most formidable list. Indeed, Angus was much disappointed that he had not entered, in which feeling I did not at all join, for I wanted him to save all his strength. I remember now a little bandy-legged fellow in a crazy-looking kilt who struggled with the heavy log, which he could scarcely lift, let alone toss. He turned to me after a superhuman effort, his face aglow with pride and exertion, and remarked breathlessly, "Rinnin's weel eneugh for laddies; thot's the sport of a mon." The "hammer-throw" had been left for the last, as I was informed, because none would leave until it was over, thus ensuring a full attendance until the end. The reason the "hammer-throw" was so popular was because there was more money on it than all the other events combined, also because of the race feeling excited by the nationalities of the two most-favored contestants. Perhaps a third of the spectators were Irish, and being more aggressive and outspoken, were almost as much in evidence as the Scotch themselves. Indeed, the applause when an Irishman won (and they had more than their proportion of firsts that day) was as loud as at the victory of a Scot. In the "hammer-throw" there were a scant half-dozen entries, the reputed prowess of Duffy and MacLeod disheartening the less ambitious. I was surprised to see among them old Sandy MacNab, the piper, but learned that he had been a famous man with the weights, and had pulled off the event here only last year. Indeed, for all his age (and more than twenty was he) he was a good man yet despite his cadaverous appearance. He had for years pulled money out of these Caledonian games, although the amount of his winnings had diminished with his increasing years. To-day he had backed himself to win the "Old Men's Race," and won easily, but unfortunately stood to lose all he had made, and more too, in the "hammer-throw." In making his book to get second or better, he thought he had been remarkably conservative, but receiving startling information concerning Duffy and Mac when it was too late, had found it impossible to hedge. He went into the contest expecting to lose, but resolved to make a try for his money all the same. His contortions were wonderful, and convulsed the crowd every time he threw, although he was serious enough, and succeeded in getting into the finals with nearly ninety feet. I shall never forget how the old fellow threw down his bonnet in the dust, spit on his hands, and braced himself for his first trial. There was a little crowd around the measurer, who stood a good one hundred and twenty feet away. These MacNab noticed just before he threw, and insisted that they "gang awa oot o' dainger" before he would make his try, although there was just as great chance of his hitting the flag-staff of the hotel. After he had finished his dialogue with the crowd, in which he held his own, and more, he grasped the handle again with his long, bony fingers. At first swinging very slowly, then faster and faster, until with a double twist that made his kilt stand out like a ballet-dancer's skirt about his long, knee-kissing legs, he gave a grunt and a gasp, and let go. He watched the hammer through the air with bulging eyes, and when it landed, ran after, and argued with the measurer over an extra half-inch in a maddening fashion. Sandy was a privileged character, however, and had a roar of applause every time he tried. When MacLeod came up for his first throw, he caught the crowd immediately, so handsome and modest was he. He found particular favor with the "ladies," and not alone did I hear "Eh, but he's a braw laddie," but one little Irish girl, close to the ropes, with blue eyes and the proverbial smudge under them, set an example of cosmopolitan freedom by clapping violently. Yes, a right well-looking man was MacLeod that day, as he twisted his fingers round the hammer-handle and prepared to throw. He had a fair, open face, well colored by the sun; indeed, darker was it than the hair that curled round his forehead. His arms and shoulders were splendidly developed, and his legs brown, and corded like a distance runner's. So well-proportioned was he that he did not look the twelve stone which he really weighed, and there were murmurs of applause when he threw the hammer ninety-eight feet in his first trial, Duffy having shown but ninety-six just before him. Neither bettered in their second attempts, but when Duffy sent the hammer over ninety-nine feet in his third, putting into the effort all the enormous strength of which he was master, a yell went up from his well-wishers which did his heart good, and he came as near smiling as was possible for so surly a fellow. There are no supporters on earth like an Irish crowd; they are hopeful to the last, and many an event has an Irishman won, under the inspiration of the cheers of his adherents. Less loud, though not less hearty, was the applause when Mac sent the hammer one hundred and one and a fraction, in the faultless style I had taught him. Not the equal of Duffy in strength (for the Irishman was almost a giant in height and girth), he knew how to use all he had to the best advantage, and he was working himself slowly up to his best effort to follow. As I have already said, MacLeod, Duffy, and MacNab were left in the finals. Duffy was grave and quiet when he made the first of his last three throws, and grew graver yet when the measurer gave him less than before, and while Sandy was doing his contortion act, twisting, jumping, and breathing hard, like a man possessed, he had a conference with two of his principal backers who stood by themselves apart. I was feeling very comfortable, for Duffy, I was sure, had done all he was capable of; and when Mac did one hundred and four I decided I was on "Easy Street," and began to count my earnings. All the time I kept my eyes about me, and was surprised to see the look of confidence with which the Irishman came up for his next to last turn. He planted his feet firmly, swung his huge arms round his head until he grew black in the face, and then a last effort, and the hammer flew through the air. I knew the moment it left his hand that it would best any throw made, but I was astounded when the measurer announced over one hundred and eleven. Where was my money? I could not believe it possible, for I had sure information that Duffy had never quite covered one hundred feet, and while Mac should do his one hundred and eight or a trifle better, I did not believe he could make the one hundred and eleven to save his life. It was while Angus was making his next to last throw that a sudden suspicion came to me. I was probably wrong, but my money was in danger, and no chance would I throw away to save it. This time Mac was dead in earnest, and getting his strength in just right threw only an inch short of one hundred and ten. I waited until Duffy was about to make his last, and then walked down just in time to be by the side of the measurer when the hammer landed. I saw the tape, it was over one hundred and twelve; and the yell that followed the announcement was enough to madden one who stood to lose a half-year's earnings. I picked the hammer up, and tested it carefully, balancing it in my hand, and as I held it there came to me a grain of hope. Was it light, or was I led astray by my wish? I had seen it weighed by the judge; the head looked full size, and the handle all right. In those days the handles were of wood weighing about a pound, and made the total seventeen pounds or close to it. I had carried the hammer half-way back, when Mac came to me and said, his eyes black with determination, "'Tis my last chance, but I'll beat him yet." I gave him no answer, but walked on until Duffy saw me. I was testing his hammer in my hand, doubtful whether or not to ask for a reweighing, when I caught his eye, and decided. MacNab saw me too, discovering something queer about my face, and he and Duffy were at my side together, the latter holding out his hand to take the hammer, his face flushed and his voice husky, as he asked "What in h----" I was trying to do. MacNab said something, just what it was I do not know, but it showed his disposition to support me, for he was on the anxious seat as well as myself. To Duffy's demand I answered as calmly as possible, "I believe this hammer under weight, and ask for a reweighing," holding it behind me meanwhile. At this there was a "hurly-burly" at once, Duffy's friends surrounding me, and had it not been for MacNab's support I should have been in difficulties. The old man did not know what fear was; no one dared lay a hand on him, because of his popularity with the crowd, and he drowned all other voices with his shrill pipings. He demanded a reweighing much more forcibly than I. "I winna gie it 'tell the weght iss weghted. I winna, na, I winna," he yelled again and again, like a broken-winded bagpipe for all the world. Mr. Fraser, the judge, and a very fair man, saw that he must do something, and silenced the uproar, although old Sandy kept up a muttering all the time. "You saw me weigh the hammer," said he, looking at me. "I called it seventeen pounds one ounce, and you made no protest."--"I do not cast any reflections on you," I answered, "but this hammer which has just been thrown is certainly not a sixteen-pound hammer. I can prove my statement, and ask that all throws with it be disallowed." Then MacNab, who stood between me and Duffy, with one hand on the handle, set up such an infernal din that Fraser immediately consented, and I handed him the hammer. At this Duffy changed his tune, and proposed to withdraw, saying he would not have any dirty Englishman nor sneaking Scotchman doubt his word. He shook his huge fist in Fraser's face and demanded the immediate return of his property. In this he made a mistake, for the judge was as full of fire as a little Scotch terrier, and he promptly walked to the scales and laid the hammer on them. Then there was a dead silence. MacLeod came to my side, for the lad had not spoken a word since the row began; not that he lacked pluck, but he had a mortal antipathy to a windy dispute, and knew I was fully competent to protect his interests. The weight was on the seventeen-pound mark, but the hammer did not lift it, and I saw by the eager faces that the crowd was becoming suspicious. The little judge pushed the weight to sixteen pounds, and still the beam hung; and only at fifteen-eight did it rise. Everybody looked at Duffy's flushed face, and Fraser demanded an explanation, though there did not seem to be much that could be said. The tall Irishman hemmed and hawed a bit, and then said huskily, "Faith, I think it must have struck a stone and knocked off a piece." Despite our seriousness, this ingenious explanation was too much for us, and the whole crowd laughed until it could laugh no more, Duffy sneaking off in the confusion. Old man MacNab became almost delirious in his joy at saving his money in this miraculous way, for Duffy's disqualification put the lank Scott second; and after he had loaded me with acknowledgments, he left, with the laudable ambition of getting outside all the whiskey on the premises. The last I saw of him, his long legs were swinging gayly to the notes of the Highland fling, with a fair prospect of winning the prize. As the crowd flocked back to the hotel, Fraser thanked me for my firmness which had led to the discovery of the fraud, and I declined to accept any, as I had only watched my money. I did agree to take the light hammer, and he gave it to me together with another which had been picked up from underneath the feet of the crowd. On the way home MacLeod and myself compared them carefully, and were greatly puzzled. They were almost identical; the size and form of the heads, the turn of the handles, and the initials "P. D." burned into the ends were alike in both. We could not understand where the difference in the weights came in, until we arrived at my rooms. Here I knocked out the handle of the light hammer, and found the centre of the head hollowed out in a most artistic manner, and the mystery was solved. I have no doubt but that Duffy did not use this until he was forced to do so, and that he threw the full-weight hammer which Fraser tested for the first four trials. Only when he was sure that MacLeod, "the little Scottie," was a better man, and his (Duffy's) money was as good as gone, did he fall back on the artistic reproduction, which could have been easily handed to him by a friend in the crowd. I confess I made a very pretty penny out of this transaction, and it was all the more welcome because of the fright I had been in over it. Poor Mac was not so fortunate, for although he positively declined to take a penny from me, he was given credit at the church for having gambled disgracefully, and was near being expelled for it. If this should seem at all an improbable tale, I will assure you that much the same incident occurred among our gentlemanly friends, the college athletes, at a comparatively recent date, although it was kept quiet in deference to somebody's feelings, and not exploited as was the "hollow hammer" back in the late "sixties." [Illustration: His Name Is Mud] There is always a "post mortem" atmosphere about Fall track athletics. Baseball shows a bit more life, for now the ambitious Freshman receives his "trying out" and struggles valiantly to catch the critical eye of the Captain, in search of new material for the "Nine." The only "real thing" is football, which reigns supreme until Thanksgiving Day dethrones him. This period is the most trying one of all the year to a trainer. One after another of his men on whom he depends for points on field and track are drafted for the "gridiron," until there is scarcely one left except the second-raters, whom he would gladly spare. Try to imagine my feelings as I watch a football game from the side lines, when Hopkins, my only ten one-fifth man is picked out of the bottom of a "scrimmage" with one of his precious legs twisted, or Baily retires with a dislocated shoulder,--Baily, who alone can be depended upon for any distance with the "shot." Shaw pulls his sweater over his head and takes Hopkins' place at "half back," Marlowe drops his blanket and fills the gap at "tackle" caused by Baily's retirement, and the game goes on just as before. No one seems to care much, but I think of the coming Spring and wonder what kind of a showing we are destined to make. I had seen a short practice game between the second and third elevens, and had watched a few men listlessly circling the track, until the gathering dusk warned me that it was time for dinner. I stopped a moment at "Conner's" to arrange for some shoes for the team, and was half-way across the square when I saw ahead of me, and in the middle of the street, quite a little crowd, from the centre of which came a confused jumble of barks, growls, yelps, and howls, the sure sign of a canine disagreement. Now, of course, I did not countenance any such low sport as a battle between two street curs, but I elbowed my way through, as I am afraid most men would have done, and I am not quite sure that my motive was wholly the separation of the combatants. I found them to be a very large and very good-natured St. Bernard, not quite full grown, and a very small and intensely angry terrier, weighing about as much as his opponent's left leg. Indeed it was not, strictly speaking, a fight at all, if it takes more than one to make a fight, which is I believe an accepted axiom. The terrier, a mixture of hair, mud, and impotent rage, would scramble over the wet pavement and make a desperate spring at the big St. Bernard's throat, either to be avoided by a lift of the head or a turn of the body, and the little fellow would roll over and over, then gather himself up and attack his good-natured foe again with renewed virulence. It was really very funny, for neither of them was getting hurt, and when at last the big fellow, in sheer desperation, placed his paw on his assailant and held him down struggling vainly, it caused a hearty laugh from all the crowd. The St. Bernard looked doubtfully at us, very much as if to say, "Is not this a very awkward position for a gentleman to find himself in?" and at last, seeing a gap in the crowd, he suddenly lifted his paw and tried to make good his escape. In this he nearly succeeded, but was not quite quick enough, for his crazy little assailant caught him by the first joint of his hind leg, and buried his sharp little teeth deep in the cartilages. This was really too much for the big fellow's temper, already sadly tried, and turning with a howl of pain, he seized his vicious little enemy in his big jaws, shook him a second or two fiercely, and then dropped him on the pavement. It was all over before we could interfere, and the big fellow's anger passed as quickly as it came. He saw at once that something was wrong, for the ragged little body lay on its side entirely motionless, with the exception of a spasmodic twitching of the legs. He sniffed at him carefully, then gave us a look of reproach, at which I confess I felt ashamed, and trotted sadly away. It was just at this moment that a number of the football men appeared, led by big Shack Sawyer, who quickly elbowed his way to the inner circle by my side, demanding "What's the row, Professor?" "Only a little dog fight," I answered, a bit shocked at the sudden transformation from comedy to tragedy. "It looks more like a dog funeral than a dog fight," spoke up Seever, who was as usual at Shack's elbow. "I wonder what his name is?" inquired an hysterical woman with a falsetto voice, who had appeared from I know not where, to ask this particularly interesting question. "The dog's name!" exclaimed Shack; "his name is 'Mud,' I guess, and no mistake." At which there was a half-hearted laugh, for the silent little chap on the pavement was a pathetic sight indeed. Somebody said, "Throw some water on him," and a bareheaded boy with a dinner-pail in his hand filled it at a horse-trough close by, and Shack took it and threw half its contents on the terrier. No sooner had the water struck him than he gave a sneeze, like the hunchback in the "Arabian Nights" who had the unfortunate experience with the fish-bone, struggled to his feet, and after a somewhat unsteady circuit of the crowd in a vain effort to find his late antagonist, decided he had put him to flight, and began to bark triumphantly. Indeed, the "dying gladiator" showed every sign of being as good as new, with the exception of a little patch of red at his throat and a very muddy and bedraggled coat. He went from one to another, wagging his stump of a tail frantically; and when the crowd broke up he dropped in at Sawyer's heels as if he had always belonged there. Shack allowed him to follow him home, and after a somewhat perfunctory effort to find an owner, he became Shack's dog from this time on, and a very lucky dog he was. When "Mud," for Shack's random christening proved permanent, was treated to the twin luxuries of a bath and a comb, he showed quite an attractive personality. That his coat of arms bore the "bar sinister," there was not the least doubt. His master declared there was no "blot on his scutcheon," and that he was a pure-blooded, wire-haired fox terrier; but his legs were too short, and his hair both too long and too silky for any such claim. Seever made out an imaginary pedigree for him, in which many canine aristocrats of different breeds appeared; but Marlowe declared he certainly must have numbered somewhere among his ancestors a very plebeian New England woodchuck. Shack took a deal of chaffing over his "high-bred dog," but clung to him nevertheless, and Mud sprang into instantaneous popularity with the whole college. He had indeed a number of very valuable qualities, the most important of which was an undaunted courage. He was afraid of nothing that walked on four legs, or two either, for that matter. A dog of his own size or smaller he treated with an easy condescension. He looked upon anything larger as an enemy, and a very big dog he considered a personal insult, no matter how he behaved. I am inclined to think that the root of his anger was simply jealousy of superior inches. Whatever the motive was, however, Shack was kept busy pulling him out of the jaws of bigger dogs whenever he took him for an airing. Mud could certainly not claim to be "no respecter of persons," for he had a very different manner with which to treat the gentleman from that he gave the laboring man. He was suspicious of the latter, even in his Sunday broadcloth, and when he met him clad in overalls and jumper he greeted him with a canine fusillade that was irrepressible. For rags and dirt, despite his very questionable past and decidedly suggestive name, Mud had a great antipathy. The sign "No admittance to beggars and pedlers," which decorated the lower hall, was quite unnecessary after Mud became a tenant, for he could pick these gentry out, no matter how skilfully disguised, and indeed showed qualities which would have made him invaluable in Scotland Yard. He was forever on the move, and could tire out the most persistent visitor in any sort of a game. Mud's favorite was a sort of "rough and tumble" in which his opponent tried to bury him in the sofa pillows, and out of which he always emerged with every hair on end, his eyes like live coals, and his voice cracked from his efforts to make himself heard under a pyramid of cushions. Shack tried to keep his hand in for the "hammer throw," and practised rather intermittently when football gave him a few spare moments. Then was Mud in his particular glory. He would trot to the gymnasium at his master's heels, watch gravely from one of the long benches while Shack stripped and dressed, and then follow him into the middle of the field with an unmistakable air of pride. When Shack took the hammer in hand Mud would begin to whimper, and as it whirled faster and faster round Shack's head, the howl grew more and more crescendo until the missile took to flight, with Mud after it so fast that it seemed as if he must sometime get the good sixteen pounds on the middle of his back. So great was the danger that Shack hit upon the expedient of having Mud guard his sweater, which turned out to be the only way to keep the energetic little fellow still. It was surprising too what a changed dog he became when this responsibility was put upon him. He watched suspiciously every one who approached, and there was no friend near enough to be allowed to encroach on the forbidden ground occupied by Shack's old sweater. Marlowe tried to pull it away suddenly one day, and left a piece of his sleeve between Mud's sharp teeth as a memento of the encounter. It was after two or three weeks' residence in Shack's hospitable quarters that Mud attained the zenith of his popularity and became mascot of the class of 188-. In fact, he bade fair to attain the very pinnacle of a dog's ambition, and to occupy the position of "luck bringer" to the whole college. His predecessor had been a brindled bulldog of such extraordinary ugliness that it approached the beautiful, but he had fallen into disgrace after allowing the Freshmen to win the deciding game of baseball in the Spring, and the class had not filled the vacant place until Mud came to ornament it. Shack failed this year to make the big team and played on his class eleven, where he was a bright particular star. In the first game with the Freshmen which they won, Shack at "centre," and Mud as mascot on the side lines, divided the honors, and the game went eighteen to nothing in their favor. After this Mud was solemnly installed in his position by Seever, who gave him a charge much like that to a newly installed minister, and to which Mud listened very seriously, with his head on one side, as he sat on a big chair with Shack's cap over his left eye. It was hoped that Mud would furnish sufficient magic to make his class winner in the game with the Seniors, which would decide the college championship. When the day arrived he appeared at the gymnasium with an enormous ribbon at his throat and much pride in his breast. He was so distinctly elated that when Marlowe threw Shack's moleskin trousers at him and told him to "Shake 'em," he declined to descend to so undignified a sport. No, his game was to be football that day. It was late in October, and there was a thin mist threatening rain, through which they travelled to reach the gridiron on which the struggle was to be fought out. It was rather a rough field, with the trees all around it, and the ground was quite covered in places by the dead maple leaves. There was a mixed mob composed of the two classes; much enthusiasm and more noise. Mud was installed in a place of honor on the side lines close to the centre, and for a throne was given Shack's old sweater and told to "Watch it." Immediately across could be seen the Senior mascot, a very disreputable Billy goat, "bearded like the pard" and with only one horn left. When Mud got a glimpse at his rival, nothing but a distinct sense of duty restrained him from an immediate attack. When "William" was led, struggling violently, around the field just before the game started, Mud ran out on the long sleeve in a vain effort to reach his very disreputable-looking enemy, but even then could not be tempted to leave his precious charge. He became very much excited when the men took their places for the "kick-off," and barked furiously at every "down" during the first "half." It was a hard old game, too, and one remembered long after. Class games are often more severe than contests with outside teams, for class rivalry is very strong, and there are not the same pains taken to restrain roughness. The Seniors kept bucking the line fiercely, and Shack at "centre" had all the fun he wanted holding his ground against repeated assaults. He was well backed up, however, by Marlowe on one side and Terry on the other, and the "half" ended with the score six to nothing in favor of the Sophs. It was a proud moment indeed for little Mud when he was led around the field with the big ribbon on his neck, and so important did he feel that he did not even notice old "Billy," although he trotted close by him. The Seniors started in with the same tactics when the whistle blew again, although they had not been at all successful. Not a "round the end" play did they make, and they were at last rewarded for their perseverance by knocking the wind out of Marlowe so completely that he was obliged to retire. The man that took his place was sandy enough, and well up in the game; but he was too light to keep his feet on the soft ground, and it did not take the Seniors long to discover that a plunge at "right guard" was good for from two to five yards every time. Old Shack gave all the assistance he could, but he was fairly well employed in attending to his opposite, and the result was that the ball was worked slowly but steadily up the field with every prospect of being carried over the Sophs' line. Nothing but the call of time could save them, and they lined up more and more slowly, struggling desperately and praying for the sound of the whistle. Down the lines the spectators followed, cheering hoarsely, and cutting up the soft turf like a huge drove of cattle. There were but two more minutes of play and a scant five yards to make. Old Shack had a cut over his right eye, and a little stream of blood trickled down his mud-stained cheek. He was steaming like a "yoke of oxen," and his canvas jacket was drenched with sweat, one stocking was down over his shoe, and a sleeve of his jersey was gone, showing the huge arm with its corded muscles. He knew well enough that the "touchdown" must come unless something was done, but no good chance did he get until the ball was inside the five-yard line. "Four-twelve-twenty" called out the "quarter back," and the big "senior centre," crouching low against Shack's strong shoulder, snapped the ball back just as he had done a hundred times before that day. He got a bit too low, in fact, for Shack gave him a jerk, and before the little "quarter" could get the ball out of his hands Shack's big paw was on him, rolling him over like a kitten, and before he knew what had happened he had lost the ball, and Shack had it snugly tucked under his arm. How the Sophs cheered, and when a moment later the whistle blew they would have shouldered Shack had he not made it impossible by lying flat on the muddy ground. During these last five minutes Mud had been deserted and well-nigh forgotten, mascot though he was. The crowd had surged up the field where the fierce struggle was going on, and the little fellow was left all alone, with nothing to occupy him but his own thoughts. He could look across to "Billy" on the other side, tied to a post, and alternately barked at him and whined for the friends who had left him. Mud had no chains but those of duty, yet for him they were sufficient. He would very much have liked to follow the crowd, or better still to have had his own little game of football with "Billy" across the way, with neither an umpire nor a referee to keep account of distance or prevent rough play; but here was Shack's precious sweater, and here he was bound to stay. It had been raining too for a little while, and the little fellow was getting cold and wet. He trotted around the narrow limits of his desert island, giving an occasional shiver of discomfort, and wishing in his heart that he was in his own snug place by Shack's warm fireside. The thought of Shack warmed him a bit, despite the cold, and he lay down again, waiting patiently for his master. When the whistle blew he sprang to his feet, for he knew as well as anybody that the game was now over, and when he heard the shouts he gave a bark or two of triumph. His friends would be back soon, and might perhaps lead him around the field again. He could not see very well, for it was almost dark, and still the crowd lingered at the far end of the field. At last they began to come toward him; at first moving slowly, then more hurriedly at the thought of dinner, until some started to run, and there was a big rush for the narrow path which opened through the trees not far from where Mud stood. The latter saw them coming, and he waved his stump of a tail and wiggled his little body as he thought of the hand touches, and the "Good old Mud" he was so soon to hear from Shack himself. The crowd came like a wide, wide sea; but little Mud had no thought of danger until they were close to him. He saw the big wave about to roll over, he half turned as if for flight, and then, crouching low, he sprang at the first man who set foot on the sweater he was left to guard. He made no sound, and in the darkness and confusion the wave of humanity swept over him, and did not pause until it left him crushed and scarce alive. When Seever saw him as he followed the rushing mob, the little fellow was dragging himself painfully back to the big sweater and had a bit of gray cloth in his sharp teeth, which he had torn from the first intruder. Shack was giving a shoulder to Marlowe when some one cried out, "Shack, old man, Mud's hurt;" and he left Marlowe in an instant, and was off like a shot with a dozen men after him. When they reached the crowd that clung in a dense circle, much as on the first night, they found Mud lying on the sweater, his poor little body a shapeless thing. Shack bent over him with a groan, then lifted him tenderly in his arms, and for a moment there came in the little fellow's fast-glazing eyes the light of recognition. He licked the big hand that held him so carefully, shivered a little, crept close to Shack's stained jacket, trembled a little longer, and then lay still at last on Shack's broad breast. [Illustration: How Kitty Queered The Mile] I hear it whispered every now and again that the reason a probable winner disappoints is because he is drugged. This is why that quarter on which Tom White had a mortgage goes to an inferior man, and because of this Jack Lewis, who was yards better than his field, is beaten out in the "run in" of the "220" hurdles. Now, I am prepared to say, after a longer track experience than falls to the lot of most men, that in almost all such affairs the fault is with the men themselves, who have either not done their work, or, more likely still, have overtrained and gone stale. Indeed, I honestly believe that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the best man wins because he is the best man, and the rest of the field lose simply because they have not the legs, lungs, heart, or courage necessary to bring them in first. There is mighty little "hocus-pocus" business in amateur athletics, and the atmosphere of the cinder-path is, after all is said, as pure as any on earth, not excepting that of politics and the legal profession. I know a very few events where men were drugged to put them out of contests, but they are, in the main, uninteresting tales which I do not care to tell. In the little crack I mean to have with you, although no drugs were used, there is about the clearest case of "fix" I know, and, what is more to the point, I'll bet a fiver you will read it to the end. I became acquainted with Kitty Murray when I was putting the finishing touches to the athletic team of a large New England academy, just what and where I cannot say, for very obvious reasons. They had on their list an annual contest in field sports with a rival academy, and called in outside training talent only six or eight weeks before the games. Kitty, with whom I struck up a friendship a day or two after my arrival, was a little English girl, as fresh and fragrant as an "Old-Country" rose such as I used to find long ago in a distant Lancashire garden. She was only five years over, and it seemed like going back again just to hear her talk. We became great friends during my stay in the little town, and I shall never quite forget her. I hope the story I am about to tell will not be thought to reflect on her, and it will not, unless I bungle badly in the telling of it. Now, I do not, of course, defend the "queering" of a race, and Kitty as surely put a contestant out of winning place as if she had used a drug, yet it was not done for money. The man did not deserve to win, and I confess I like her all the better for the deed. Kitty's father had come from an Oldham factory, thinking, like many another, that in America he would own his mill within a five year. The five years had passed, and he was still running his eight looms in the big weave-shed by the river, where he first went to work. Kitty had tended her five looms by his side for a year or so, and then found more congenial as well as more remunerative surroundings in a little store near the academy grounds. This store occupied the lower story of a dwelling-house, which had been built out toward the street, until its wooden porch infringed on the sidewalk, and its flight of long steps rose from the edge of the gutter. Whether it fractured any of the town ordinances by preëmpting the sidewalk in this way I do not know, but it had a particularly inviting appearance, like a host coming half way to meet you, and the porch, sheltering from sun and shower, was a perfect drag-net for customers. The front was all window, and the stock in trade plainly visible from the opposite side of the street. Here was candy in jars on the shelves and in trays on the counter, fruit in boxes and baskets by the windows, a huge soda fountain near the door, and an ice-cream parlor back of the store, with its horrible marble-topped tables, like gravestones awaiting the inscription of "Sacred to." I have travelled a bit, first and last, but nothing more dismal than an American ice-cream parlor do I remember to have seen. While it cannot be denied that Kitty's confectionery was often stale, her fruit flavorless, her soda frothy, and her ice-cream as full of starch as a Chinese laundry, Kitty herself was all right, and fresh and dainty enough to offset all the deficiencies of her wares. I can see her now, as I tell this story, with her bright "Old-Country" blushes, her soft brown hair, her blue eyes, and her trim little figure which her gowns always fitted so snugly. She was a marvel of neatness from ribbon to shoe tip, and was rather extravagant in the matter of foot-gear, for Kitty had a sweet foot and ankle of her own, concerning which she was not ignorant. Cap'n Holden, the proprietor of the store, was a long, lank Vermonter, who had run a ding-dong race with consumption for twenty years, and was likely now to make an age record ahead of many a hearty man. He lived in a couple of rooms back of the ice-cream parlor, and left the management of the store very largely to Kitty, doing the drudgery, and leaving the high artistic to his assistant, content to find the money-drawer comfortably filled each night. There was a steady stream of the academy boys flowing in and out the door of Holden's store all day, ruining their digestions, and going broke on pocket-money for the sake of basking in Kitty's smiles. A clever little business woman was she, too, for eighteen years, and very well aware of her worth, as Mr. Holden had learned to his cost, for he paid her what seemed a fabulous salary. Now, my coming to the town was a serious misfortune to Kitty's business. The taking some thirty of her best customers and forbidding their accustomed indulgence in sweets, under penalty of not making the team, must have resulted in serious inroads on her trade. She laughingly took me to task for this, one morning, soon after my arrival, asking me how I expected her to get her living, and declaring that Mr. Holden was looking at the poor-house with fearful glances. And then, as I leaned on the counter, she began to pump me in a very pretty way concerning the academy's chances in the coming games, showing an especial interest in the mile. Would I please tell her who would win in this event? Now, it must not be thought that I have been in the habit of giving tips to inquisitive young ladies, for one thing a successful trainer must learn is to hold his tongue; but in this case there was no secret involved, and almost no money on, so I told her frankly that there were only two men of any use at all, Black and Harris. Well, would I please tell her (ladies always say "please" in a particularly wheedling way when they ask what they know they should not),--would I please tell her which was the faster. I answered that Harris was a very neat little runner who would win in average company, but that Black's stride was too much for him, and Harris could not show within five seconds of Black's time for the distance. Here the corners of Kitty's pretty mouth dropped most suddenly, and I then and there surprised the secret that under the folds of her flowered muslin lurked a shy liking for Jack Harris. This was not at all to be wondered at, for Jack was a mighty nice boy, pleasant to every one, and a fine performer in almost all branches of sport. Black was about the same age as Harris, nearly twenty, and, unlike Harris, was tall and dark, and rather surly and superior. They were both to leave for college at the end of the year, considered themselves men grown, and cherished a mighty strong liking for little Kitty. They were equally anxious to win the "mile," and to this end had trained very conscientiously, breaking the tape in the sight of Kitty's bright eyes being, after all, the strongest incentive. I talked quite freely with the little girl, for she reminded me of old Lancashire, and she on her part took no particular care to conceal the fact that she should like very much to see Jack Harris win. As the days went by I took special pains with Jack, but though he improved nicely he could not quite reach Black, and as the time of the contests approached I could give Kitty no encouragement, much as I should have liked to do so. The very night before the games I went into the store and, in answer to her question, told her plainly that unless Black was taken suddenly ill, he would certainly best Jack, and that from all reports Harris was just as sure of second place, as the other academy had only moderate talent to offer in the "mile." "And would Jack win, then, if Black was out of it, or a bit off?" she asked, with a little tremble of disappointment in her voice. I answered that a race was never won until the tape broke, and the judges had given their decision, but that it certainly looked that way; and while Kitty was weighing out some peppermints to an old lady, with an ounce of smiles for which she did not charge, I passed quietly through the ice-cream parlor into Mr. Holden's little den in the rear. Holden and I were quite cronies by this time; we often chatted together of an evening, and I dropped quite naturally into a rocking-chair near the door, which was ajar, and through which I could get a good view of the store without being myself observed. He was reading the "Boston Globe" with the aid of his glasses, his pipe, and a pitcher of hard cider. He filled me a glass of the last, pushed the tobacco-jar across the table toward me, and handed me the sporting half of the paper without a word. I took a drink, lit my pipe, and pretended to read the paper, keeping a close watch on the front shop meanwhile. Now, I had a method in all this, which was to be where I could see that none of the boys broke training in this most dangerous place, on the night before the contests. I had given the boys a much more rigorous course of training than was usual, and was a bit afraid of some of them, not accustomed to deprivations of any kind. I sat smoking my pipe, and reading my paper, a fragment at a time, customers coming and going, but saw nothing of interest until about nine o'clock, when Harris entered, looking particularly well in tennis flannels and sweater. He bade Kitty a "good evening," in that pleasant way of his, and asked for a pound of mixed chocolates. "A pound of mixed chocolates!" exclaimed Kitty, instantly alert. "Why, Jack Harris, you know you ought not to touch a single piece, and you to run to-morrow! Not an ounce will I give you." I think Harris was pleased at the motherliness of the little girl, for he told her without any chaffing that the candy was intended for his sisters, who were spending the night at the hotel, with their aunt. "Do you know, Kitty," said he, "they would not give up their chocolates to win a world's championship?" "I would, then," said Kitty. "It must be splendid to go over the line first, with the rest following after. I suppose that's what you'll do to-morrow." "Not likely," he answered frankly; "Black is yards better, and unless he has a stroke of paralysis in the stretch, I shall have the pleasure of following him in, and must content myself with second place or worse." "Oh, Jack," said Kitty, "I wish you could win; you must win. Can't I help you in some way?" "I don't know how," he answered, "unless you can furnish me a pair of legs as long and as good as Black's, and they are hard to find." "Don't joke," said Kitty, with a look of reproach. "If I were you I'd beat him without any legs, I'd get ahead, and stay there if it killed me." There was in this just a hint of reflection on the boy's courage, but it was given in such good heart, that he could not take offence, and he laughed in rather a forced way and said, "I suppose I am an awful duffer not to be able to call the trick, for I have worked my best, and not thrown away a single chance. The truth is that Black is a better man at the distance, has been as careful as myself, and is not likely to take any liberties with himself until the race is over. I saw him a little while ago, and he was looking 'out of sight.'" At this there was silence for a little, for the outlook was certainly quite hopeless. From my seat by the door I could see them plainly, and I felt rather like an eavesdropper, when Kitty put her hand on Jack's sleeve in her earnestness. They made a pretty picture with their flushed faces and easy attitudes, and I thought of an old garden-gate in Lancashire where there had been much the same scene long ago. They talked together a moment or two longer in low tones, and then Kitty became suddenly conscious, and went back again behind the counter, with a touch of embarrassment. Jack took his box of candy, and said "Good night," stopping at the door a moment to say, "Win or lose, I shall do all I know. I promise you he shall know he has been in a race, and I shall run clear out, or run a winner." There were only a few more customers, for we kept good hours in the little town, and I was about to take my leave, satisfied that my men were all in bed, when Black entered. Now, this was clearly in disobedience of my instructions, which were, for this night, bed at nine-thirty, and it was now five minutes later by the clock over the stove. While the training of this academy team was a small matter for me, some of my best friends whom I had handled on big college teams were anxious for them to win, had considered the matter well-nigh settled when they had prevailed on me to take them on, and I had been very strict and painstaking in my handling of them. I was naturally provoked that Black should openly disobey instructions, and I sat back in my chair to watch developments. I do not remember what Black said, but he made an effort to be agreeable which was not particularly successful. There was something about his manner indicating condescension, which was not at all pleasing to Kitty's democratic spirit. She very promptly took him to task for being out after hours, and with a very different tone from that used when reproving Jack Harris. "I don't mean to be dictated to by any old played-out martinet of a trainer," said he gruffly. "It is all well enough for those who have no sure thing. I saw Harris going to his room fifteen minutes ago, but I'll sleep when I like, and beat him then." At this very foolish and boasting remark, involving also a reflection on Jack's prowess, I could see Kitty's eyes flash, and her cheeks redden, and then there came over her face a very peculiar expression of determination I could not at all understand. She changed gradually from indifference to interest, and finally said, with a well-assumed air of admiration, "It must be splendid to be so sure of winning; and don't you have to train at all?" "Deuced little," he answered; "I go through the motions with old Brown, but eat and drink just what I like, and sleep four or eight hours, as I prefer." Now, this was a bare-faced lie, and his sin found him out as quickly as in any "goody" book I ever read, for Kitty went on to say in her pretty way, becoming every moment more genial and fascinating, "Isn't that nice? then you can take a soda with me before I start for home." Remember that I was all the time in the back room with Mr. Holden, listening to the talk, rather hot under the collar at Black's "old played-out martinet," and wondering what in the world little Kitty was plotting. Black looked a bit doubtful at her offer; he had trained to the dot, and did not mean to throw away a single chance to win, but such an invitation from Kitty was an unheard-of honor, he could not very well eat his words, so he consented with an assumed alacrity, and Kitty proceeded to draw a glass of soda for him. And such a glass of soda as it was! If Mr. Holden had seen it he would have had a fit; nothing like it had ever gone over his counter, expense was not considered, and profit there could have been none. I could see the whole devil's brew myself, but Black could not, for Kitty stood between him and the glass. First she put in a double quantity of heavy, thick chocolate, then a liberal lump of ice-cream, and finally hardly enough soda to mix them. She drew a glass of Vichy for herself, and I watched as they drank, and chatted, and laughed together. Now, what were the reasons why I did not interfere, while my best mile-runner was getting outside of this horrible mixture? The first was, that we did not need him to win the "mile"; the second was, that his remarks concerning myself were not inclined to make me care for him personally; the third was, that I thought defeat might teach him a much-needed lesson; and the last and most potent, I must confess, was, that I had not the heart to spoil Kitty's wicked little game, which she was playing so beautifully. As I said before, it was as clear a case of "fix" as if she had given him a drug, and between a mild dose of poison and the glass she mixed, there was little for an athlete in training to choose. I sat in the back room for at least a half-hour longer, and saw Black drink three more glasses of different flavors, chosen with special reference to their baleful effects; and so pleasant and jolly was Kitty, and so happy was Black, that I am sure she could have substituted a dose of rhubarb without his notice. It was after ten o'clock when Kitty put on her hat, and I afterward learned that she talked a full hour longer with him at her gate, an unheard-of thing for Kitty, who was particularly careful of gossip, and it was midnight when he rolled into bed. He must have had the digestion of an ostrich not to have been immediately and positively ill; but he was not, and barring a little lack of color, he gave no indication of his previous night's extraordinary training, when he went to the mark for the mile. It had been a mighty busy day for me; the boys were young, some of them had never been contestants before, and they were nervous and uncertain. I got through the morning as best I could, giving advice here, answering a question there, telling some little fellow with a white face that there was no doubt of his winning, and another, who was over-confident, that he had no chance unless he followed instructions to the dot. Dinner over (for at our boarding-house we dined at noon) I started for the "grounds," which were over on the other side of the little town. The wide street was well dotted with carriages, and the sidewalks crowded with townspeople, country folk, and a liberal sprinkling of the supporters of the rival academy. Most of the mill-hands were out, and the rattle of the looms was subdued, half of them being silent. I threaded my way through the mob as best I could, for, every few feet, some one would buttonhole me to ask a fool question. Then again, did you ever notice how much harder it is to work your way through a crowd of country people than one of equal density in the city? There is a sluggishness and inertness very different from the quick movements of those whose feet are accustomed to tread city paves. However, when I got beyond the shopping quarter, where the dwelling-houses began, the streets were free enough, and I crossed over to the south side, the day being warm, and the shade of the elms grateful. I was passing Holden's store, when Kitty appeared in the doorway, as if by accident, and with a very pretty look of mingled surprise and pleasure. She looked as if she had just arrived from Arcadia, or had stepped out of a Dresden dish, with her fresh muslin figured with little sprays of flowers, a big hat on her soft brown hair, and a parasol in her hand which displayed the academy color. Her cheeks were bright, and grew a shade brighter as she asked, "Please, Mr. Brown, may I walk along with you?" Receiving my very hearty assent she tripped down the steps and across the street, taking special pains to save the figured muslin from the dust of the street. I think I said that Kitty's ankles were irreproachable. Although it was very evident Kitty had been to some pains to see me, I found her very silent and preoccupied. She had said not much more than a silly word or two about the weather, when we reached the Lee place, where she said she must leave me, as she had promised to stop for Sally and Kate. As she put her hand on the latch of the gate she gave me the first hint of what was burdening her mind by asking, "Are the boys all feeling well?" I said, "Yes, as far as I know," and then to try her, "though Black looks a bit queer, for some unaccountable reason." "That's too bad," answered Kitty, with considerable affectation of sorrow, as she swung the gate open; but I noticed a little widening of the mouth, and a tell-tale dimple in her cheek almost betrayed her. Not once did she raise her eyes to mine either, something very unusual with her, for she had the frankest glance possible. I watched her as she mounted the steps and rang the bell, and then walked on beneath the tall elms, philosophizing over that most interesting subject, "a woman and her ways," something the masculine mind cannot understand, but likes to struggle with. The track was in the centre of the "campus," an enclosure of several acres of soft green turf, fringed and fenced by its row of tall trees. Around the track the spectators were gathering, and the grand stand was beginning to fill. All the officials and most of the contestants were already inside the ropes, the former bustling around with their bright-colored badges flapping, and extremely busy doing nothing; the latter, in their spotless trunks and jerseys, with bare brown legs and arms, looking "sweet enough to kiss," so I heard a pretty little matron say on one of the lower seats. Indeed, I know few finer sights than a young fellow, clean-limbed and lithe, trained to perfection, with eyes bright, and face darkened by the sun, waiting in his running-togs, with a background of green grass, and overhead the cloudless sky. As soon as I got among them, the boys flocked around me, and after a hearty word or two I sent the team off by the catcher's fence, a little beyond, for there were no dressing-rooms, and I wanted to know where to find them. Jack was looking "finer than silk," and Black not half bad, although a trifle dark under the eyes. I was not at all sure that even Kitty's dose was enough to stop him. Now, I do not propose to say a word about any event but the "mile." This was the last event on the list, we were comfortable winners already, and everybody was speculating how badly Black would fracture the record; there seemed to be no doubt about his winning, and, unpopular as he was, it was with many admiring exclamations that he ran a few yards to limber up. His long legs moved like clock-work, and his stride was remarkable. We had just lost the final heat of the "220," and when the starter's whistle blew for the "mile" I could see the faces brighten up, for it was confidently expected that Black and Harris would run first and second, and leave a pleasant taste in the mouth to take home to supper. There were six starters, and when Jack took his place on the outside, he was the finest-looking boy of the lot. Not having grown so fast, he was more rounded and filled out than the others, though he carried not an ounce of useless tissue. His arms and legs were better developed, and his face was clean cut as a cameo. Kitty sat directly on a line with the tape, on the top row of seats, between the Lee girls. One of them, I could see, was keeping a watchful eye on the west, where the thunder heads were gathering. But Kitty did not see any clouds, not she. She did not care if the deluge came after this race; and what was a shower, or a wet gown? She was red and pale by turns, breathing hard, and had both elbows on the top rail behind her, as if to brace herself for the ordeal. Wonderfully attractive was she in this attitude of repressed excitement, and though the grand stand was full of pretty girls, dressed in their best bibs and tuckers, I saw none to compare with her. When Jack glanced up at her, she leaned forward and waved her hand, giving him a look that brought the color to his cheeks. But when he turned, got on his mark, and put out his hands, his flush faded, the half smile disappeared, and in their place came as stern a look of resolution as I ever saw in a boy's face. And yet I doubted he could win. True, he was just the one to do a shade better in competition than in training, but Black was likely to do no worse (unless pulled back by the sodas), and with a strong five seconds to the good, it was a beautiful race to guess on. "Marks! Set!" The bang of the pistol, with its little wreath of smoke rising in the still air, and they are off. "Crunch, crunch, crunch" sound the quick feet on the cinders, a stout fellow, not half trained, taking the lead, and bound to drop out before the "half," unless I am no judge. They disappear a second behind the catcher's fence, emerge again, swing round the turn, straighten out again, and the men are well trailed, as usual, at the lower turn. Down the stretch they come, and just before they pass the posts Black jumps into the lead, amid the applause of the grand stand. Where is Jack? Why, where he ought to be with the pace like this, and three-quarters more to run. He has followed my orders to the dot, starting off easily (one of the almost impossible things to teach a young runner), trailing behind the field, and he finishes the first quarter last of the six, and a full twenty yards behind Black, running strong and well, though not so showily as his rival. I see poor little Kitty's face grow white and hopeless as they go by. Round the track they swing again, two men dropping out at the lower turn, already run off their feet, and one of them the stout fellow, as I expected. Indeed, as they pass the posts the second time all have come back a bit to Jack but Black, and Kitty's face is touched by grim despair, for that dreadful twenty yards still stretches between the one she wishes to win and the one she tried to put out of the race. On the third quarter Jack lets out a link, picking up one after another, until only Black leads him, and when they start on the last lap he is running strong and fairly fresh, only ten yards behind, and the rest trailed badly. Kitty's face is the queerest mixture of hope and fear I ever saw. Black runs with the confidence of repeated victories in trials, and attempts to open up the gap again; but Jack has a bit up his sleeve still, answers with a little spurt of his own, will not be denied, and is only a bare five yards to the bad as they straighten out for the last hundred yards. Here Black glances over his shoulder, and I can see his look of surprise. Jack has never been so close up at this stage of the game. It is evident that both the boys are approaching "Queer Street," "Queer Street" with its pounding heart and panting lungs, its parched mouth, singing ears, and leaden feet. Both are game to the core, and it is now only a question of endurance. Here is the runner's purgatory, where the sins of the past are settled, and here it is that Kitty's ice-cream sodas take a hand in the sport. What would Black give if he had not imbibed their awful sweetness? Inch by inch Jack draws up on him, his jaw set, his eyes aflame, his stride shortening, but still quick and straight. Black's face is leaden, his eyes glassy, his long legs giving at the knees at every stride. Down the stretch they come, the crowd on its feet, but too excited to yell, Kitty with her hand over one eye, and her handkerchief tight between her white teeth. For twenty yards they run almost side by side, and then Jack pumps ahead and breaks the tape, a winner by a scant yard. Black follows over in a heap, staggers a step or two, and falls before any one can catch him. Sick, was he? Well, rather! He had a touch of colic that doubled him up like a grasshopper. He groaned and coughed, he writhed and twisted, like a lobster on the coals. I knew it was not a dangerous matter, and gave him little sympathy, extracting a half confession concerning his training escapade of the previous evening. Kitty, the little Jezebel, blushed like a rose when Jack waved his hand at her, as he was carried off on the shoulders of some enthusiastic friends. Little did he know how he came to win over a faster man; little did Black understand there had been a plot for his undoing; and unless she reads this story, Kitty will always think her secret is a secret to all the world. [Illustration: Atherton's Last Half] Back in the mountains of North Carolina, where the air is like a tonic, free from all taint of river mist and swamp malaria, and medicined by the fragrance of pine and hemlock, lives Teddy Atherton. His house is perched on a spur of the mountains, and can be seen with a good glass from Asheville on a clear day. It has green blinds, tall wooden pillars, and granite steps. It is the pattern that New England builders used to fancy fifty years ago or more, and looks a bit strange in its setting of mountain and forest. Here Teddy spends his time among his books, fishing and hunting, in the company of his dogs, or the society of an occasional friend, truant from business or profession. For a few weeks only in midsummer he risks the dangers of our east winds, and is seen at the Somerset and Country Clubs, much to the gratification of a host of friends. He has had me South with him a couple of times, and never goes back without inviting me to dine with him. I always accept, though the pleasure of his society is more than offset by painful recollections. We linger long at the table over my favorite madeira, and we talk of the old days, the old contests, and the old boys, grown now to be stout merchants, lawyers, and I know not what. Some of them have lads who will bring new honor to names already famous on track and field, and some, alas! have been beaten out by that famous runner and certain final winner, old Death himself. Often, as I sit and watch Atherton across the table, there comes into my eyes, not at all accustomed to such a freak, so clear a hint of moisture, that nothing but a mighty volume of smoke saves me from detection. He is a small man, five feet five or less, and not exceeding eight stone in weight. His closely shaven face is thin and brown, his eyes dark and full of fire, his mouth firm and sensitive. There is nothing of the despairing or helpless invalid about him; his shoulders are square, and his movements resolute; yet he knows, and I know, that his life hangs by a thread. I know whose fault it is, in part at least, that his days are numbered, that his chest is hollow, and that, despite his self-control, he cannot restrain every now and again that hacking cough. I shall tell the story, not because I like to, but as a warning to those who are willing to make a winner, no matter what the risk or cost. Late on an afternoon, just before the inter-collegiate games of 188-, there sat on the gymnasium steps a group of college sports, with heavy brows and serious minds. Even the weather was dubious, for the wind had worked round into the east, the clouds were gathering, and the air was damp and dismal. What few men there were on the track wore sweaters, and one or two had pulled long trousers over their trunks to keep their legs warm. The elms had got their heads together, as if conspiring mischief, and we had talked ourselves pretty well out, with no good results. We had that day given the team a serious "try out," and were fairly contented with its showing in all the events but the "half." There was no question about it, Bates could not call the trick; that is, not with his present showing. We all agreed that he was good enough, but he had no head at all. He ran his second quarter to the "queen's taste," and finished strong and well; but on his first lap he sogered like a Turk, and came in at least five seconds slow. He had no idea whatever of pace, was not a sprinter, and was easy for any opponent with a turn of speed, who would trail him round and pass him in the stretch. We had told Sherman (who had no chance to win, and knew it) to run the first lap in fifty-nine, instructing Bates to stay with him. Bates stayed all right, but Sherman was as far off as the man he paced,--in the first trial running in sixty-three, which was as bad as ever; and in the second pulling him out to fifty-six, so that neither finished. The question was, who should make pace for Bates. There were, sprawling on the steps that night, beside myself, Griffith, Smith, "Doc," and of course Tom Furness, for Tom had missed few such conclaves in the last half-dozen years. Now, the public knows pretty well who wins the events, but mighty little about the planning and contriving by which the athletic material of a college is developed and made the most of. Upon us five rested much of the responsibility for making winners of the team of 188-. With me it was a matter of business and professional standing; to the others, the glory of their college, and the personal satisfaction of having added to it. All of them were practical men, who had in days gone by carried their college colors, and Tom Furness had been a mighty good athlete, who had put a record where it stood untouched for a good five years. Tom was tall, fair, and sanguine. An optimist by nature, he never dreamed of anything but success, was a favorite with the graduates, while the college worshipped him. I never saw the man who could put heart into a losing team like Tom Furness. Just below him sat "Doc" Peckham, dark and silent. He was short and brown bearded, the very opposite of Tom, and had a rather embarrassing way of puncturing Tom's pretty bubbles. He was not so well liked as Furness, but was after all fully as valuable an adviser. He had a good practice in the city, but managed, in some way, to leave it whenever he was needed. Griffith and Smith were men who, as a rule, agreed with the majority, and myself in particular; so they were quite as useful as if they had been perpetually inventing foolish plans. We had been silent a full minute, which is not long for a crowd of college "gray-beards," when Tom Furness jumped to his feet with the air of a man who has made up his mind, expects opposition, but is still confident of the integrity of his position, and said, "Teddy Atherton's our man." "Teddy Atherton be blowed," said "Doc," who sat on the bottom step, his knees under his chin, drawing inspiration from his pipe. "He's run nothing but the 'quarter' for the last three years, and while he shows a fraction slower than Allen and Waite in practice, has a better head, and I would not give a toss-up for the difference between them." "That's it," said Furness; "it's Teddy's good head that we want. Now listen to me. We have three 'quarter milers' who finish under a blanket, and any one of them is about good enough to win. Allen has shown a shade the best time, and we certainly cannot pull him out, while Waite would sulk like a bear with a sore head if asked to make pace, and probably be worse than useless. Atherton, beside having better judgment, is a particularly unselfish chap, and if handled right will consent, and fill the bill exactly." "Deuced hard on Atherton," said Smith; "he's trained faithfully, has a chance to win in the 'quarter,' and yet we ask him to sacrifice himself in the 'half' because Bates is a duffer and will not use his head." We discussed the matter a while longer, and had barely arrived at an agreement, when who should come briskly from the gymnasium but Teddy himself. He jumped down the steps, and was hurrying away, with a joke at our serious faces, when I spoke up and said (for such uncomfortable commissions were usually assigned to me), "Wait a minute, Atherton, we want a word with you." "All right, old man," he said, "but be quick about it, for I've a dinner waiting for me that will be cold after seven o'clock." He was fresh from his shower-bath and rub-down, and looked as if he had stepped out of a bandbox. We could guess where the dinner was, for Atherton was very serious about Mollie Kittredge; and whether Mollie smiled or not, Mollie's mamma was complacent enough, and did her best to give Teddy a clear track and no contestants. Mollie was a howling favorite, "blonde, bland, and beautiful," who, it was rumored, did not care to be won by a "walk-over," and would have liked Teddy better if he had been a bit more difficult. Now, I believe it is best to go at once to the point with a disagreeable matter, so I said bluntly, "I'm sorry, Atherton, but we have decided to ask you to run in the 'half'; it is a late day to make the change, and it will, of course, give you no chance to win; but it seems to us the only thing to do under the circumstances." The boy winced, looked at us keenly to see if we were serious, then grew grave and said, rather sarcastically, "Your reasons for selecting me in particular as the scape-goat are of course good and sufficient, and you will pardon me for asking what they are?" I went over the matter with him in detail, assisted by Furness, giving all our reasons, doing my best to make the project as inviting as possible; and Atherton finally consented, as we expected. It was, however, a very serious face he carried off, and one very different from that which smiled upon us at the beginning. We were all mighty sorry for the boy, and I felt as if I had committed a petty theft, and deserved the penitentiary, or worse. I had only been the spokesman for the rest, and had racked my brains to think of some way to save Atherton from the sacrifice; but Tom was really unassailable in his position, and even "Doc" did not oppose him. I watched the lithe figure as it disappeared around the corner of the fence, realizing how full of disappointment my message must have been, and was sorry enough about it. Atherton had arrived at college without either athletic training or ambition. A student of the first rank, so that he was known at once where muscular ability is much more likely to obtain recognition than mental strength, it was not until his second year that I saw much of him. He then took up running, not so much with a view of contesting, as to fill out his lungs and increase his strength. It was not long, however, before he began to show decided improvement, and steadily gaining, had run unplaced, but close up, in his junior year. He had brought himself out in this way without in the least losing rank as a scholar, and I knew it was his one remaining ambition to get a place in athletics, and win a point for the old college on this last competition to which he would be eligible. If he had been a musty bookworm I should not have cared so much, but he was a splendid fellow, of good family, and a great favorite of mine, because of his pluck and good nature. He appeared next day on the track, as agreed, a little serious, but not at all disagreeable; which made me feel more guilty than ever. In fact, I tried to apologize, and for this received, as I deserved, a sharp answer, that the decision was doubtless correct, and there was no necessity for further talk. He listened to my instructions carefully, took Bates along within a half second of the fifty-nine, and left him in the stretch to finish four seconds better than ever before. Teddy was badly used up, of course, for he was not at all accustomed to the distance, and when I gave him a shoulder to the gymnasium, he was as limp as possible. He took our congratulations with a half smile, and would not confess that he was much the worse for the effort. Tom Furness was much elated, insisting there was no question but that we had made a change to the advantage of all but Teddy, and it was right that he should suffer for the good of the cause. It is wonderful with what complacency we look upon the sacrifice of others. As I thought it over that night, I had serious doubts about Atherton's condition, and the next morning I told Furness just how badly he was used up; but I did not take a decided stand, as I should have done, and the reason was purely selfish and unworthy. I was, of course, anxious to win the cup; it meant much to me, and I decided to take the risk. The day came round, particularly sultry and close. The sky was brassy, the sun a ball of fire, and what little wind there was felt like the breath of a furnace. It was a day to break records, and to break a trainer's heart as well; for often a man who is right "on edge" will show up limp and lifeless under such conditions, going stale in a night. I had changed rooms at the hotel so that the men might sleep with all the air possible, given them an early breakfast, and got them over to the grounds before the sun was very hot. We settled ourselves in the dressing-rooms, and the men stripped at once for the sake of comfort and coolness. A beautiful sight it was. An athlete looks much like a city clerk with his clothes on, but stripped to the buff there is a mighty difference. No weak, skinny legs, no fat disfigured bodies, no bunched and rounded shoulders. You may boast of your fine horses and beautiful women, but give me an athlete in perfect training, particularly if I have had the handling of him, and have seen the fat disappear and the strong, clean muscle take its place. The boys are seated on the long benches or standing in front of the lockers. Here is the slender figure of a sprinter, not an ounce of superfluous flesh or unused muscle, the cords of his shapely legs standing out clear and firm through the satin skin. There is a shot-putter, stopping a moment to chaff with a friend, stripped to the waist, his shirt in his hand. See how the mighty muscles stretch across his breast and back! See the big, square neck, and that right arm and shoulder, round and firm and hard! It is not men like the last that I worry about, for the heat will do nothing but good to an anatomy like this; but the thin and slender chaps, with not too much vitality at best, and trained close to the limit--these I look over closely and carefully. I was more anxious about Atherton than any other, and found him off in a corner by himself, near the window. Perhaps the most popular man on the team, he was not over jolly this morning, and the boys saw it, and left him alone. His clothes were already hung in his locker, in that particularly neat way that some of the boys might have copied to advantage. He had on his trunks and jersey, and was lacing his running-shoes. I asked him how he felt. "All right," he said; but I knew better. The hot night had told on him, and he was a bit pale and tired-looking. I told him to get into his wrap, find a cool and comfortable place, and take it easy until he was wanted. He followed instructions, as usual, and I saw almost nothing of him until the "half" was called, late in the afternoon. As usual, we had pulled off some unexpected wins, and lost several "lead-pipe cinches." The latter, however, were far more numerous, and I was decidedly on the anxious seat. Indeed, as near as I could figure, unless Bates won the "half" we were out of it. Of Sherman we expected nothing; he was put in to fill out the string, and because a man will sometimes surprise those best informed of his incapacity. Bates we hoped would win, and Atherton was expected to run his first lap in fifty-nine cutting wind and setting pace, to keep on in the second lap at the same speed until he reached the stretch, where he was to drop out (probably dead beat), leaving Bates to run in and break the tape. There was little glory in this programme for Atherton, and I had seen his face lengthen out when Allen and Waite romped in, first and second in the "quarter." It was "dollars to doughnuts" he would have made a strong third or better, and I saw he thought so himself, although he said nothing. We had just won a first and third in the high jump, and I was feeling a little better when the men were called for the "half." I met Teddy in the middle of the field, and walked along with him to the start. He was looking very white and serious; but I said nothing at all to hearten him, for I knew he was clear grit and did not want it. I did tell him that the race was more in his hands than Bates', and that from those who knew he would receive all the credit of a win, if he brought Bates in first. He said not a word in answer, only nodded his head, threw me his wrap, and went to the mark. As the numbers were being called, I had a chance to look around me. There was the usual crowd inside the ring, the officials, the reporters, and those infernal nuisances the men with a pull, who do nothing, and interfere with all who have duties to perform. The grand stand was right in front of me, spread like the tail of a huge peacock, and a perfect riot of color, for every second person was a lady, and what better opportunity than this to wear what was loud and bright? As my eye wandered over the crowd, I began to pick out familiar faces, for I have a keen sight for a friend. There was Jack Hart and Tom Finlay, two of my old boys, sitting together, one of them from Denver, and the other professor in a Maine college; there was Dr. Gorden a bit lower, and Fred Tillotson with his pretty wife; there was Charlie Thomas with a little fellow in a sweater, evidently a dead game sport already, and a chip of the old block, for his face is red with excitement, and his eyes like saucers with enthusiasm. I was taking my eyes away to look at the men, when they fastened on a figure a few rows from the top. It was that of one of the most striking girls I have ever seen, as perfect a blonde as even Old England could show, and with a very British air of reserve, despite the excitement around her. She was a marvel,--tall and well-developed, groomed and gowned to the dot. I could see she was looking straight at Teddy in the calmest style imaginable, but still rather surprised that he did not return her glance. But Teddy had for the moment quite forgotten her. He was bent over his mark, his eyes straight ahead, ready for the first sound of the pistol, for his instructions were to take the lead from the beginning. There was a strapping field of a dozen or more, but most of the others were prepared to take the customary start for a "half"--easy away, and fast work when heart and lungs had worked up to it. "Marks! Set!" the crack of the pistol, and Teddy shot out as if for a sprint, slowing immediately, however, when he had taken his place. Bates pulled out of the ruck at the turn, and fell in behind him, following orders. Round the track they swung, stringing out, one and another coming up and going back as if on wires, but Teddy and Bates holding the lead. My watch showed fifty-eight and three-quarters as they finished the first lap, a beautiful performance on Teddy's part, though I had expected it, for he was a connoisseur on time, if I ever saw one. There followed them over, and close up, a cadaverous-looking man from one of the minor colleges, whose style I did not like, but who was going very strong, and whom I might have thought dangerous had I not been told he never finished. Sherman was twenty-five yards back, in the rear of the lot, and running in a very hopeless fashion. I was relieved to see how well Teddy did his work, and noticed the slight flush on his cheeks as he passed. I could see that Mollie Kittredge too had a little added color in her cheeks, but in no other way did she show any particular interest in the race. For the first half of the second lap our programme was followed out all right, Atherton still leading at a lively clip, Bates right at his heels, and the tall outsider barely holding his own. Then the unexpected happened. Bates began to show signs of tiring, fell back inch by inch, and the tall outsider came up at the same rate. Just before the lower turn they got together, and there was a short struggle; but Bates was as arrant a cur as ever wore a shoe, and he yielded the place, though he had strength enough to run another lap, had he the heart to go with it. Teddy was, perhaps, five yards to the good when he swung into the stretch, and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his college mate close up and ready to take up the running. Instead, he saw an unexpected contestant, coming fast, and Bates was full five yards behind, slowing, and evidently out of it. Now Atherton was, of course, well-nigh spent; he had followed instructions to the dot, and was not expected to finish. There was a half-second's hesitation and a look of fear; but as quick as he realized the conditions, the little fellow swung his face to the front and set his teeth with the evident determination of making a fight for the race. A mighty cheer went up from the spectators, for Teddy had many friends, and the whole college knew under what circumstances he was running; but I doubt if he heard anything but the crunch, crunch, crunch of the swift feet behind him. I knew it was a hopeless task, for his opponent was fresh as paint, and full of running. Gradually his longer stride drew him up, but when he tried to pass, Teddy still had a word to say, and met him with the most stubborn resistance. He was almost gone, his face white as death, his eyes glazed, and he kept his speed only by sheer force of will. Somehow, I know not how, for I could hardly have taken my eyes from the runners, I knew that Mollie Kittredge was on her feet with a look of horror in her face. Down the stretch they came, the little fellow with the drawn cheeks, and his opponent tall and strong and confident. Side by side they came, neither gaining, until perhaps fifteen yards from the finish, when the big fellow shot by. Teddy staggered on, but lurched forward, and fell, a few feet short of the line, just as the winner broke the tape. He fell without an effort to save himself, plowing through the cinders with his white face. There was a convulsive struggle to crawl over, and then he lay still, dead to the world, with one hand stretched out toward the line. The half-dozen who finished ran by the motionless figure, and I was over it a second after. Tom Furness was almost as soon as myself, and together we lifted and placed it on the soft turf inside the track. We were surrounded by a crowd of contestants and track officials, but a cry, followed by a commotion in the grand stand, drew their attention, and we were left alone. So full of agony was the cry, that I looked up myself, and was just in time to see the statuesque Mollie throw up her hands and fall back in a dead faint. Yes, blondes have hearts, after all. We were not much troubled by the crowd, for they thought it was only a man "run out," and that he would be all right in a minute or two, and walk off as well as ever. Alas! I knew better; it was a bad case, and I could find little sign of life in the limp body. We made an effort to revive him, but Tom could not get a drop from his flask through the clenched teeth, and one side of the face was bleeding, where it had slid over the cinders. The crowd was coming back, the spectators were beginning to notice us, so I told Tom to take the legs, and I took the head and shoulders, and we started for the dressing-rooms. A pathetically light weight was it, and I was heart-sick, for, though one hand was over the heart, I could feel no motion through the thin jersey. "Doc" joined us at the door, and I was never so pleased to see any one in my life, for I knew that he would do all that could be done, and we need not experiment with some one we did not know. When we got into a quiet room we placed Teddy on a rubbing-couch, and "Doc" immediately applied the most powerful remedies to revive him. They were at first unsuccessful, but by hypodermic injections of strychnine and brandy, the wearied heart and lungs were at last induced to start feebly on their accustomed tasks. We were standing by the couch, watching the hint of color grow in the boy's cheeks, when suddenly the limp figure made a convulsive effort (consciousness taking up the thread where it had been broken, a few feet short of the tape), and he almost lifted himself to his feet before we could catch him. As he fell back in our arms, there came to his lips the bright-red blood-spots, precursors of a fearful hemorrhage. It was almost impossible for us to check it, for the boy was delirious, would not lie still, and kept saying in a determined way, "I will win! I must win!" He would turn his head, and call, "Bates! Bates!" in a frenzy of fear and disappointment. "Bates, where are you? My God, where are you? I'm sure I followed orders, and did not come too fast." Then he would find Bates, and say contentedly, "There you are, old man, close up; I'll drop out now, I'm almost gone; push out and win." Suddenly he would discover it was the outsider, and would cry out with fevered lips, and try to break away from us and run. Then he would lie still, but in his mind was going over the agony of the finish again and again. He would turn to me and say excitedly, "You told me I need not finish. I can't run the 'half,' and you know it. It's dark, and they have run off with the tape. I finished long ago, and still you make me run." Sometimes he would drop his hands and say despairingly, "I cannot do it, I cannot reach the worsted; O God, I cannot!" Then he would discover Tom, who was almost as crazy as Teddy himself, and had been utterly useless from the time the hemorrhage set in. He would say to Tom, "Don't look at me like that, old man; I know I lost the race, but I did my best, my very best, and ran clear out. Look at my cheek, where I fell; you must see I was dead beat." He would try to argue with Tom, who had not a word to say, except of sorrow and self-reproach. He would look at Tom, and say, "Perhaps you're right, and I'll not complain, but why did you tell me to set pace, if you meant to make me finish?" Or he would say over and over again, "I was not strong enough; I did the best I could; I did the best I could." Indeed, he did not cease talking all the time we were with him, until he was given opiates and taken to the hospital. Here he spent many weary weeks, and was only pulled through after the most persistent care. But though he got on his feet again, he did not fully recover, and even a long trip to the Bermudas did not get his lungs in shape. He spent some months in Southern California, and settled finally among the Carolina hills, the nearest point to his old New England home, where he could expect to prolong his days. I have seen many gallant winners, many whose courage and determination made them such; but when I tell the story that comes closest to my heart, I tell of one a notch above them all. I tell of Teddy Atherton, of his last "half" which he _lost_. [Illustration: The Charge of the Heavy Brigade] There were three of us in my office at the gymnasium. It was late afternoon of a February day. The hail was beating against my windows, and a punching-bag was drumming the "devil's tattoo" in the next room. There were all sorts of sounds outside, from the clatter of pulley weights dropped on the floor to the steady tramp of the runner's feet on the track overhead, but in my room a Sabbath stillness reigned. Fred Seever was perched on a chair in one corner ready dressed for departure, and N. P. Sawyer, familiarly known as "Shack," sat on the weighing scales clad only in trunks, jersey, and an air of melancholy. It would not have been a comfortable seat for most anatomies, and the metal work must have felt chilly; but Shack had eccentric tastes, and never occupied a chair if he could find anything else to hold him. I had just remarked in the quietest manner possible, "It is pretty well settled that Seever does not run this year." This was the cause of Shack's melancholy and Seever's silence. "Well, if that's the verdict," said Seever, with considerable heat for one so quiet, "it's mighty hard lines, and a blooming hothouse plant it makes of me. I've been planning the whole year to get back at the Dutchman, and now at the last moment you say I don't start." "Yes," spoke up Shack, "you should get a glass case for the dear boy, and put him in it, labelled 'Rare Specimen,' 'A Runner too Good to Run.'" He followed up this ingenious suggestion by untangling his long legs, rising slowly to his feet, and suddenly throwing a stray boxing-glove which he had picked up from the floor, hitting the "Rare Specimen" a blow in the short ribs that brought forth an involuntary grunt. "By the way, Professor," he continued, "do you think it quite safe for a little chap like me to toy with a sixteen-pound shot? Mightn't I drop it on my precious toes some day?" "I've told you my reasons plainly enough," I answered, looking up from my desk and laughing at big Shack in spite of myself. "You remember last year. Seever went into this same 'mile handicap,' running from scratch. There were thirty-odd entries, and he was blocked, elbowed, and pocketed all the way through, getting a toss from Kitson in the last lap that sent him rolling into a corner with skin enough off his knees to make parchment for his diploma." "I wasn't hurt, though," argued Seever, "only sore for a few days." "'Twas luck that saved you then," I answered; "suppose you'd broken a leg, as you might easily have done on that hardwood floor, where would we have been at Mott Haven, with not a man jack of you good for four-thirty?" "Give it up," said Shack. "Did you notice that the same field, too, let the Dutchman through like a greased pig? Hartman had half a dozen club mates in the lot, and as many more were quite willing to do all within the law to keep a college man out of it." "Well," continued I, "Fred Seever is neither a wrestler nor a football player. These indoor games are all right, and for the average man there is no better place to learn quickness than in a mob of runners swinging round the raised corners of a slippery board track. But Fred has had experience enough, and is sure to appear on the cinder-path with the warm spring days in good condition if left entirely to himself. In the second place, he is too slender to take any chances." "Yes," interrupted Shack, "those pipe-stem legs are marked 'breakable.'" I concluded with, "The verdict is that, unless I have some good reason to change my mind, Seever's name will certainly be scratched." At this there was a dead silence. Shack looked at Seever questioningly, then shook his head, and began to whistle "Ben Bolt" in a particularly dismal manner. When I found they had nothing more to say, I resumed my examination of the list of entries to the first big "Indoor Athletic Games" of the season. I had just received it from the "official handicapper," and was considerably interested to find what my men had been given. They figured in every handicap, and in the "forty-yard novice" there were no less than fourteen of them, nearly all Freshmen, with two or three who would show a turn of speed. There were a few I did not intend should run, among them Seever, for the reasons I had already given. These games are a perfect godsend to a trainer, coming as they do at a time when it is very hard to keep the men up to their work. The gymnasium is indispensable in a country where from December to April the cinder-path is either hard with frost or white with snow. But when a man has done his fifteen minutes at the pulley weights for the hundredth consecutive afternoon, he finds the excitement of "One, two, three, four, five, six," begins to pall on him, and by the last of February even "practising starts" loses its charms. It is then the circuit of a billiard-table becomes the favorite track work, and the digestion of a good dinner the principal muscular exercise. I had checked off about half the names, finding few surprises, when the quiet of my room was broken by the entrance of a dozen fellows who had just learned of the arrival of the list. Did you ever hear the work of that very conscientious gentleman the "official handicapper" discussed by a crowd of contestants? Of half a dozen men perhaps one is pleased and says so, two or three have no fault to find but do nevertheless grumble out of principle, and the remainder "kick like veteran mules," and blackguard in shameful fashion the man whose only sin has been to overrate their abilities. "What's this?" cried Ferris, a high jumper, looking over my shoulder. "I get only four inches, and Bob here gets six. That's highway robbery, and I don't care who knows it. He did five-eight to my five-seven only yesterday." "Here's little Larry with five yards in the 'forty,'" spoke up Shack, who had monopolized the view from my right side, his broad shoulders shutting off all the rest; "the infant won't do a thing to them, will he?" "What do you get yourself?" inquired Turner, who was bigger than Shack, but not quite quick enough to get a place of vantage. "That's what I ought to be looking for," answered Shack, "but I always think of others first. They'll put something of that kind on my tombstone. Where's the 'shot'?" He ran his big finger down the page, remarking meanwhile, "I gave Jones [the handicapper] a good cigar only last week, and told him that I had not been myself the whole winter." Shack said this with a deep sigh, as if he well knew he was threatened with an early decline. "I expect to find nothing less than the same old eight feet for yours truly." His finger suddenly stopped, as he said this, and then straightening himself with an energy that sent two or three men flying backward, he exclaimed: "Great Jupiter! Look at that! Only look at that! And 'twas a good cigar too. He gives me just four feet, the least of any of you, and Turner here, who tied me this afternoon, gets the eight instead." At this there was a big laugh at Shack, whose woes were a joke to all. Down the list they went until all were informed, and then they gradually sifted out, leaving Seever and Shack still with me. I could not understand why they stayed, for they knew well enough that further argument would be useless; but I paid no attention to them, going on with my checking. The "mile handicap" was almost the last event. I crossed out Seever's name, which figured alone at "scratch," saw that Hartman had his twenty-five yards, the same as last year, marked off Root at fifty and Murphy at seventy yards, and then suddenly discovered, just below, the names of G. Turner and N. P. Sawyer with the same allowances. To say I was surprised would but faintly express my feeling, as Turner was a shot and hammer man who had played football, weighed nearly one hundred and ninety pounds, and had never to my knowledge run a yard on a track in his life. N. P. Sawyer was the seldom used patronymic of Shack, who had resumed his seat on the scales in the corner, and was evidently by his air of expectancy waiting for an explosion. I had sent in neither name, and was utterly at sea regarding the whole affair. "Well, Sawyer," said I, turning rather abruptly toward him, "what does this mean?" "Simply this," replied Shack, very frankly, as if he had expected the question and had his answer ready,--"simply this, that I thought we would pay the devil in his own coin, and give Hartman and his fellow-pirates of the 'Rowing Club' a taste of their medicine; let the Dutchman carom against Turner and myself a few times, permit Kitson to enjoy the experience of a tumble like that he gave Fred last year, and carry the latter bit of 'rare porcelain' through the mob without getting chipped." "A very pretty plan," I remarked sarcastically, "but why was I not consulted in the matter?" "Simply because we were doubtful of your consent, and wished to get as far along as possible before we had our little talk with you." "Of course," remarked Seever, "we knew you would have the final word to say, but we thought you would prefer not to have the plan yours, and to be able to say that you did not even send in the entries." "That was certainly very thoughtful of you." "Yes," interposed Shack, "there is a remote chance of a little 'shindy' when the 'Heavy Brigade' gets well started." "If you and Turner are mixed up in it, I should think the chances considerably more than even," I remarked; "but why in the world did two ice-wagons like you and Turner go into it? You can neither of you run a mile in ten minutes." "Ten minutes," cried Shack. "We'll let you hold a watch over us and see. You said just now that Seever was neither a wrestler nor a football player. Well, this is, you admit, something of a football game, and we have a football aggregation for it. Root is in it too. He played 'left half,' Turner 'right,' and I 'full back' on the team all last fall. Root has been doing the mile for a couple of years, and is a fair performer. Turner is a mighty fast man for his weight, and can go the distance. As for myself, although my well-known modesty shrinks at the assertion, I am a 'crack-a-Jack' at any distance from one hundred yards to ten miles. I am indeed. With a seventy-yard handicap Seever has no show with me. I thought we three could do the trick nicely with a little of the interference we worked up together and found mighty useful on the 'gridiron.'" "That's your plan, is it?" I asked. "Well, 'tis as crazy as its maker, which is saying a great deal." At this there was silence again, Seever twirling his thumbs, and Shack running his fingers through his mop of hair in a hopeless fashion. "I am not sure, however, but that with some modification I shall let you try it." At this Seever looked a shade less discouraged, and Shack gave a broad smile of triumph, and then listened with much seriousness as I said, "In the first place, there must be no interference with Hartman; do you promise this?" "We do," answered Shack, who was quite willing to make any condition if Seever could be allowed to run. "In the second place, you must make pace for Seever as decently as possible, and not one of you catch a judge's eye." "We swear it," replied Shack, raising his big hand solemnly above his head. "All right; if you will look out for these things I will let you try. It is time something was done, and even an extreme step like this may be the means of straightening matters out." We talked the affair over for some time together, and when we parted our plans were well matured. I found that Root, Turner, and Shack had been training carefully for several weeks with this in view. They had all done the "mile" in fair time, although the last "quarter" was something of a task for big Turner. Shack, however, very much to my surprise, showed me a performance on the short gymnasium track that proved with seventy yards' start no one on earth could catch him, and the event was simply at his mercy. Seever begged him to go in for himself and pull the thing off, and I advised the same; but this did not tempt Shack at all. "I had rather see Fred beat out the Dutchman than to win a dozen races," he declared, rubbing his hands. So the affair was settled. I gave him a careful trial a few nights before the "games," and decided that Hartman with his first mate Kitson and his "fellow pirates," as Shack called them, were likely to find rough sailing on Saturday night. * * * * * There is an almost endless variety in outdoor games. The weather conditions alone are enough to make each day stand out by itself. Cloud and sunshine, heat and cold, wind and calm, not to speak of the occasional smart shower at about five o'clock when interest is at its height, make an almost limitless combination. There is none of this diversity to indoor games. The track is neither fast nor heavy, and the boards are no softer on one evening than another. The temperature is always a bit too high for comfort, the air too close for laboring lungs, and the same bright light glares on all. There may of course be something in the games themselves to make them noteworthy, and those of February, 189-, I shall always remember through the charge of the "Heavy Brigade," so called by Shack, who claimed it quite outclassed the performance of the "Light Brigade," because the danger was greater and there were no dead nor wounded. When I arrived at the "hall" at a little after seven o'clock, they were preparing to start the preliminary heats of the "forty-yard novice," a weeding-out process quite necessary, but not particularly exciting. The "clerk of the course" was calling off the names of the contestants, and nearly a hundred young fellows were gathered around him, answering one after the other, as he checked off the list. Some were hidden from shoulder to toe by voluminous wraps, some wore sweaters of various shapes and colors, and some were clad only in jersey, trunks, and running shoes. The officials, who wore their badges and an air of _blasé_ indifference to distinguish them from common mortals, were much in evidence, and a good-sized squad of carpenters and helpers were busying themselves around the track. The men on the floor far outnumbered the spectators, who as a rule were content to wait for the semi-finals at eight o'clock and enjoy an unhurried dinner meanwhile. There were a few boys in the gallery, here and there a little bunch of a half-dozen or so in the seats surrounding the track, and on the platform only two pretty girls occupied seats on the very back row, who were anxious to see somebody win his heat,--a brother perhaps. In a far corner of the gallery the musicians were arriving. They would not begin to play for some time, however, and meanwhile the high walls echoed to every sound, and the long strips of bunting hanging from the ceiling waved slowly with the wind from the open windows. I could see among the crowd of contestants who gathered around the white lines at the start several boys in whom I was interested; but I had nothing to say to them, and went over to the opposite corner, where the judges clustered around the finish posts. The red worsted was waiting for its first break, and beyond, hung against the walls, were the mattresses to catch the sprinter unable to check his speed. On one side were the hurdles in a long row ready to be pushed into place. In a third corner was the seven-foot circle with its raised cleat for the "shot put," and the last triangle was occupied by the standards and cross bar for the "high jump." The movable platforms for the raised corners were in two sections, and pulled apart so as not to interfere with the "dash." I had only time for a word or two, a nod here and a handshake there, when, at a sign from the starter, the judges took their places, and the timekeepers stood with watch in hand ready to record the flying fifth seconds. I could look along the smooth floor and see the men take their places. There was Downer, a little Freshman, white with the excitement of his first public performance. He was a nervous chap, and one of my most promising men. Up goes the starter's hand, "Marks," "Set," the report of the pistol, and out of the circling crowd break the five struggling forms. There is the beat of eager feet, one, two, three, four, and between the posts they dash, little Downer coming away in the last few strides. "Thud" he goes against the mattress; "thud," "thud," "thud," "thud," go the other four, and the first heat is over. As they come back, the judges check off the "37" from Downer's back, his nervousness all gone, and in its place a confidence for which there is as little excuse. There were a score of heats varying little from this, as many more in the "forty-yard handicap," and when they were finished nearly every seat in the building was taken, and the platform had blossomed out like a bank of flowers with the bright colors which the ladies wore. Now the band starts up with a swinging "March," and everything takes on a new life. In the next two hours there was nothing particularly worth recording. Shack won the "shot put" in spite of the four feet about which he had complained so loudly, thus proving the astuteness of the much maligned "handicapper." Sawyer came to me with Root and Turner just before the "mile" was called, his long wrap dangling loose around his heels, and a broad grin on his face. He answered my inquiry as to whether everything was all right with an expressive nod, and then quoted a line or two from some pathetic ballad in which the horrors of a death on the battle-field were vividly depicted. He called off the roll very solemnly. Root and Turner answering to their names, he told them to look to their accoutrements, to tighten their horses' girths, and when the starter sent them to their places, he gave the order to "saddle" with great seriousness, leaving me with a step or two in imitation of a particularly clumsy charger. He was fixed with Turner at the seventy-yard mark, among a crowd of a score of limit men. When they took their places, Shack was well outside in the first row, and Turner well inside on the second. Root was twenty yards back with another smaller knot of men at the fifty-yard mark, and there were half a dozen at the thirty-five. Fritz Hartman was alone on the twenty-five-yard line, and Seever stood by himself at "scratch." Fritz was a well put together little chap, with curly yellow hair, round face, and a great favorite with the gallery and the "Rowing Club." There were a half dozen of the latter among the contestants, all of them showing the crossed oars on the breasts of their jerseys. Seever was almost as fair as the Dutchman, but he was a bit browner, his hair was darker without the curl, and he stood at least three inches taller. He kept his wrap on until the last moment, taking no chances with a draft of cool air which blew from an open window behind him. I knew there was nothing to be said to him, for he knew his business perfectly, but took my position near the limit men, who were having considerable fun with Shack and Turner. One little fellow told Shack he would be quite a sprinter when he "got his growth." And Shack confessed he did not feel quite strong enough for the distance. When Turner pulled off his sweater, revealing his enormous shoulders and chest, he did appear a bit out of place among the lighter men around him. One of them said Turner was in good shape, but a "bit fine," and asked if he had not done a "trifle too much work." Another declared that Shack was so wide, he blocked the whole track. There seemed to be an impression that the two big fellows had gone in for a lark, or with the idea of settling who was the best at the distance, and with no idea of winning. Of the real plan of the "Heavy Brigade" there was no sign that any one had the least suspicion. There was some cheering from the galleries for Hartman when he took his place, and when Seever threw off his wrap there came a little burst of applause from the spectators on the platform, and from the seats which circled the track. Many remembered Seever's nasty fall of the previous year, and it was pretty well surmised that he meant to make a mighty hard try to win where he had failed before. Indeed, by that peculiar telegraphy which runs through a large crowd, almost every one knew that the "mile" was to be the event of the evening. Seever was a fine sight in his spotless running suit, his arms a bit slender, not an ounce of useless weight above the belt, and his legs long and lithe as a greyhound's. He might not be a "hothouse plant," but he was certainly not qualified to join the ranks of the "Heavy Brigade." The band stops in the middle of a bar at a signal from the "announcer," while he calls out the winners of the "high jump" in stentorian tones. Then comes almost perfect silence as the thirty-odd men bend over their marks, and are off with the sound of the pistol. They make a noise like a heavy freight-train, and when the limit men strike the first corner it was a case of the "ready shoulder" and "useful elbow," sure enough. Three or four went down, sliding along the smooth boards. A couple were up almost without loss, but one of them has enough and goes limping off the track. Big Turner, despite his football experience, almost comes to grief, for he had a man right under his feet; he staggers through, however, with a plunge that sends another man to the edge of the track, and is by Shack's side a moment later. Of course anything with a pair of legs can run a single lap at the speed with which the best of them start out who mean to finish in good time. The first lap showed few changes, except that the whole lot had strung out in a long procession, first one and then another coming up or going back, but with no very radical changes. There were a couple of fellows with no idea of pace who started from limit as if they had a hundred yards only before them, and who came up close to Seever, who was in no hurry yet. In the second lap Hartman began to draw away, and at the end of the third passed a man or two and came up to a little bunch of nine or ten close together. Root was among them, and made a little spurt as Fritz went by; but the rest opened a gap like a barn door, through which the Dutchman slipped with ease, and set out for those ahead. "That was very pretty," said I to myself; "now we will see if Seever gets the same chance." Fred, who had now struck his gait, and got his heart and lungs in good working order, quickening his stride, passed a few stragglers almost before they saw him, and came up to the same bunch through which Hartman had gone so easily. He trailed after them a little, and then swung wide to go by on the outside; but a stout fellow with the crossed oars on his breast went with him, his right arm well out, and his elbows up, taking Seever almost to the rail. The latter was forced back again, and in the straight tried to slip through a promising gap, but they put the bars up as he came along, and he found himself, despite his best efforts, nicely pocketed at this early stage of the game. There was considerable indication of disapproval from the audience, and some hisses; but there was Seever, sure enough, "in Coventry" and no mistake. All this time Shack and Turner were running easily, and they now began to slip back faster still among the tail-enders, being joined by Root on the way. When Seever found himself blocked, he slowed a little, according to instructions, and a second or two later the three men came back, and led him with Shack first, Root second, and Turner just ahead. Then, as if a trumpet had been blown, the "Heavy Brigade" swung into position something like the letter "V," with Shack at the apex, Root a little back and outside, and Turner in the same relative position on the inside. There was nothing at all conspicuous about all this, and I doubt if any one noticed it but myself. Seever now came up a little, and took his place behind the "troop." They ran in this way for a few strides, and then, as if the order to charge had been given, the "Heavy Brigade" started at speed. I held my breath a bit as they came up to the bunch which had blocked Seever a moment before. Shack tried to swing wide, but again the stout fellow with the crossed oars came out, and with him a couple of others. Then Shack came in a little, chose a place where there was a small gap, the trio "hit her up," and went through the crowd like a particularly powerful snow-plough. The stout fellow tried to swing in, but he could make no more impression against Shack than a stone-wall, and when he bumped back against Root the latter worthy sent him to the rear. Turner took care of his corner without a stagger. It was a mighty neat performance, for no one was taken off his feet, though several had been thrown out of their strides when the "Brigade" cut through. The audience cheered as Seever swung by, and set out behind his body-guard at a pace that meant mischief to some one. They had all been running easily, and now they passed one contestant after another until they came to a second bunch a bit more solid than the first. Shack trailed them for a half lap; looking in vain for an opening, he swung wide, he made a try for the inside, he stepped this way and that, and then suddenly, as if at the touch of the spur, the "Heavies" cut into the line in front where it was weakest. There was no opening; so Shack selected a little fellow in the middle, and ran right over him, taking pains to send him wide out of Seever's way. Root had little trouble, but Turner found himself in an awful hole. I could see his huge shoulder as he forced through, and at one time I thought he was surely down, but he came through a little behind the rest, puffing like a grampus. He was strong and game, however, and a moment later was in his place again, although far from comfortable. The audience was now on its feet, for there were but a couple of laps left, and the real race was now to come. Half of the starters had dropped out, half of the remainder were hopelessly trailed, and the leaders were close together. Hartman had perhaps ten yards over Kitson, and about the same distance back were the "Heavies," with Seever close up. This latter "piece of rare porcelain," as Shack called him, had been taken through without a touch and was running as if on eggs. They pulled Kitson back fast, and caught him at the last corner. He was a tall fellow with a closely shaven head, who was a runner, sure enough, and used his arms almost as much as his legs. It was almost impossible for a light man to get by him on a narrow board track. Just what he tried to do I never discovered, for the crowd of contestants inside the track were all huddled together and partly hid my view. All I am sure of is that the man with the "useful elbow" suddenly performed a parabola of surpassing splendor, and landed in a very dazed condition between the knees of a fat man in the front row of spectators. Kitson had no sooner been put out of danger than Root and Shack swung wide, and Turner also stepped out of the way, falling among the crowd inside the track pretty well run out, and Seever came through and set out for Hartman like the "Headless Horseman." The Dutchman ran as if the famous spectre of Sleepy Hollow was indeed after him, but Seever was as fresh as paint and would not be denied. Foot by foot he gained, and passing him at the last corner broke the tape a comfortable winner by a couple of yards. Of course he received plenty of acknowledgment for his plucky race, but not half the applause that came to Shack, the doughty leader of the "Heavy Brigade," who came romping in third, with a grin on his face like the first quarter of a harvest moon. [Illustration: A Virginia Jumper] I remember it was on a Monday morning that I sat in my office at the gymnasium, opening a three-days' mail. I had been out of town, and found quite a formidable accumulation of letters on my desk. It was early, not later than eight o'clock. The November sun was shining, and the woodbine that framed the eastern window was blazing almost as brightly as the fire in the grate. It was all very cheerful. I was glad to get back again, and with an old cricket jacket around my shoulders I set myself to clean up the arrears of work. I always handle my mail on the principle of elimination; that is, I first open the unsealed envelopes containing circulars, then those of apparently little consequence, and so on down to the most interesting and important. Of course I sometimes make mistakes, but not very often. I distinctly remember that on that day an envelope with a black border was saved for the very last. The postmark was illegible, and it was addressed to me in a particularly old-fashioned and graceful hand. When at last I broke the seal, I found its contents as follows: THE OAKS, FAIRFAX CO., VA. DEAR SIR: I am desirous that my son may win distinction in some form of athletic sport. I understand that you have charge of the instruction in this department. It is my wish that he be given especial training in that exercise to which he is best adapted. I have already advised him concerning my plan. I write you also, because he has unfortunately little ambition in this direction, and I must ask that he be given particular care and attention. I shall be pleased to have you send me the customary bill for such extra work. My son comes of a family renowned for strength and vigor, and should be able to surpass all competitors. I should consider a second place no better than absolute failure. Asking your serious consideration of the above, I am, Sincerely yours, MARGARET LEE FAIRFAX. TO MR. WALTER BROWN. Now, I have received a great many letters concerning athletic matters in my time, but few more interesting than this. Concealed under a very matter-of-fact speech and manner, there is in me a vein of the imaginative which I occasionally indulge. Sometimes a very small matter will be enough to send me on a very wild flight. I remember that I read the letter with the black border again and again, trying to picture to myself the one who wrote it. There were nine sentences, and six of them beginning with the "I,"--evidently a woman of strong personality. "I am desirous," "It is my wish," certainly indicated one accustomed to have her inclinations respected. "He comes of a family renowned for strength and vigor, and should be able to surpass all competitors," plainly showed a woman proud of her birth, and ambitious for success. A Virginian, a Fairfax. I made a mind picture of her as she wrote the letter, sitting in a cool and shaded room in one of those white-pillared, wide-halled mansions, built a century ago among the oaks. She was dressed in black, her figure tall and slender, her back straight and her head well poised. Her hair had a few threads of white in it, but a hint of color still showed in her cheeks, and the light had not yet gone out of her dark eyes. Her mouth I pictured a trifle thin-lipped and positive. At an old mahogany desk with big brass escutcheons she sat, the magnolias' heavy fragrance in the air, the song of the darkies sounding faintly from the distant fields. This is the picture I made on that November morning, and how long I should have dreamed I cannot say, had not Paddy's voice from under my window waked me from my trance, with "Jerry, ye Kildare divil, luk at the rake ye lift out the night; it's half a mind I hev to comb yer thick hid wid it." Jerry protested his innocence in tones only less strident than Paddy's own, and the remarkably fluent and aggressive tirade of the latter was only lost to me when they had walked down the track and out of ear-shot. Now, I defy any one to make mind pictures under such conditions, and I became my practical self at once. I shut off the romantic stop with a thud, and turning on the business pipe, proceeded to answer my mail. Most of the circulars went into the waste basket; receipted bills into one compartment, unpaid into another. I answered a few of the routine letters, and then oddly enough I broke my rule, and took up the black-bordered letter again. Who was this candidate for athletic fame? His name was not even mentioned in the letter. Evidently the son of Margaret Lee Fairfax was supposed to be too well known to need any further title. A reference to my list gave me among the freshmen, "Richard Spotswood Fairfax, The Oaks, Fairfax Co., Va.," but this did not help me at all. He had certainly not appeared on track or field, or I should have remembered him, and he had even neglected a physical examination. He was probably bandy-legged, big-waisted, round-shouldered, and hollow-chested. He might be a sufferer from dyspepsia and heart disease; there were chances that he had a fancy for Greek roots, and thought football brutal. I have been asked by doting parents to make champion sprinters and weight putters out of just such timber,--although the age of miracles is past. I had a conventional way of answering such letters, and prepared to go through the usual forms. A modest request it was indeed! "I should consider a second place no better than absolute failure." Little did she realize what a combination of excellences go to make up a winner, nor how many good men train faithfully for four years without getting a place. Give him "especial care and attention"? Well, hardly, if he does not care enough about himself even to have his chart made out. I had taken the sheet of paper and written the "Dear Madam," when there came a knock at the door, and at my "Come in," it swung leisurely open. Just how I came to the conclusion I cannot tell, but I knew the first moment I set eyes on my visitor that it was Richard Spotswood Fairfax himself. He was not at all the monstrosity I had painted him; in fact, he was a mighty good-looking fellow. He was a little above average height, with a dark oval face, brown hair, and a wide smile that "wud timpt a man to borry a dollar," as Paddy once said. His tailor knew his business, though his suit of brown tweed fitted a trifle more loosely than our Northern style would have permitted. He also wore a low roll-collar, that showed a firm, round neck to advantage. He smiled when he entered, and sank into a chair by the side of my desk with a sigh of content and another smile. He was in no hurry to speak, and as I learned after was never in a hurry to do anything. He looked me over a moment with his handsome sleepy blue eyes, and then spoke in that melodious drawl which is taught nowhere else but in "ole Virginny." I do not remember how he introduced the subject, for I was too much taken with his voice to notice. I cannot begin to describe it, or the easy way in which the words followed each other, divorced from all such aggressive letters as _r_, _g_, and _t_. He told me he wished to be examined, and assigned some branch of sport to which he could give his attention; in effect, just what his mother had written, except that he omitted to say anything about winning or a first place. I asked him if he had ever done anything in athletics, and he said that barring a little gunning, a moderate amount of riding, and considerable fishing, he had done nothing at all in sports. He expressed a decided preference for the fishing, which I thought was characteristic. To my question as to whether he had any choice whatever concerning work on track or cinder-path, he answered, none at all, except that which called for the least exertion would best suit his book. I decided that his mother had written truly when she said he "lacked ambition in this direction," and might have said that he lacked ambition in any other. It was surprising that I did not take a dislike to one who professed such a decided aversion to manly sports, but the boy was so open and frank about it that the impression was not at all disagreeable. After Fairfax had told his story and answered a few questions, I ordered him in a short, Yankee fashion (that seemed almost brutal compared with his easy tones) to strip and I would take his measurements. At my direction he rose slowly, went over to the corner, leisurely took off coat and vest, and when he got down to the buff, and I looked up from my writing, as I live, I had answered three letters, and the clock had ticked off a full five minutes. (Two is usually enough to transform a shackled slave of Fashion to the freedom of a state of nature.) I laid my pen aside, and taking tape in hand began to look him over. I confess I could hardly restrain an exclamation of surprise. His languid ways and slow movements had not prepared me for any such development as he showed. The conventional costume of the nineteenth century is a wonderful disguise, designed by some man-milliner to hide the imperfections of a degenerate race. The trained athlete and the flabby dude look much alike in loose trousers and padded coats. Now, Dick was neither athlete nor dude, though if I ever saw a man cut out for the former, he was the one. His skin was dark, but clear and velvety. He stood easily, with every muscle relaxed, and was as symmetrical as a demi-god. There was nothing out of proportion, no fat, no unused muscle, and no over-development. Indeed, I surmised, what afterward proved true, that he was the best specimen of an embryo athlete that it had ever been my good fortune to see. I took him to the standard and found his height five feet ten and one-half inches. He lifted the scales at one hundred and fifty-eight, and then I put my tape on him and began my measurements. As I marked down one after another my admiration grew, and when I had finished and he had dressed and left me, I could not deny myself the pleasure of making out his chart, even before I finished the mail. A wonderful chart it was, too. The average percentage was not as high as that of one or two fellows who had the advantages of intelligent handling by good men at first-class preparatory schools, but when it came to symmetrical development, there was not one in the same class with him. The line was almost straight, a slight advantage only showing in measurements below the waist. After the chart was finished I put it in a conspicuous place on the mantel, went back to my letters, and finally wrote Mrs. Fairfax as follows: "I shall be pleased to give your son the attention you ask. Although it is impossible to guarantee any degree of success, he has the advantage of an unusually good development, and may make something of himself if he is willing to work faithfully and follow orders. It rests more with him than myself. There will be no extra charge." It may seem rather a curt letter, but compared with what I usually write in answer to like requests it was remarkably "Chesterfieldian." Not that I am ever likely to so far forget myself as to neglect the common courtesies, but it is often necessary to be very positive in order to protect against further annoyance. I received an acknowledgment from "The Oaks" a few days after, which was not quite as dictatorial as the first, and in which the "I" was not nearly so much in evidence. It also asked me to report occasionally, and hinted that maternal authority might be invoked in case of difficulty, and that Richard Spotswood Fairfax had been taught to respect it thoroughly. Dick appeared on the cinder-path the second day after his call on me, clad in irreproachable track costume, and I gave him a little trial with some of the other freshmen who had been out several weeks. He had never worn a running-shoe before that day, nor entered a contest, and yet he ran the "hundred" in eleven and three-fifths, and the "quarter" a little under the minute, coming in as fresh as paint, and without turning a hair. It was odd to see him standing with a half-dozen other fellows, who were drenched with perspiration, and wheezing like blacksmiths' bellows, while he was not even tired. The next day he cleared four feet eleven in the "running high," and nearly seventeen in the "running broad." Now, these were wonderful performances for a novice, particularly as Dick seemed not to exert himself in the least. That night, as I sat in my room smoking a comforting pipe, I thought the matter over very thoroughly. I am a shy bird for "wonders," and doubtful concerning "phenoms," but I made up my mind in cold blood that almost anything was possible for Richard Spotswood Fairfax, of "The Oaks." With the advantages of my handling, he ought to be a world beater, and no mistake. As Tom Furness expresses a good thing, "There was frosting on top, and jelly between the layers." Of course I said nothing of this to Dick, but ordered him regular all-round work in the gymnasium for the winter, and told him if he took good care of himself, we might make something of him in the spring. In those days we had no big indoor meets, and the men were allowed to do very much as they pleased until near the end of the winter. I am of the opinion that such rest is better in the end than a continuous course of training, particularly for men under twenty-one. I saw considerable of Dick, and was well satisfied to have him keep to easy exercise. He filled out a bit, and the muscles on his shapely body grew large and firm as the days went by. I was a bit troubled by the boy's extreme popularity, for it brought continual temptation to shirk work. Some one or another was perpetually asking him away, when if he had possessed fewer friends, he would have been less troubled. He was a mighty fine-looking fellow, and with an unlimited fund of good nature and good cash (two most essential passports to college popularity), spring found him the best known and best liked man of his class, a favorite with man, woman, and beast. He had stuck to his work most faithfully, and barring a little fling or so, such as all boys of his age are likely to take, I had little fault to find with him. I remember I expressed one day my surprise that he had not missed his hour in the gymnasium more than once or twice since he started in, and was told, as if the answer was conclusive, that he had given his promise. He also added later that a Fairfax never broke his word, even in the least degree. One common difficulty I escaped with Dick, that of keeping him from the football field, the grave for the hopes of so many a promising athlete. Dick pronounced the game altogether too much like work to suit him, and no entreaty would move him in the least; not even the plea that he was "needed," or the threat that he would be considered disloyal to his class, had any effect whatever on him. Now, it must not be thought for a moment that I object to football in its proper place. It is the king of sports, and stands by itself, unrivalled in its attractions for all of Anglo-Saxon blood. It is the best successor to the knightly tourney that this prosaic century has left us. Neither an occasional accident, nor the foolishness of some of its supporters, with excuses for defeat, nor demands for apologies, will ever succeed in killing it. The game is made, however, only for strong, stocky men. To see one with a turn of speed, long, shapely legs, and slender body mixed up in a scrimmage, and sure to end in the hospital at last, is more than I can stand. It should not take those unfitted for its fierce struggles, but qualified by nature for other forms of sport. After considerable thought I decided to have Dick try for the running broad jump, and for these reasons: First, the team was weak in this department. Second, this was a trifle his best performance. Third, Dick chose it, as calling for the least labor. Indeed, he absolutely declined distant running, unless he was bound to it by his promise to his mother. So Dick settled down to regular work and practice at the "running broad," and appeared each day as surely as the clock struck the hour; not even Frost, a veteran of four years, was as much to be depended on. Now, there is no more practical school than that of the cinder-path; with given athletic material, a certain amount of work should bring exact results. We look for them just as confidently as the farmer looks for his crops in the autumn, after the planting of the spring and the cultivation of the summer. There may be accidents, just as the farmer has a hail-storm, or like fruit under an untimely frost a man may go stale at the last moment. But, barring accidents, we expect a gradual growth and development in just proportion to the natural ability of the man. Now, strange to say, Dick Fairfax contradicted all known laws; his style improved, and his physical condition as well, but his jump was the same old jump after several weeks of practice. He worked up to an average of nineteen-six, but there he stuck, and no handling, instruction, or care could pull him on to the even twenty feet. Encouragement, blame, the incentives of trial contests, and even ridicule were all the same to Dick. I did all I knew,--and a bit well-informed I claimed to be,--giving him more attention than any three other men. This was partly because I liked the boy, and partly because I received a letter from "The Oaks" once every week asking how Richard was getting on. I have a decided aversion to lying, and I disliked to tell the truth to the lonely woman who looked forward so confidently to her son's success. But most of all I stuck to Dick because of the possibilities I saw in him. His legs were marvels; from toe to thigh, muscle, sinew, and bone were perfect. And yet Seever, with his crooked joints and spindle shanks, could best Dick's best effort by a good foot. I racked my brain for reasons of the failure, but with no result. I tried all possible changes, even to a take-off with the left, but all in vain. Nineteen-six he could do before or after breakfast, and probably at midnight, if tried at that unusual hour. He was the most consistent performer I have ever seen. The trouble was that it was consistency to a distance of no use at all to us. Little Jack Bennett, who had started in with something like a thirteen-foot jump, had plugged away day after day, until he was "hoss and hoss" with Dick, and the latter was quite content. Approval or disapproval were all the same to him, and he answered both with a smile, or a careless glance from his sleepy blue eyes. Beside Dick and Jack there were Frost and Seever, two veterans who had reached their limit, and were good for a scant twenty-one. We had not one first-class man. Now, while I am telling this tale more particularly for the initiated, I mean to make it plain to others less well informed, and will for their sakes say that the honor of the broad jump championship is to-day divided between Reber in America and Fry in the Old Country, both of whom have negotiated twenty-three feet six and one-half inches. No one jumping less than twenty-one feet has any chance in a first-class competition, and it would have done us as much good if Dick had done nine feet as nineteen; that is, no good at all. Mrs. Fairfax reminded me in her first letter, after I had informed her that Dick had chosen the "running broad" as his special event, that this was a traditional Virginia sport, and she was pleased with the selection. She called my attention to the fact that Thackeray in his story of the "Virginians" makes Harry Warrington cover twenty-one feet three inches against his English rivals, and says that Col. George Washington could better this by a foot. Now, if this is history, and the truthful George did the distance with a short run on grass, and no take-off but a line on the turf, he was a wonder, and better than any we can show to-day. If Reber and Fry had lived in his time they would not have been in his class, and should George Washington return to earth, and enter a contest to-day (I hope there is nothing sacrilegious in the thought), he would distance their best efforts. A mighty fine pair of legs he must have had, and what he could have done with modern improvements, such as spiked shoes, a five-inch joist, on a nice cinder-path, and with prepared ground to land in, we can only guess; I should say he could have bettered his record by a good yard. It is easy to understand how such a man could succeed in the great game of war. Our Virginian jumper, despite all his advantages, was content with a performance of nearly three feet less than that of the father of his country, who had hailed from the same State. So matters went on, until one morning late in April I arranged with Dick to give him an early morning trial alone. He demurred at this most decidedly, being very fond of his morning nap, but consented finally, if I would agree to call him. I cannot tell how I allowed him to wheedle me as he did; but it was a way he had with all, and few could resist him. It was a little after seven when I left my door and started for Dick's room. Now, I am no spring poet; in fact, thirty years' connection with the cinder-path has knocked most of the romance out of me, but I remember that morning still. It had been a late winter, and this was really the first dawn with no chill on the air; the trees were blossoming, the birds singing, the sun shining, the air like a tonic, and there was an indescribable something which told that winter was gone at last. After some delay at Dick's door,--for he was a wonderful sleeper, particularly in the early morning,--I succeeded in waking him, and sat in the window-seat while he took his tub. I helped him a little in the rub-down, and a man more fit I never saw. This over, Dick pulled on his trunks, jersey, and sweater, and taking his shoes in his hands he followed me leisurely down-stairs. We waited a moment on the steps, while he pulled his shoes on, and then jogged over to the track. So fresh was the air, that just before we reached the ground I found myself quickening strides with Dick, until we finished at a very pretty sprint, something I had not done for a long time. It does not help a trainer to compete under any conditions with his man. Perhaps it was partly because I felt that I had unbent too much with him that I made my lecture, already planned, more severe than intended; at any rate, it was a mighty stiff talk the boy got. I knew it was useless to mince matters, and was resolved to cut through his armor of good nature and indifference, if there was a vulnerable point, and a straight thrust could reach him. A couple of weeks before, the captain of the team, disgusted with Dick's unsatisfactory work, had quite lost his temper with him and told him in so many words that he was not worth the salt of the training-table, and must make a brace or he would not make the team at all. Almost any other man would have either got hot and given a sharp answer, or more likely still gone into his boots with disappointment. Dick, however, did neither. He gave one of his wide smiles, maddening enough to an earnest man, took the matter very calmly, and volunteered to get his feed at his own expense whenever we tired of furnishing it. He remarked that a table with a little more variety would suit his palate fully as well, and after the talk went on with his tiresome jump of nineteen-six just as if nothing at all had been said. Now, while this was provoking enough, and under usual conditions would have resulted in a summary drop from the team, we did not take the boy at his word. We were in desperate need of a broad jumper, and hoped that he might get out of the rut, and pick up that extra foot or two before the games. We thought it possible, also, that in a big contest the boy might be stirred up a bit, very much to his benefit. On this April morning I talked about as plainly as I knew, using good old Anglo-Saxon phrases, and not many French idioms. I would not care to see my exact words in print, and I am afraid some of the bright eyes that I hope to please with this book would open wide with surprise. A trainer is given a certain license, like the driver of a yoke of oxen and the captain of a football team. I knew one of the latter who was seriously blamed because his puritanical training forbade the use of any stronger language than "board of health" when a signal was lost or the ball was dropped. Out in the open air, and among strong men, it is very easy to form the habit of using strong words on occasions like this. I told Dick, in effect, that I had given him time and attention that rightfully belonged to other men on the team, and had nothing to show for it; that he could do better, and must do better; that his lack of improvement was a reflection on me as well as himself; and finally, if he was not an arrant cur, without courage and without honor, he would have tired of a child's jump long ago. "Why, man," said I, "if you had sand enough for an ant-hill, with a pair of legs like yours, you would be making a jump of twenty-three feet this morning." Now, Dick was a great pet of mine and had never heard a hot word from me; he was very much surprised, and when I called him an "arrant cur, without courage and without honor," he flushed to the roots of his hair. The question of his honor was what touched him most deeply, for his Virginia atmosphere had made him especially sensitive, if not over careful. I was pleased to see his face grow dark, and the smile fade from the corners of his mouth. He was first indignant, and then in a towering passion. He stepped toward me, with clinched hands, and opened his mouth a couple of times to speak, but not a word did he say. Then he turned suddenly on his heel, walked away from me down the cinder-path, pulled his sweater over his head, dropped it on the grass, faced toward me again, and set himself for his sprint. I was standing with him close to the joist when I delivered my lecture, and I remained where I was, wondering what the boy was up to. He came down the path for his jump, with his jaw set, his eyes aflame, his brows black, and with two bright red spots in his cheeks. One of Dick's faults was that he would not force himself to full speed, an absolute essential for a good broad jump. In fact, a man who will not or cannot sprint should not be allowed to waste his energies on this event. This morning was an exception to the rule with Dick, for he came toward me like a whirlwind, apparently paying no attention to either stride or distance. He fortunately reached the mark all right, caught the joist firm and strong, and launched into the air with his knees high. I cannot describe my sensations as he shot by me, better than to say he seemed to fly. I knew before he landed that the old mark of nineteen-six was gone forever, but when he broke ground close to the end of the box, and fell forward, I could not gather my senses for a moment. Dick picked himself up like a flash, his brows still threatening, and coming up to me said hoarsely, "Measure that, you English blackguard!" and strode off to his room without even stopping to pick up his sweater. I said nothing at all in answer, for I was not in the least offended at the uncomplimentary language. Not that I am accustomed to being addressed in other than a respectful manner, but in this case I had really brought the anger on myself intentionally, and I had been successful beyond my fondest hopes. As Dick disappeared behind the fence, Tom Furness swung round the corner, out for an early spin round the track. "What do you call that?" said he, looking at the marks. "It is the biggest jump ever made by man," I answered solemnly. "A jump from the hard ground, either sidewise or backward," said Tom; "nothing but wings could carry a man from the joist to those marks." "Look them over," I said, "before you question them." Well, to make a long story short, the marks told their own tale; the ground was unbroken except by his feet, for there had been a shower the night before. There were proofs enough to convince Tom that Dick's shoes with Dick in them had run down that cinder-path, and from the joist had jumped the distance. Tom saw readily that the heel prints were too deep for a short jump backward, and too even for one sidewise. There was the broken ground, showing that the impetus was from the joist and the jumper was at a high rate of speed, and had lifted high in the air. When we had argued it all out satisfactorily, Tom suggested that we had better measure it before we talked any longer, for it might not show up to what I thought. He took the end of the tape and held it to the joist, while I walked ahead, with the reel rattling as I pulled it out. By the well-worn figures up to twenty-one I went; twenty-two and twenty-three were slightly blurred, but the twenty-four was fresh and bright, and at twenty-four two and one-quarter I stopped, and looked back to see if the tape was all right. I lifted my hand again, examined the ground very carefully, pulled the tape tight, and made the mark twenty-four feet one and three-quarter inches, back of which there was not the hint of a break. Then Tom and I changed ends and he found it just the same. There was no mistake about it. Given a competition and witnesses on that April morning, and the record would not stand to-day at twenty-three six and one-half, but a good seven and one-quarter inches better, and the name of Richard Spotswood Fairfax would be fastened to it. Now, I expected that Dick would be all right with me the next time we met. I thought he would be pleased that my words, however severe, had forced him to the big jump, and even anticipated an apology for his offensive words. In this, however, I was mistaken. I did not realize the extreme sensitiveness of a Virginian and a Fairfax to any reflection upon his honor. Dick met me courteously enough, but distantly, and indeed was never the same to me again. I found, too, that my lecture had only a temporary effect, for he took up the old jump of nineteen-six the same as before, apparently as contented as ever. Tom Furness was foolish enough to tell the story of Dick's big jump, and was jollied therefore by everybody, receiving credit for a most Munchausen imagination. Tom let them rough him all right, for nothing pleased him better, but came to me at last with Sam Hitchcock asking me to settle a bet, whether or no Dick Fairfax had broken the record of the running broad jump in practice. Of course I could but tell the truth under such circumstances, although I knew I was putting my reputation for veracity to a severe test. I declared very seriously that Dick had certainly bested the twenty-four-foot mark under record conditions. Sam was incredulous, and went so far as to remind me that it was not at all a joking matter, for a good ten-dollar note must change hands on my decision. At this, I repeated my statement positively as before, and Sam paid over the money without any further remark. It was altogether too good a story for him to keep, and it soon became an interesting subject of discussion. Those who knew me best (and Sam among them, despite his loss) believed the tale, but there were many "doubting Thomases." Some made it a subject for senseless jokes and witless questions, such as, "Was the tape elastic?" "Did he jump from the roof?" or "Did he do it very, very early in the morning?" Other "smart Alecs" declared the twenty-four feet was all right, but the extra one and three-quarters inches they could not go. Now, I am not at all averse to a draw on the long bow when swapping lies with a sporting friend and both know the game we play, but when I speak seriously I wish to be taken in the same way. Beside, I had allowed money to pass on it, and that should have settled the matter. It was partly due to my resentment at this banter that Dick finally made the team and little Jack Bennett did not. The latter certainly became better in practice, but I claimed that neither were of any use at their regular jumps, and that Dick's extraordinary performance, for which I vouched again, while not likely to be repeated, was possible, and made Dick the better man for the choice. When the decision was finally made, about a week before the games, I wrote Mrs. Fairfax a long letter, telling her the whole truth, giving special emphasis to the early morning trial. I declared my only hope for Dick's success (and that a faint one) was that the heat of a contest with men of other colleges, and before a crowd, might wake him up and get him a place. I did not see how he could win except by a miracle. I declared that I had kept my promise to her most faithfully, and that my disappointment was, if possible, greater than her own. I received an answer promptly, which read as follows: THE OAKS, FAIRFAX CO., VA. DEAR SIR: I understand the conditions perfectly, but am still confident that Richard will win. He must win. Give him the enclosed note just before his last trial. On no account allow him to see it before, nor permit any considerable interval between the reading and Richard's last jump. Sincerely yours, MARGARET LEE FAIRFAX. TO MR. WALTER BROWN. Now, I confess that when I finished the reading I really questioned the sanity of the "châtelaine" of "The Oaks." What effect could a note have, no matter how worded, upon easy-going Dick Fairfax? What appeal could she make that would add the necessary feet to his jump? It made me think of boyish stories of the age of chivalry, when talismanic words were efficacious. I read this short note over as carefully and even more wonderingly than the first black-bordered letter written by the same hand. Then I put it away in my pocket, resolved to follow instructions implicitly, no matter how foolish they might seem. I should have nothing with which to reproach myself, and would give Mrs. Fairfax no occasion for fault-finding. So the matter was left, and Dick went on with the rest of the team, perfectly contented with himself and all around him. The games that year were not particularly interesting, except the one event for which we were so poorly prepared, and in which even Tom Furness did not have the courage to claim a single point. It was a clear day after a three-days' rain, and the track was heavy, which happened to suit us. We had a couple of "mud larks" who scooped the sprints, though a dry-track would not have given them a place. Dick spent most of the day watching the contests, as disinterestedly as if he was a native of the Isle of Java. He was clothed in a big gray blanket wrap and an omnipresent smile. The wrap had crimson cords and tassels, was extremely becoming, and more than one pair of bright eyes looked at him approvingly from the grand stand. Our Virginia jumper was certainly the handsomest and most distinguished-looking of all the contestants, and the girls always wish such a man to win, and are surprised and disappointed when some raw-boned chap with carroty hair, freckled face, and not a regular feature beats out their favorite. It was a glorious day, the sun bright, the sky cloudless, the seats crowded, and the college cheers like volleys of infantry at short range. When the "running broad" was on, and the numbers were called, Dick did not answer to his, and we were forced to look him up, the clerk meanwhile fussing and fuming, and using language more forceable than polite. At last I found him looking dreamily across the track at a pretty girl in the grand stand, as if this was his only business. He followed me with a bored look, and several backward glances delayed his sufficiently leisurely footsteps. There was another delay on account of the ground; for, as frequently happens, the soil in the box where the men landed was so soft that it broke back several inches. Seever was the first man, and I did not want him to throw away a single chance. A spade was sent for and the loose earth flattened down a bit, but it took considerable time. The clerk, measurer, and almost every one else were put out but Dick, who had thrown himself full length on the soft turf by the side of the path, and bore the delay with extreme fortitude. Most of the other contestants had taken a trial jump or two to get their strides and make their marks, but Dick waited contentedly for his number to be called, and would have been just as well satisfied if he had been skipped altogether. Seever was the first of a large field, and when his number was announced he threw off his wrap and walked down the path. He was one of the most awkward men I ever saw, but as honest as he was homely. All his opponents wished him well, and several of them, as they sprawled around on the grass, had a joke or a bit of chaff for him as he left them. I always like to see the first trial of the "running broad." There is the narrow cinder-path, the whitewashed joist, and the soft earth, smoothed by repeated rakings ready to receive the prints of the spiked shoes. After that it is tedious until the weeding-out process is completed, and the three best men fight it out for the places. I could have told within three inches of what Seever would do before he made his jump, for he was extremely steady, and had been at it for four years, and reached his limit. He came down the track awkwardly, but at a good speed, caught the joist firmly with his big foot, rose in the air with a grunt, and landed with a thud. The measurer announced twenty feet one-quarter inch without hesitation, for Seever always jumped high, and kept his heels together. Two or three others tried, and then came Frost, our second man, a little fellow with curly black hair. He was a bit better or worse than Seever, but inclined to be careless, and to-day it cost him dear. He overstepped the joist so far that he wrenched his ankle badly and was forced to retire, limping off to the dressing-room on a couple of the boys' shoulders. Dick was almost last, and when he was called, he rose slowly, with a yawn, threw the gray wrap over Seever's head, and walked down the path as if he cared not where it led. When he turned, he looked up to the grand stand and gave the little blonde in the blue dress a glance and smile, for which he was most liberally applauded. At first only a few pairs of little gloved hands clapped, but they were persistent; others, who supposed for some reason or other applause was the proper thing at this time, joined in, and Dick received quite an ovation, although he had done nothing and was expected to do nothing. I can see him to-day as he looked then. His arm out for his sprint; his bare legs, brown and sinewy, but smooth and graceful as a girl's; his whole figure a model for an artist. He was much surprised at the applause, for he was not used to it, and did not expect it. The color rose in his dark cheeks as he started down the path, quickening speed with every step, until just as his college cheer sounded its first sharp note he caught the joist, and bounded into the air. It was a perfect jump, barring a little lack of determination, but with much more fire than usual. I watched as the measurer pulled out his tape, and was pleased enough when he gave the distance as twenty-one two. I had been thinking all the day of the mother down in the old home, whose heart was so bound up in the success of her boy. I would have given a month's salary to have been able to send her the telegram she hoped for. One after another, tall and short, stout and slender, good and bad, had their three trials, and Dick was in the finals by an inch and a half. Poor old Seever was out of it, and Dick was the only string we had left. All of our people were perfectly satisfied at this, and Tom was smiling as a Cheshire cat. I had absolutely no hope that Dick would do better than third, for after his first attempt, although the applause had been louder than ever, he had taken no notice of it, and had apparently lost all interest in the sport. Being accustomed to his surroundings, he went through his performances in a perfunctory fashion, showing a fraction over twenty feet, and then a fraction under. Indeed, he had become his old listless, careless self again. In the finals he did first nineteen-nine, and then, despite the desperate effort I made to stir him up with sharp words, he fell back to his old maddening distance of nineteen-six and one-half. The other two competitors, a little fellow with light hair, and a big chap with not much hair of any color, had respectively twenty-two one and one-half, and twenty-one and three-quarters inch to their credit. All seemed over but the shouting when Dick walked slowly down the cinder-path for his last trial. No applause did he get either, except from the gloved hands, for men do not like to see an athlete without determination, no matter how well they may like him in society. As he walked down the path, I followed along a little behind him on the turf. I waited until he put his hand out, in exact accordance with instructions, and then I handed him his mother's message. He looked at me a moment with surprise, then took the black-bordered note and broke the seal. He read it hastily, and the color left his face as if a mortal fear had stricken him. Into his eyes there came first a far-away look, then one of the fiercest determination. He crumpled the note in his left hand, faced around for his sprint, and was off like a flash. I watched the lithe figure and followed it, but Dick had landed long before I reached the joist. He had caught the timber much as he had done on the April morning, and had thrown his knees high as before. I saw him cut the air, and my heart came into my mouth as I thought of a win and a broken record both. But it was not to be. I saw him land in the end of the box, far beyond any other jump; but, to my horror, he had reached too far with his feet, and though he made a desperate effort, he balanced a moment, and then threw himself on his back and side. He picked himself up without a word, and throwing his gray wrap over his shoulder pushed his way through the little crowd of contestants and officials, and strode off toward the dressing-rooms without even waiting for the measurer. I had eyes now only for the tape. The footmarks were plain as possible, and on the right and several inches back were the prints of Dick's thigh and elbow in the brown earth. The measurer pulled the tape out carefully, and I saw his finger slide by the twenty-two mark, where they hesitated a moment. He examined the broken ground with eager eyes, and at last his thumb stopped at the three and one-quarter inch. The little fellow who had made the twenty-two one and one-half was close by my side, and I heard him sigh at the sight. He had another trial; but the first place had seemed his already, and now he must fight for it with only one more chance. I was quite sure that Dick's jump was good enough, and so it proved. Richard Spotswood Fairfax was a winner. I was delayed a little, and when I reached the dressing-room I learned that the boy had dressed hurriedly, and driven off in a carriage by himself, without a word for any one. When I reached the hotel, he had taken his departure, waiting neither for congratulations nor farewells. The first telegram I sent that night was to Virginia, and the first letter I read, on my return, was one with a black border. THE OAKS, FAIRFAX CO., VA. DEAR SIR: I am in receipt of your telegram. I must thank you for the faithfulness with which you have fulfilled my request. It is not probable that Richard will continue in athletics. I enclose herewith a compensation which is certainly due you. I shall be greatly disappointed if denied the pleasure of its acceptance. Wishing you the success you deserve in your profession, I am, Sincerely yours, MARGARET LEE FAIRFAX. TO MR. WALTER BROWN. So closed my correspondence with the "châtelaine" of "The Oaks," whom I never saw, but about whom I have often thought. What did she write in that black-sealed, black-bordered note? I have puzzled my brain over it many and many an hour. I think I have guessed the riddle; but true or false, it must be kept a secret still. Dick himself is certainly not an enigma. He is only the most pronounced case of a description I have met before and since. He had ability, but not the inclination nor the will. A temporary anger on that April morning had given him the necessary determination to force his muscles to their extreme exercise of power. His mother's note had furnished a motive which had brought him in a winner. Without incentives, his muscular powers were not exercised, and his performances were ordinary. Sometimes, as I sit by the fireside, smoking my pipe over old memories, I think of Dick, and wonder what he would have done had he Teddy Atherton's head on his shoulders, or his heart inside his ribs. Of all my athletic disappointments Dick furnished me with the most disheartening, and among all the surprises of field and track none has equalled the Virginia jumper. [Illustration: And Every One A Winner] We are winners. The lobby of the hotel is crowded. Athletes, college men, travellers, and a curious public are well shuffled together. It is the same old pack of cards that I have seen for years, though the faces change. That "know-it-all" by the post is a new man, yet he is telling just how and why we won, like the wiseacres who preceded him, and the others who will follow; for this line of succession never runs out. He is telling how he has foreseen the result for weeks, and can call witnesses to prove his faultless prediction of six months ago. Yes, he can, though we only pulled out by the skin of our teeth, after sitting on the anxious seat all the afternoon; and had not Jim Harding thrown the hammer ten feet farther than ever before, we never should have won at all. But this only makes the "know-it-all's" wisdom more remarkable, and my ignorance as well, for I had thought the team a losing one, though I had, of course, held my tongue. Bah! Thirty years have not reconciled me to this gentry, with the addled brains and brazen throats. Most of the college men are gathered in little groups, around which the crowds ebb and flow in a surging tide. That its strongest current is through the swinging door of the bar-room cannot be denied, nor that it shows signs of the source from which it sprang. There are at least three grains of talk to one of listen, which is the regular dose, though the athletes pull the proportion down. They are, as usual, quietest of all. They have developed other muscles than those of the tongue; and yet even they are a bit talkative to-night, and have an unmistakably festive air about them. After months of preparation and weeks of strict training, when rigid rules prohibit, and all the pleasant things of life seem labelled "Keep off the grass," there is a maddening pleasure in being free again,--free to taste that favorite dish, palatable but indigestible; free to inhale the fragrance of a good cigar; free to watch the hands of the clock swing into the small hours; free, as Harry Gardner expresses it, "to do as you darn please once more." For those who have lost there is the necessity of drowning sorrow, and it is certainly the duty of a good winner to give his victory a fitting celebration. There is not as much difference in the two ceremonies as might be imagined. Our team has broken training, and some of them are breaking it badly. There are the long summer months before them, with the leisure hours at seashore or mountains, and no more work until the cool winds of autumn begin to blow. Even those of the most regular habits are kicking over the traces, and some of the wilder spirits, that make a trainer's hair gray before its time, to whom the six months' restraint has been a galling yoke, are giving themselves very loose rein. I am sorry to say that this particular team has not a large percentage of either deacons or clergymen, though Jim Harding afterward took holy orders, became an honor to the cloth, and will some day be a bishop. I occasionally attend his church; and when I see his huge form at the desk, and hear his voice, powerful and earnest, as it echoes to the farthest corner, I wonder if he has forgotten the night when we looked for "Paddy's cousin, the copper," when "every one was a winner." As I enter the hotel lobby, after dinner, on this evening of the games of 188-, I discover Jim standing near the street entrance with Harry Gardner, and a little knot of college friends and admirers. They are smoking like bad chimneys, and between puffs are giving a green reporter some most surprising bits of information, much to their own enjoyment and the delectation of their friends. The little reporter is taking copious notes, which will create a sensation in the morning, if the sporting editor does not discover them before they get into print. Jim is big and blond, and Harry slender and dark; the former has made a first in the "hammer-throw;" the latter, after winning his trial heat in the "hundred" with ease, got away badly in the finals, and had to content himself with adding a single point to our score. Now, Jim and Harry are particular friends of mine; I shall never handle them again, and I want a last word or two of farewell. They have developed under my care from awkward boys to the finished athletes they are to-night. I have seen the firm, round muscles becoming more and more perfect; the heart and lungs grow equal to more and more severe tests, and the increasing courage and self-reliance (without which there can be no success on the cinder-path) which will help them through many a struggle with the world they are about to enter. It is one of the sad parts of a trainer's life that he must lose such friends. I force my way through the crowd, getting numberless nods and greetings of a warmer nature, for I am a well-known man in such a gathering. I strike the strong current flowing to and from the bar; but a little patience, and a liberal use of the elbow, brings me to the boys at last. I give them each a hand, and we exchange a word or two of congratulation. Harry is, I see, a bit sore at his misfortune, for he had been picked as a sure winner. I give him a word of praise for his gallant effort to make up a three-yard loss at the start. There are many sprinters who would not have tried at all, let alone have pulled off the much-needed point. I tell Harding, with assumed resentment, that he has been sogering all the time, abusing my confidence by playing the sleeper, and that he has always been good for the extra ten feet. At this Jim gives one of his basso profundo laughs, and in answer to my question as to what mischief he is plotting, replies that Harry and himself are waiting for Paddy, who has gone with Tom Furness for a little something "to kape the night out," and that they have promised the Irishman to help him look up his cousin "Dinny Sullivan, a copper." I find that all they know about this cousin is that he is a policeman, on duty somewhere in the Bowery district. The boys admit the scent is not strong, but anticipate good sport in the hunt, whether they bag the game or not. There is always fun with Paddy, for though he has become a mighty knowing man on cinder-path and track, and is not as green as when he tackled the "ghostly hurdler," he is a delicious bit still. He appears a moment after, the "Knight of the Rake and Roller," accompanied by Tom; and judging from the aroma that clings to them, the necessary precautions have been taken against the baleful influences of the night air. Tom is as happy and sanguine as ever, shakes me by the hand as if my arm was a pump-handle in midsummer, and immediately protests that not a step will he take out of the house unless I go with him. At this they all insist that the party will be incomplete without me. I must go, or I shall break up the party and spoil sport. After considerable resistance, which I admit now was assumed, I consented at last. The truth was that, while I had not trained as had the boys, I had given many months of care and anxiety to them, and really wanted a bit of a fling myself. I knew very well what the little walk would lead up to, but reasoned that the boys were bound to get into trouble, and that it would be a charity to look after them. In fact, I played the hypocrite in a way for which I should have been ashamed. Although Tom and the boys gave unmistakable signs of "having dined," and Paddy of his heroic remedies against the night, we all meander to the bar for a last measure of precaution, light fresh cigars, and sally forth. The clocks are striking eight as the door swings behind us, the stars are beginning to show, and the street lights to shine. The air is mild, and the pavements seem like a country road after the awful crowd of the lobby. The rattle of the pavements is silence compared with the rattle of tongues which we have left behind us. We pile into a carriage which Paddy selects from a number drawn up to the curb,--because the driver is a Connemara man. We are not particularly comfortable with three on one seat, and five pairs of long legs interlaced; but our ride is enlivened by Paddy's conversation, no less brilliant than fluent, which is a magnificent compliment. Occasionally Tom succeeds in getting in a word, but the rest of us are out of it. He is about to give us some reminiscences of "Dinny's" boyhood when the carriage stops, much to our surprise, for we do not realize the lapse of time. We alight before a corner drug-store, and Paddy calls the "Connemara man" an "Irish thief" when Tom pays him an exorbitant charge. He is easily placated, however, and goes into the store to inquire after Dinny, while we wait outside. We look through the window, between the red bottle on the right and the blue bottle on the left, and see him go up to the clerk at the soda fountain. The latter, a tall, pale-faced youth, answers shortly, and points to a big directory on a little shelf in the corner. Paddy walks over, upsetting a rack of sponges on the way, opens the directory doubtfully, turns over its leaves, runs his finger down a page or two, looks more and more puzzled, and at last beckons us in. We enter, and find him looking blankly at an almost unending list of Dennis Sullivans, engaged in many occupations, and several of them "on the force." After a careful examination, befitting the seriousness of the occasion, we pronounce the task hopeless, and file out again. Our departure is apparently greatly to the relief of the pale young man, for we had laughed until the bottles rattled when Paddy described his cousin as a "big chunk av a man, wid a taste for gin, an' a bad habit av snorin'." We halt in the lee of the mortar and pestle, while the crowd surges past, and hold a council of war. Harding suggests that our best plan is to form a rush line, letting none pass until they tell all they know about "Dennis Sullivan, the copper." This proposition is hailed with delight by all but Tom and me, and though we are in the minority our opposition succeeds. To spread a drag-net across a Bowery sidewalk I believe to be a decidedly hazardous proceeding, and likely to result in the catching of fish too big to land. We finally form, with Paddy ahead, then Jim and Harry, Tom and myself bringing up the rear. We had not taken a dozen steps before Paddy halts a tough-looking chap with "Do yes know me cousin, Dinny Sullivan?" The prisoner wears a very short sack-coat, plaid trowsers, and a tall silk hat. He has a "mouse" under one eye, and the other, though lacking the honorable decoration of its companion, is red and angry. His mustache is closely clipped and dyed a deathly black; the cigar in the extreme corner of his mouth is tilted at an acute angle. He blows a cloud of smoke over Paddy's shoulder, and looks us all over suspiciously, each in turn. Now, we are rather a formidable party: Paddy and Jim as big as houses, Tom tall and angular, myself a rugged specimen, and Harry, though not adding much to our physical strength, evidently spoiling for trouble. As a rule, the little men are the aggressors, and most dangerous of all if they have a crowd with them. Paddy's first captive, in deference to our superior force, decides to act the civil, and asks gruffly, "What's his biz?" "He's a cop," answered Paddy, "a big chunk av a man, wid a scar over the lift eye, under the hair." Identifying a man by a concealed scar is too much for Tom, who breaks into a hearty laugh, and the prisoner himself gives a half smile, when after denying all knowledge of "Dinny" he is allowed to pass on. We next halt a couple of young fellows, evidently gentlemen, out on a lark. They recognize in Paddy a character worth cultivating, and keep him talking several minutes, asking fool questions; but they finally admit that "me cousin Dinny Sullivan" is not on their list of acquaintances. We spent some time in this way, Paddy doing picket duty, the main army close up in support. After questioning a dozen or more we make up our minds that Dinny is certainly not as well known on the Bowery as John L. or Tony Pastor, and that the success of our mission is doubtful. We had enjoyed the dialogues immensely, particularly that with a good-natured German. The latter understood hardly a word of English, but spoke his own language like a cuckoo clock. Paddy, of course, knew not a single word he said, but stuck to him for several minutes, giving up English at last, and treating us to the classic accents of old Ireland. Nearly all we met had taken the matter good-naturedly, but one or two did not see the joke, and turned ugly. One big fellow talked fight, but the proposition was received by Paddy with such extreme joy, and preparations were made with such alacrity, that he thought better of the plan and withdrew his challenge. This was greatly to Paddy's disappointment, and Harry's as well, the latter offering to take the Irishman's place, though he would have been fifty pounds short weight. We had been stopping frequently for Paddy to take further precautions to "kape the night out," and the rest of us doctored with the same medicine in smaller doses. Paddy was now perfectly happy, and he had his reasons. The "byes" had won; he was drinking, under Tom's most learned and experienced tuition, a different new drink every time, and in his heart of hearts was sure of a fight before the sun rose. What more could an Irishman ask; and a Connemara Irishman at that? His face was growing redder and more smiling every minute, and his feet, although they performed their duties after a fashion, would certainly not have been equal to the "crack in the floor test," as on the night when he encountered the "ghostly hurdler." But although Pat would have been contented to continue in the same blissful state until the crack of doom, the rest of us began to tire of the quest, and to look around in search of other things beside "Dinny, the copper." The streets were crowded, the stores open, the bar-rooms doing a rushing business, and the places of amusement in full blast. Suddenly Jim stopped before the bulletin board of a little variety theatre, and began to examine it critically. There was a long list of names in black letters,--singers, dancers, acrobats, boxers, and I know not what else; but Jim's eyes were fixed with great seriousness at the tall red letters at the bottom. They declared, in extremely mixed metaphor, "A Galaxy of Stars, and Every One a Winner." "I'm going in," said Jim, with much gravity, throwing his cigar away. "How about Paddy's cousin, the copper?" asked Harry. "He's as likely here as anywhere," Jim answered; "beside, it says that 'every one's a winner,' and that's the only kind for us to-night." We were all of us quite ready for a change, so we stepped into the little lobby, Paddy first going up to the ticket office to ask, "Is me cousin, Dinny Sullivan, the copper, inside?" The ticket-seller, a big, fat fellow, with weak eyes and a Roman nose, thought Paddy was trying to jolly him, and answered "No," quite tartly. Paddy, of course, resented the incivility, and declared himself to be a gentleman, and he cared not who knew it. He further ventured to doubt whether the man behind the window was in the same class with himself, and, gradually abandoning the reproachful accents with which he had begun, became first unparliamentary, and then abusive. The ticket-seller stood it for a while, and then told Paddy to pass along, that "Dinny Sullivan" was not inside, but that they had two other policemen who were no relation of Pat's, but would take care of him just the same. This last threat raised Paddy's anger to the boiling point, so that he first tried unsuccessfully to enter through the locked door, and then reaching his huge fist through the little open place in the window, shook it as near the Roman nose as the length of his arm would permit. We finally persuaded him to subside, and Harry took his place with a roll of bills to purchase the tickets. He had hardly begun to speak, however, before Harding caught him, and lifted him, despite his struggles, on to the shoulder of a big statue of Terpsichore, in the corner, reminding him, gently but firmly, that the invitation was his, and he must be permitted to pay the bills. He obtained five seats in the front row of the orchestra, and parted therefor with two dollars and fifty cents. We were inspected a trifle suspiciously by the door-keeper, but filed in, and found the little theatre filled with a numerous and enthusiastic audience. The gallery was packed, the cheap seats on the rear of the floor well taken, and only a few of the more expensive ones in the front of the house unoccupied. The air was hot, and full enough of the fumes of alcohol to burn. Before we had adjusted our lungs to the new conditions, a little fellow in a dirty zouave suit took the checks from Jim, and ushered us down the centre aisle to our seats in the front row. We made considerable noise, for the steps were of uneven depths, and at unequal distances, and Paddy stumbled all over himself at every opportunity. Harry went in first, followed by Pat, Tom, myself, and Jim, in the order named. We were obliged to squeeze by an old lady and her daughter who occupied the end seats, and the former, sitting next to Jim, resented the necessary crowding by sundry sniffs and looks of disgust. Her displeasure was so evident that Jim felt called upon to apologize, which he did in his most grandisonian manner, and in tones not less loud than those of the singer on the stage, "I beg your pardon, madam; I assure you it was unintentional; I have tender feet myself, and can sympathize with you." At this there was a burst of applause and laughter. I looked around and could see a number of college men scattered through the orchestra, evidently ready to encourage any exploit to which such "dare-devils" as Jim and Harry might treat them. There were a few of the gentler sex in the audience, but the great majority were men, the flotsam and jetsam of the Bowery. Some of these joined in the laughter at Jim's elaborate apology, and others scowled their resentment at the disturbance. From the abode of the gallery gods (filled mostly with boys, big and little) came a shrill "Put 'em out!" and a big wad of paper composed of an entire "World," and thrown by a skilful hand, which landed on the top of Jim's head. But Jim, apparently not at all noticing the attention which he was attracting, unfolded his play-bill, and began to study it with the air of a connoisseur, or a provincial manager in search of talent. The document was headed with "BILLY JAYNE'S REFINED VAUDEVILLE CO.," and near the bottom of the first page was bracketed, "Robert Loring, Basso Profundo, Nautical Songs, Without a Rival." It was evidently Robert who was "doing his turn" when we entered, for his song told of "wild waves, brave ships, oak timbers, fearful storms, wrecks, and watery graves," in tones deep enough to make the heart quake. He ended, just as we were well settled in our seats, with a row of descending notes, the last several feet below the lowest brick of the cellar, and bowed himself off the stage, amid a burst of applause, which was followed by another demonstration, well mingled with laughter, when Jim remarked very audibly to the old lady by his side, "I really wonder how he does it," and "Shouldn't you think it would hurt him?" Loring had already occupied the full time for "his turn" (we discovered later that the performer came out and filled up his ten minutes just the same, whether applauded and encored, or greeted with stony silence), so, notwithstanding vigorous clapping, assisted by the more demonstrative boot-heel, Robert only made his bow from the wings, and departed. As he disappeared on one side, a diminutive little darky hurried on from the other, and changed the cards, announcing as the next star, "Sam Walker." An examination of the play-bill rewarded us also with the information that Sam was the "World's Champion Clog Dancer, Lancashire Style." Two attendants in ragged costumes brought out a big square of white marble, which they deposited with considerable labor on one side of the stage, and after a little delay, to make the audience impatient, the distinguished Walker appeared, clad in well-chalked white tights, and with the champion's belt buckled round his waist. It was at least six inches wide, and so heavy with gold, silver, and precious stones that the redoubtable Sam was obliged to remove it before he could dance at all. Sam's brother Alfred, in a rusty dress suit, took his seat in a chair on the other side of the stage, and with an enormous accordeon furnished the music for the champion, who treated us to a continuation of festive taps, stopping with wonderful precision whenever the music broke off, even if in the middle of a note. Next came "Annette Toineau," the "Queen of French Song, Fresh from Her Parisian Triumphs;" and the big man at the piano began to execute a lively tune, which set all the feet in the house in motion, until Annette herself appeared. This she did with a nod, a wink, and a kick that won instant applause, even before she opened her mouth to sing. An enthusiastic admirer in the gallery called out, "You're all right, Liz, old girl," from which remark, and the accent (much more Celtic than French) with which she afterward treated us, I argued that Annette was but a stage name, and the "Parisian Triumphs" probably a fiction of the manager. Annette was a very pretty little girl, with a trim figure in abbreviated skirts, and she sang rather naughty songs in a manner that made them worse than they were written. I could hear Jim, after she was through, remark to the old lady by his side, that such songs were likely to lead to the perversion of youth, and should not be sung except to those who had reached the age of discretion; by which I suppose he meant himself and the old lady, though she was old enough to be his grandmother. Jim's censorious remarks were, however, more than offset by Harry, who, at the other end of our line, applauded so vociferously that Annette rewarded him with a direct and beaming smile when she made her last bow. Then followed "Leslie and Manning, Knock-about Grotesques," "Cora, the Queen of the Slack Wire," and "Sam Berne, the Dutch Monarch;" the last of whom first convulsed us by asking Tom, in a sepulchral whisper, to "Please wake your friend," pointing to Paddy, who was indeed asleep; and then had a very funny dialogue with the piano-pounder, in which they both pretended to get in a towering passion over the question as to whether the singing or the accompaniment was the worse. The delights of the play-bill were now well-nigh exhausted, the next to the last on the list being "Alice Wentworth, America's Most Dashing Soubrette." She appeared to the tune of some gay waltz notes from the long-suffering piano. Alice was a slender girl, with brown hair and large, dark eyes. I doubt she could ever have been "dashing," though pretty she certainly had been. There were also signs that "once she had seen better days," as the old song goes. But now, despite the assistance of paint and padding, it was evident that sickness or dissipation had robbed her of most of the attractions she had once possessed. Her face was too thin for the bright color on her cheeks, her steps were too listless for the generously filled stockings, and she coughed several times before she began her song. It was a jolly little thing, sung in good time and tune, and with those touches which indicate unmistakably the rudiments, at least, of a musical education. The song was well received, but at the end of the verse she had a dance, which called for considerable exertion, and was very trying for her. She got through the first two verses all right, but when she started the third her strength was gone; she broke down, and gasped for breath. The piano continued for a few notes, then stopped, and there was a dead silence. It was a pitiful sight enough: the poor girl trying to get strength enough to continue, coughing and gasping painfully; but some one in the orchestra back of us hissed, there was a cry from the gallery of "Take her off," and then a chorus of yells and cat-calls. It was the same old wolf instinct which makes the pack tear to pieces the wounded straggler,--the wolf instinct in some way transmitted to man. I was indignant enough, and looked around at the audience after the chap that made the first hiss, but should probably have done nothing had not Tom Furness, who has the biggest heart in the world, made an effort to stem the tide. He jumped on his feet, rising to his full height, and began to applaud with all his might. Of course we all joined in, Paddy's big feet and hands making a prodigious noise; and the better nature of the audience being given a lead, the hisses were drowned by a great storm of applause that fairly shook the old theatre. Poor Alice succeeded in getting enough breath to finish her song, and, dancing no more, gave as an encore "Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonny Doon," in a way that reached the hearts of the toughest in the house. It is wonderful how such an audience is affected by the pathetic. An allusion to an "old mother," an "old home," or suffering from sin and wrong will catch them quicker than the most doubtful verse. The last word of the old Scotch song ended, Alice made her bow amid applause as hearty if not as noisy as when we drowned the hissing, and I hope the poor girl was able to keep her place, or, better still, went back to the old home, among the New Hampshire hills, perhaps, or under the shadow of the Maine pines. There was now a great bustle on the stage, a rush of "supes," and a clamor of orders. The scenery was pushed back and the drop-scenes hoisted out of the way. Padded posts were set in the floor, ropes strung and pulled taut, making a very satisfactory ring, and the chairs placed in the corners. By the demonstration on the stage and the eagerness of the audience, it was evident that we had now come to the great attraction of the evening. The play-bill read "George Johnson, Heavy-Weight Boxer, Will Knock Out Three Opponents in Three Rounds Each, or Forfeit $50 to the Man Who Stays." Now, although I was fairly well informed concerning the boxing world, I was unable to remember "George Johnson's" name, and wondered why he had not been taken on by some of the well-known men who intruded themselves into the papers so frequently. The play-bill said clearly that he had challenged the world, and Tom suggested that Johnson was probably too good for them to take him on, or perhaps he had not a diligent backer who could wield a vigorous pen. Harry, who stripped at one hundred and thirty, declared his willingness to put on the gloves with Mr. Johnson if they would let him stand on a chair. Paddy, to whom the performance had become a dreadful bore, endured only through respect for the high society in which he was travelling, had now become wide awake, and at Harry's remark pricked up his ears and asked with much interest if they gave any one in the audience a chance to put on the gloves. Jim told him that there were probably three "stiffs" already engaged to go through the motions of a knock-out, and Paddy remarked that it was a pity, and subsided for the time. When everything was arranged, the pails of water, sponges, and towels handy, and the gloves thrown into the middle of the ring, the manager introduced Mr. Richard Foley as the referee of the bouts, ending his remarks with some very florid compliments to Mr. Foley's well-known fairness in such matters. What was our surprise to discover in the gentlemanly referee the identical man we had first stopped on the street to inquire for "Dinny Sullivan, the copper." He wore the same short coat and plaid trousers, but had discarded the tall hat and the cigar, without which he looked lonely. The mouse under his eye had also disappeared, the artist having succeeded in disguising its mournful hue by a skilful application of flesh paint. After the enthusiasm which greeted his appearance had a little subsided, Mr. Foley raised his hand in a Napoleonic fashion to command silence, stepped to the front of the stage, and hanging on the ropes in an attitude of extreme ease and freedom from restraint, made the usual little speech without which a boxing contest would seem out of joint. He declared the bout to be one of "a friendly nature" for "scientific points only," and ended with the warning that any disturbance from the audience would stop the contest immediately. At the close of his remarks appeared the celebrated George Johnson, a tall mulatto, who took his seat in the chair facing the audience, followed by his handlers. He was stripped to the waist, and wore a blue sash, white trunks, and tan shoes. He was a powerful fellow, well trained, and looked like a bronze statue when he rose, bowing and smiling at a little group of colored friends who called to him from the front of the gallery. A moment later "Jack Costigan, the Jersey blacksmith," made his début, and was greeted with even more enthusiasm than Johnson, probably because of the predominating nationality of the audience, for he was certainly not a beauty, or even a well-built man. Indeed, he was a mighty tough-looking customer, his black hair clipped close enough to reveal a number of white scars, his face pockmarked, his shoulders stooping, and he was at least ten pounds lighter than Johnson, with much less height and reach. He looked sheepish enough to prepare us for the "lie down" that was to follow, and seemed pleased that his chair gave him the opportunity to turn his back to the spectators. After the very labored introductions by Mr. Foley, in which a slight allusion was made to their previous records, the men took their corners, and at the call of "time" they shook hands and got to business. Now, I shall have hardly a word to say concerning this bout, for there was a much more stirring one to follow. It was evident from the beginning, although Johnson was the better man, and could have won anyway, that Costigan was not sent to do his best. He was an old war-horse, performed his part well, kept up the mill until the middle of the third round, and then at a comparatively light blow went down. He pretended to make a desperate effort to rise while the ten seconds were counted, then picked himself up, and Johnson was declared the winner. After Costigan disappeared there was a long wait, the house growing more and more impatient. At last the manager appeared and announced his great regret that the two other boxers had disappointed him. He announced that one of them had a broken arm, and read a physician's certificate to that effect. The other, as far as we could learn, was suffering from a broken heart; that is, he had, after looking the redoubtable Johnson over, declined to face him for any consideration. The manager, again expressing his sorrow at the unavoidable disappointment, handed our friend, Mr. Foley, a fifty-dollar bill, making a great splurge about it, and asked if there were not some gentlemen in the house who would take the places of the delinquents. At this there was a dead silence, except the noise made by Paddy and Harry whispering together, but what they said I did not understand. Again the manager repeated the request, evidently not expecting its acceptance, and ended with a challenge reflecting delicately upon the courage of his audience. He had hardly spoken the words when suddenly, to my surprise and dismay, Paddy rose slowly to his feet, and clearing his throat said, in husky tones, "Faith, thin, 'tis a pity it is not to hev the foight, and lackin' a better I'll give him a bit av a go meself." There had been many murmurs of disappointment when it looked as if there would be but one bout, instead of three as advertised, and at Paddy's speech there was deafening applause. I did my best to dissuade him, as did Tom Furness as well; but Jim took up the plan with enthusiasm, and despite our protests the three "devil-may-cares" crowded along the aisle, and disappeared through a little door under the gallery, which led to the stage. A few moments later they filed on, all three with their coats off, stepped through the ropes, and Paddy took his seat in the chair facing Johnson, his red face wreathed in smiles, and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, Jim and Harry going to work in a very business-like manner to prepare for the contest. Now, all this was great fun for the audience, the manager, and even Johnson himself, who grinned back at Paddy, showing a long row of white teeth. It took no expert to see that the Irishman was dead easy, and there were the anticipated windmill swings, and abortive efforts to hit on his part, and a scientific exhibition from Johnson, with a knock-out to follow. Tom and I expected nothing better, unless Johnson should be careless enough to let Paddy hit him once, in which case he might be treated to a surprise party, for Pat had an arm like a gorilla, and a fist as big as a small ham. Indeed, when Jim tried to push the gloves on which Costigan had discarded, after his lie down, he found it a job requiring the exercise of patience and considerable strength as well. At last Paddy was all right, Harry fanning him with the towel, Jim kneeling behind him, whispering sage advice into his ear, to which Paddy nodded his head with a confident grin. We were close enough to hear his husky, "'Tis right you are," and "Sure that wud phase 'im." The boys looked striking enough on the stage, with their refined faces, fashionable clothes, and spotless linen. Not one in the building but knew they were gentlemen, and nearly all wished them success with their man. Paddy himself had caught the crowd also, the gallery becoming his at first sight of his wide smile and the sound of his "illigant brogue." Mr. Foley called "time," and at the word Harry gave a last flap, Jim a final word of advice, and as Paddy rose to his feet they pulled the chair through the ropes, and left their man in the ring, to do his "_devoir_" as best he might. He certainly was not anxious, nor did he lack confidence in himself. He advanced cheerfully, shook his opponent by the hand, and got in position. Now, where Paddy learned to "shape himself" I never heard, but I doubt if there is anything like it in the long history of "Fistiana." I have seen many queer things in old sporting prints, where the fancy of the artist, I am sure, has maligned the science of good men with their "fives," but nothing like Paddy's pose has ever appeared to me before or since. His left foot was well forward, his left arm high, as if he feared the rap of a "shillalah" instead of the straight blow of a fist. His right hand he held low behind him, ready to hit, as if he held a flail or a "bit av a scythe," and he swung his fist round and round in a little circle. Even Tom and I could not refrain from laughter, the crowd yelled themselves hoarse, and Johnson could hardly restrain himself. The latter shaped beautifully. After his first surprise was over he grew serious, stepped in, led lightly, landing on Pat's nose, and when Paddy, after a belated duck, swung a terrific blow at his opponent, he found him well out of reach. It was just as I expected: Johnson could hit Paddy when and where he pleased. He played with him as a cat would with a mouse. He made a punching-bag of him, hit and got away. He ducked, he countered, he dodged, he swung on Pat's jaw. He side-stepped, and tapped him lightly; he uppercut him when he made a bull rush, so that his head lifted as if on a hinge. He hooked him with right and left, and played the "devil's tattoo" all over his body, ending with a rib-roaster that made even Paddy sigh. In short, when Patrick O'Malley, our "Knight of the Rake and Roller," took his seat at the end of the first round his smile was gone, and he looked like a man in a trance. Johnson had hit hard enough to have put most men to sleep, but on Paddy's tough anatomy had made no serious impression, after all. Pat's right eye was in a fair way to close, and his face looked puffy and his neck sore, but he was as strong as ever, and his courage as good, though he probably would have been willing to admit that over the picnic aspect of the occasion there had come a cloud. Harry and Jim got at work at him with sponge and towel the minute he took his seat. A very artistic exhibition they gave, and no doubt Jim's advice which he whispered was very good, but there was nothing before Paddy but a "knock-out" unless the unexpected happened. Johnson was without a mark, and I question whether he had been hit at all. He took his drink, smiled up at his handlers as they worked the cool sponge over his hot chest and arms, and leaned back on the ropes with an air of extreme contentment. When the bell rang for the second round Paddy came up in good condition, but with a somewhat dubious expression on his countenance, and he kept his left a little lower, ready to stop some of the straight punches he had accepted so generously in the first round. He did not swing quite as wildly as before, and although hit harder, the blows did not land quite as often. In the last half-minute, however, Johnson cut loose, and Paddy's broad face and thick neck were visited in a savage manner. The bell barely saved him, for the poor fellow was fairly smothered with blows, and yet he stood up to his punishment without flinching, and fought back as best he could. Tom had lost patience when he saw Paddy staggering like a bullock under an axe, and though I told him we could do nothing to help, he insisted we should at least be with the rest of the party. So the minute the bell rang for the end of the round, we crowded along the seats, and hurrying through the door, I was just in time to reach Paddy's corner before he started in for the third and last round. Now, of all men on earth Paddy believed in me; Jim and Harry were all right, and doing all possible for him, but when he felt my hand on his arm, and heard my whisper in his ears, his heart, almost gone, came back to him. He turned his swollen face up to me, and with a new light in his eyes he said, "Tell me what I'll do, Misther Brown; tell me, darlin', an' I'll lick the nager yet." There was something wonderfully pathetic in his blind confidence, and I never cared so much for the big-hearted Irishman as I did that minute. To tell the truth, I had been half willing to see him knocked out after his foolish persistence against my advice. Then again I knew it was not at all a serious matter to one with his strength and vitality, and a dash of cold water would leave him no worse memories than a sore head and a few bruises. But after his appeal I felt very different. I racked my brain, but though I had been studying his opponent from the beginning, trying to find his weak point, he was so very shifty on his feet, and Paddy was so deathly slow, I could think of nothing. Pat had been swinging at his opponent's head, from the very start, the same old blow, landing never. He had not tried for the body once, and I made up my mind just before the bell rang, and whispered, "Never mind his top-knot, Paddy; wait until he leads, then step in, and hit him in the ribs; and hit him hard." The third round started much like the others, but now on Paddy's face was not the foolish smile of the first, nor the dubious look of the second. "Misther Brown" had told him what to do, he was supremely confident in my wisdom, and had no doubt of the result. His mouth was firm and his eyes clear as he faced his opponent and waited for his opportunity. I could see that Johnson did not half like the change. He was altered too, his face had grown cruel, his eyes fierce, and he came in like a tiger crouching for a spring. The joke was all gone out of the game now; he must knock Paddy out in the next three minutes or the fifty dollars would be forfeited. Nothing but a blow in the right spot would be of any use, and it must have the full swing of the body behind it. I could see plainly by his high guard that he feared nothing from Paddy but a swing on the head, and I doubt if he thought of much else beside how he could land on the point of Paddy's jaw just the right blow. As I knelt between Jim and Harry, peering through the ropes, I made up my mind that Paddy had good enough advice if he knew how to use it. As usual, Johnson stepped in, leading with his left a light tap, meant only to open up Paddy's guard, so he could swing on him. As usual, he landed on Paddy's nose, the blood starting freely; but instead of answering with a blind swing as before, this time Paddy took the blow coming on; indeed, he started in before he was hit, and the blow did not stop him at all. The result was, he found himself, for the first time, almost, since he had put his hands up, at a good striking distance. With a fierce grunt he smashed his huge fist full on the mark where the ribs branch, just above the belt. It was a terrible blow, unexpected, given with all the good intentions that a sense of debt could foster, and with the impetus of their two weights, for Johnson was coming in himself. It doubled his antagonist up like a frog, and Paddy was kind enough to undouble him with a straight push in the face that straightened him up again. Harry could not refrain from calling, "Now's your time, Pat!" for which he was very properly warned by the referee; but Paddy really did not hear him, and needed no advice. Science was forgotten, and in the mix-up that followed, Paddy showed a ready hand, cultivated by many a boyish fight and youthful set-to. Johnson was now not so much interested in putting Paddy out, as in saving himself; he was fighting blindly, hugging and clinching when he could; keeping away as much as possible, and growing more and more groggy under the shower of blows that were rained on him. Time was nearly up when, after a break away, Paddy stepped back, gathered himself, rushed in, and swung his huge right hand with all the strength of his powerful body. It was a half hook, and it landed on Mr. Johnson's jaw, and he went down like a felled tree, falling with stiff knees, and striking nothing until his face reached the floor with a thud. He made no effort to rise, and Paddy was so wild that, had I not called to him, I think he would have gone into Johnson's corner for a fresh antagonist among his handlers. Johnson lay on the floor while the ten seconds were ticked off, and then Mr. Foley stepped to the footlights, and, announcing that Mr. O'Malley had won the bout, handed him the fifty-dollar bill. Paddy hesitated a moment, for he had not thought once of the money; then he drew from his hip pocket an old-fashioned leather folding wallet, much worn and discolored, and with a chuckle put the big bill safely away. The audience had risen as one man to cheer Paddy when the decision was given, and now the tumult broke out again, and he was forced to bow his acknowledgments from over the footlights. Even this was not enough, and he finally cleared his throat, and made a short speech, of which I could distinguish nothing but the last words, as he gave a comprehensive sweep of his gloved hand, including our whole company, and yelled, "An' ivery wan a winner." He would have spoken longer had not the manager, with rare presence of mind, dropped the curtain in front of him. Johnson had come to himself very quickly with the assistance of his handlers, and now stepped up to Paddy with very honest congratulations, and the contestants shook hands with mutual respect and no ill will. We were delayed a few minutes by our inability to get the boxing-glove off of Paddy's big right hand; the left he had removed himself on receipt of the bill. We finally cut it off him, formed in line of march, and threading our way through the wings, joined the last stragglers of the audience as they filed out. I tried hard to subdue the spirits of my companions, but with little success. Jim and Harry were greatly elated, and Tom (who of all men enjoys winning) was now as bad as the others, and deserting me, left the conservative vote in a very decided minority. There was certainly nothing lacking in the perfect success of the evening but the fact that "Dinny, the copper," the great object of our search, had evaded us. I voted to give him up and go back to the hotel; the others hesitated, but Tom, who never despairs,--Tom still declared that Dinny would yet appear. Tom is a man who has faith that a ball team will win with the score five to one against in the ninth inning, two out, and a weak hitter at the bat. Jim and Harry were too much elated by their success with Paddy in the "squared circle" to ask for much else. In fact, they were slightly hilarious. The intoxication of victory, on top of their efforts to "kape the night out," was a bit too much for them. In passing along they tipped over a table by the door, sending a shower of play-bills on the floor, and when a stout fellow remonstrated, Jim promptly "crowned" his derby hat with a blow that sent it down to his chin. In the lobby the big wooden statue of Terpsichore, standing in scant attire, with one foot lifted for the dance, caught Harry's eye. He whispered to Jim and Paddy, and before I could interfere, they had torn her from her fastenings, and "stood the old girl on her head." As the muse was being balanced in this undignified position in the corner, there suddenly arose a cry of "Police!" "Police!" in high-pitched and nasal tones from the ticket office. It was Paddy's "ancient enemy" who had discovered us, with his face close to the aperture, secure in the protection of the window. He called lustily, until a huge fist swung through the hole, and landed on the Roman nose with a dull, sickening thud. Silence followed Paddy's skilful blow, but the mischief was done, for there suddenly appeared through the door behind us a knock-kneed bobby, club in hand. Tom called "'Ware the cop!" and by giving the promptest kind of leg bail they just escaped him, bolting out the door, and across the Bowery, the crooked-legged copper close after. Harry, who was leading, swung down a dimly lighted alley, Jim and Paddy following in order. The policeman, who apparently had little confidence in his ability to catch such nimble-footed gentry, stopped at the corner, and commenced a devil's tattoo with his night club on the pavement as a signal for some compatriot to head off the fugitives. Tom and I, who were close up, dashed by him without a word, resolved to stick to our friends, no matter what the cost. Tom was chuckling with delight, gave me a look over his shoulder, and set a killing pace, with the laudable ambition of running me off my feet, as well as distancing our pursuers. Chasing and being chased is one of the primitive pleasures of man, and I doubt if we ever quite outgrow it. We cut through the darkness, with the cool night air in our faces, sprinting over the slippery cobble-stones of the pavement as if in the finals of a "hundred." There was a mad pleasure in it all, and the listening for sounds of pursuit and the looking sharply ahead for threatening danger added a double zest. It reminded me of a night in old Lancashire, when with some schoolmates I had raided a farmer's orchard, and with the spoils under our jackets we had led him a cross-country run of a couple of miles, knowing that a good thrashing was close behind as the punishment for a stumble or a temporary shortness of breath. We were gaining on the three dark forms ahead, for we could see them more and more plainly as they bobbed against the lights at the end of the street. Occasionally some one would yell at us from a window or doorway, but the pounding of the knock-kneed bobby was growing more and more faint, and we heard no footsteps at all behind us. We had almost reached Paddy, whose boxing efforts had told on his endurance, and I was just about to call to Jim and Harry, when suddenly there emerged from the darkness a herculean figure in brass buttons. It floated into the middle of the alley, like the ghost of Hamlet's father, silent, huge, portentous. A long arm reached for Harry as he dodged to one side of the alley, and gathered the little fellow in, while Jim slid by on the other side. Paddy sprang to Harry's assistance, and got a blow with the flat of the hand that sent him in a heap on the pavement. Jim was about to mix in the fracas, but Tom and I, who knew better than to assail the majesty of the law, caught and held him. For a moment neither of us spoke, watching Harry's futile struggles. He was being held firmly, but gently, like a fractious child, and a voice of a richness that cast Paddy's brogue quite in the shade said soothingly, "Arrah there, be aisy. It's hurtin' yesel' ye are. Be aisy, or I'll pull ye in." I was glad to hear the figure speak, for the silence was quite uncanny. Tom advanced in that conciliatory way of his when he feels that he has a delicate task before him, and was about to make his little appeal, with one hand on the roll of bills in his pocket, when Paddy, who had sat up at the sound of the voice, and was looking fixedly at Harry's captor, gave a howl of mingled surprise and joy, and exclaimed, "Begorry, Dinny, ye Connemara divil, let the lad go, or I'll break yer face." At these words Harry stopped his struggles and Jim abandoned his efforts to break away from me. Tom stood with his mouth wide open, uncertain what to do, and I waited as if I was watching a play, and the dramatic climax was about to be sprung on me. Paddy rose slowly and unsteadily to his feet; and the big policeman took him by the collar with his unoccupied hand, and led him to the light of a little window, where he studied his face a moment in silence. Gradually over the big copper's face there spread a grin of recognition, his brown mustache drawing up at the corners, despite his efforts to look severe. "Sure, 'tis yesilf, Patrick, ye blaguard," he said at last, shaking his head; "but frind or no frind, divil a wan o' me cares, if wrong ye've done." "It's only a bit av a lark, an' no harm at all, at all," answered Paddy; and then he told the story of the evening, the search, the boxing contest, and the mischief in the lobby, making as little as possible of the latter, and expatiating at length on our efforts to find "Dinny, the copper," with our extreme pleasure at final success. He ended by introducing us all with much pride and satisfaction. Dinny listened at first with suspicion, afterward with a flash in his blue eyes as Paddy described his victory over Johnson, and finally with a slow smile, expanding into a grin, as the adventure in the lobby was described. When Paddy finished, the "arm-of-the-law" turned without a word, letting Harry and Paddy go free again, tapped on the little window, through whose brown curtain enough light had streamed to make recognition possible, and waited in silence until there came a sound of moving bolts. He then pushed a door open, led us through a dark entry, and into a little back room, where was a long table, plenty of chairs, and a kettle singing on the stove in the corner. I have a suspicion that it was from this very same snug retreat that Dinny emerged when the sound of the rattling night club disturbed him. I learned that the little room was the sanctum sanctorum of the widow Rafferty, whose bar-room in front was too public to suit the refined taste of Mr. Dennis Sullivan, and was also perhaps more exposed to the gaze of an inquisitive inspector. Dinny went to a corner cupboard, with the air of a man who knew the way, took from it a brown jug, and placed it carefully on the table with a half-dozen tumblers. He pointed to the chairs with a wave of his hand, and when we were seated he broke the silence with, "Gintlemen, 'tis proud I am to meet ye all, though in bad company ye come" (the last with a smile at Paddy). "I've a little something here" (looking fondly at the jug) "will kape the night out; 'tis the rale old stuff, such as we used to drink in old Connemara. 'Tis aisy I've been with yes, but, faith, I swear to pull in ivery mother's son that will not drink with me." We all filled our glasses, though Tom called us to witness that he drank under protest, and only through fear of arrest. Just how long we lingered in the widow Rafferty's back room I cannot tell, but we discovered Dinny to be the very prince of coppers, able to tell a good story and sing a better song. He was a broth of a boy, and would have gladdened the eyes of the manager of a football team. He stood six feet three in his stockings, and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, all good stuff, and as hard as nails. His uniform was fresh, and fitted him like a glove, while every button was bright as a West Point cadet's. When we came to part with him it was with mutual expressions of good will, which were increased when we discovered he had sent for a carriage, and the same awaited us in the dark alley. If he has his dues he is chief of police by this time. We were a bit quiet on the way home, a little weary, and very contented and happy. There was a hint of the morning in the east as we alighted at the hotel, and the lobby was silent and deserted. We were much pleased to find that the elevator was still running, and we climbed aboard, at peace with all the world, and just ready for bed. As Tom said, a five minutes earlier or later would have spoiled it. When we reached the third floor, Paddy insisted that we must go with him to the fifth, so we kept on, and Harry unlocked the door and Jim lit the gas. When we bade him "good-night" and the elevator began to drop, he stood in his doorway, a smile of perfect bliss shining on his honest face. He waved his big hand at us with a gesture that was half farewell, half a benediction, and murmured huskily "An' ivery wan a winner." 
47966	----	[Illustration: The Yale quarter drove another forward pass to Armstrong who caught it cleanly and was off like the wind.--_Page 279_] FRANK ARMSTRONG AT COLLEGE By MATTHEW M. COLTON AUTHOR OF "Frank Armstrong's Vacation," "Frank Armstrong at Queens," "Frank Armstrong's Second Term," "Frank Armstrong, Captain of the Nine," "Frank Armstrong, Drop Kicker." [Illustration] A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1914, BY HURST & COMPANY MADE IN U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE FRESHMAN RUSH 5 II. A BRUSH WITH THE POLICE 18 III. THE CODFISH CREATES NEWS 35 IV. MAKING THE ELEVEN 49 V. FRANK LEARNS TO TACKLE THE DUMMY 65 VI. THE GREAT FRESHMAN BATTLE 79 VII. A WRECK AT THE HARBOR 95 VIII. FUN AT THE THEATER 110 IX. A JUMP IN BASEBALL AND THE RESULT 124 X. THE TRY-OUTS AT CAMBRIDGE 138 XI. A VOYAGE TO LONDON 149 XII. THE CODFISH LOSES HIMSELF 170 XIII. THE FLYING MACHINE TO THE RESCUE 187 XIV. PROGRESS AND A WRECK 201 XV. THE MATCH AT QUEEN'S CLUB 212 XVI. MAKING THE 'VARSITY NINE 229 XVII. THE SOUTHERN TRIP 241 XVIII. FOOTBALL IN JUNIOR YEAR 258 XIX. THE HARVARD-YALE GAME 273 XX. HOW ALL THINGS CAME OUT AT LAST 283 Frank Armstrong at College. CHAPTER I. THE FRESHMAN RUSH. It was the evening of a day in late September and a noticeable chill in the air hinted at the near approach of fall. Through the whole of that day and for several days previous to the opening of our story, incoming trains had deposited their burden of enthusiastic young humanity in the old town of New Haven. From mountain, shore, city, town and country came the throng of students like an army of youth, to take up the work of the college year at Yale, which opened her doors to them on the morrow. Men from all classes were in that motley throng which surged and billowed around the corner of College and Chapel streets, for this night was the night of "the rush," which tradition says shall be the first event of the college year. There were Seniors, in their new-found dignity of seniority; Juniors, nearer by a year to the coveted goal of a degree; Sophomores, who by the passage of time coupled with an adequate stand escaped from the ignominious position of the youngest class, and last, but not least, the Freshmen who, to-night, began their existence as a class. But the Freshmen kept themselves aloof from the upper class-men, perhaps for reasons of offense and defense for they were to be tried out later on, and did not want to be found lacking. Bronzed giants whose bulk proclaimed them to be at least "football material" shouldered their way through the crowd and the air was filled with the chatter and hum of many voices. Greetings between men who had been separated for the summer were heard on every side. "Hello, Dick. Mighty glad to see you!" "Glad to see you again. It's great to be back, eh?" and the speakers, with a hearty hand-grip would pass on and repeat the formulæ with little variation, to other friends. Suddenly the blare of a brass band cut through the chatter. Marshals sprang to the work of getting the parade in order, for a parade always precedes and has come to be part of "the rush." These men, conspicuous by their long-handled kerosene torches and the 'Varsity Y emblazoned on sweaters (for only men who have won the coveted letter are eligible for the position of marshals,) began to separate the groups. "Seniors, this way!" was the shout. "Juniors, this way!" "Sophomores, this way!" And, quickly following the command, the various groups, in the order named, dropped into line and, led by the marshals with torches swinging, went dancing down Chapel street to the compelling melody of a popular college marching song. "Freshmen, this way!" And to the shout, which was caught up and echoed up and down the line, the new-comers to the halls of Yale dropped in behind the Sophomores, feeling themselves, for the first time, a class instead of merely a huddled group without a bond of any kind. Dancing as merrily as their predecessors to the strains of the band, the Freshmen went swinging down the street imitating to the best of their ability the zigzag sweep of their elders. Hands of strangers touched for the first time and arms were thrown over strange shoulders and the feeling was good. In the middle of that swaying mass of Freshmen it does not take long to discover our three friends, Frank Armstrong, Jimmy Turner and last but not least the irrepressible Codfish, clad immaculately as usual. To-night he wore a delicate gray Norfolk suit with a vivid blue tie and socks to match, a tribute to the colors of the college he had adopted. "You are a brave one to appear in that Paris model," laughed Frank, who had arrayed himself in the oldest clothes he could find in anticipation of rough times before the evening was over. "Merely trying to uphold the reputation of the class and inject a little beauty into the occasion," returned the Codfish. "Look at our friend James. He has the ear-marks of a hobo!" Jimmy was far from being a beauty, it is true. "Safe and sane, sonny. Safe because the attentive Sophomores won't take a second look at me and sane because I need my good ones when I go calling," retorted Jimmy. "I think this Sophomore scare is pure bunkum," the Codfish suggested. "A fellow told me to-night that hazing at Yale has been given up. Someone was hurt a while ago in the merry pranks and the Faculty stopped it, eh?" He wasn't quite certain about it, and wanted verification. "You're safe," said Jimmy, "they never trouble the lady members of a class. Hello, what's the matter?" he went on as the parade came to a sudden halt at the corner of Church and Chapel streets. "Scrap, I guess," said Frank. "Bunch of town fellows trying to muss up the leaders. Always do that, they say. There they go across the street, and here we go!" as the band, which had stopped for a moment while a gang of young rowdies tried to cut the line of parade and were worsted in the attempt, began again and the merry zigzag went on. Around the central Green or square of the city tramped the jolly hundreds, occasionally giving voice to the chorus of a song the band was playing or a cheer in which the Freshmen joined as well as they were able, but in spite of their desire to be real Yale men, stumbling badly on the nine "Yales" at the end. Up Elm street, lined with hundreds of townsfolk glad to see the college once again in full swing, their faces lit up by the red fire and Roman candles in the hands of the marchers, swung the leaders. At High street the procession turned and entered the Campus. The gang of town boys and young men which had trailed the procession tried to force themselves into line, but were summarily thrown out, and without further molestation the marchers circled the Campus or college yard, and, opposite the Library, finally halted at a spot of green sward previously selected for the wrestling. The instant the leaders stopped there was a grand rush of the hundreds behind to gain a vantage point, and in a second the little circle the leaders had formed was squeezed together like paper. "Get back, get back," yelled the torch bearers, and emphasized their commands by pushing the lighted torches under the noses of those composing the living wall. Of course, there was only one thing to do and that was to go back with all haste. Pushing the ever-widening circle of spectators back with threatening fury, the marshals made a circle of sufficient capacity to carry on the wrestling bouts, which were the climax of "the rush." "Down!" howled the chief marshal, at which the front rank of that squeezed and straining wall squatted on the ground, but so great was the pressure of the hundreds behind that a score of the second row were shot clear over the heads of the first row and into the ring. "Out with the intruders," yelled a marshal, and the unfortunates were seized and thrown bodily into outer darkness over the heads of the first rows and were lost to view in the ruck. "Now I know why it is a good thing to put on your old duds," Frank gasped to Turner as they bored their way toward the center of activity. Our three friends had left the ranks of their class with many others when the head of the parade reached the Campus, and dashed over to a point where they were told the wrestling usually took place, on a chance that it would be in that spot this time. Their guess was right and for a moment they were actually within the coveted circle, but when the marshals made their onslaught on the crowd in order to expand the ring they were whirled into outer ranks and had only, after a desperate effort and "under a pressure of a hundred pounds to the square inch" as Turner expressed it, succeeded in digging their way back to the third or fourth tier in that circle of human faces. They were more fortunate than the hundreds who prowled around outside without a chance of a glimpse at the wrestling. "We've lost the Codfish," exclaimed Frank. "Oh, Gleason," he called, but there was no answering voice. "Lost in the shuffle," said Turner. "He was with us a minute ago but he'll turn up. He won't miss any tricks, don't you forget it." "He isn't much for this kind of a scramble game," returned Frank. "I thought he was holding back a bit when we struck in this last time, but----" "Sophomores, bring out your candidates," roared a big man who wore the football Y on his blue sweater. "Who is that whale of a man?" asked Frank. "That's Howard, the football captain," volunteered a boy just in front of them, who had overheard the question. The speaker held a notebook in his hand and they afterward learned he was a news-heeler getting a story for the _News_, the official college paper. "Freshmen?" inquired the heeler, looking our friends over. Frank nodded. "That fellow, yelling for a Freshman lightweight candidate, is the crew captain," went on the heeler; "and over there to his left is Dunnelly, the chap who kicked the goal against Princeton last year and saved us the game." The heeler pointed out the celebrities as they prowled around the ring, calling loudly for wrestling champions. "You see," explained the heeler, "there are wrestling bouts in the three weights,--light, middle and heavy, between the Sophomore and Freshmen for the class championship. Three bouts in each event." "O, you Freshmen, show your sand, trot out a candidate!" bawled one of the men within the ring. The crowd outside clamored for candidates from the Freshmen. "We want a Sophomore lightweight!" roared another, and the crowd took up the cry and repeated it. "Sophomore lightweight, Freshman lightweight, don't be quitters, come across with the champions!" "Sophomore lightweight, Sophomore lightweight!" "Freshman lightweight!" "Don't be quitters!" "Show your sand, Freshmen!" Suddenly there was a commotion on one side of the ring, and amid yells and the shaking of torches, the living wall opened and a slender, blond-haired youth stepped into the ring. "Who is he?" "What's his name?" "Sophomore or Freshman?" "Sophomore," said the boy. "Your name," demanded a marshal. "Ballard." "Your weight?" "One twenty-nine, stripped." "You'll do." Immediately two Juniors volunteered to second him, and fell to work stripping him to the waist, the traditional custom for the friendly combat. Meanwhile the calling for a Freshman lightweight went on without success, and the crowd was throwing red-hot taunts at the youngest class for shirking their duty. The Freshmen had pushed one of their number into the ring, but he proved to be over the required weight and was cast out without ceremony. A commotion on the outside of the ring started anew the calls for a Freshman lightweight, and the call was unexpectedly answered by the appearance of a young man in delicate light gray clothes with blue necktie and socks to match, who was passed unceremoniously over the hands of the crowd and deposited right-side-up on the green grass of the enclosure. Jimmy gasped. "The Codfish, or I'm a Hottentot!" "No one else, for sure. How did they get him?" exclaimed Frank. The Codfish was greeted by a rattling cheer, followed by much advice. "Well done, Freshman!" "Take off those pretty clothes!" "He certainly is a Yale man, look at that tie!" "Good work, Freshman, eat him up!" The referee, the Captain of the Yale Wrestling Team, strode over to the Codfish, and looked him up and down. "You are not a very promising specimen," he said. "Ever wrestle before?" "Never," said Gleason. "All I know about wrestling wouldn't hurt anyone." "What's your name and weight?" "Gleason, and I weigh one twenty-five." "Stripped or with those clothes on?" "Clothes and all," said the Codfish with a grin, and his eyes wandering around the sea of faces, chanced to light on his two friends, Armstrong and Turner. He waved an airy salute to them, and began with his seconds, two Seniors, to divest himself of his coat, shirt and undershirt. "He really means to wrestle," gasped Frank. "Can you beat it?" "He certainly has his nerve with him," returned Jimmy. "His middle name is nerve." The preliminaries over, Ballard and the Codfish faced each other in the flickering light of the torches, shook hands, and at the shrill scream of the referee's whistle, rushed at each other. Neither was versed in the art of wrestling, but both were about the same size. Down they went on the ground, Gleason underneath, the Sophomore struggling to pin the shoulders of the Freshman to the ground, which meant victory. But just at the moment when things looked bad for the under-dog, he slipped out of the hold, squirmed free and threw himself with all his force against the Sophomore, bearing him over sideways. The assault was so sudden that Ballard was taken unawares, and before he could gather himself, Gleason sprang on the prostrate boy and shoved his shoulder points on the grass. A resounding slap on the back by the referee testified to the success of the attack, and it was the Freshmen's turn to cheer, which they did right lustily. CHAPTER II. A BRUSH WITH THE POLICE. "First blood for the Freshman. Wow!!" Both principals were now in their corners being fanned with towels and put in shape for the second bout which was to follow immediately, for there were three in each event as the Codfish learned to his sorrow. His eyes wandered again to where Frank and Turner were wedged in the crowd, almost speechless at what they saw before them. "The Codfish of all creatures in the world to be wrestling for his class," laughed Jimmy. "We live and learn. He may be out for football yet." The subject under discussion just at this moment bent his head and whispered something to one of his seconds, then looked up and nodded in the direction of his friends agape on the other side of the circle. For a moment the gaze of the second rested on Armstrong and Turner. Then the whistle blew and the boys sprang again to the center of the ring. This time it was different. The Sophomore did not rush in so fearlessly. He circled round and round with arms outstretched and figure crouching. Then he sprang at the Freshman's leg and before the latter knew it he was on his back with his opponent squarely across his chest. "Fall for the Sophomore," announced the referee, slapping the victor on the shoulder. Sophomore yells rent the air. "A tie, a tie! Now bury the Freshman this time. Go to it." Again the seconds ministered to their men, and after a two-minutes' rest the boys went at it, but the Codfish, who was not noted for his physical prowess, went down after a brief tussle, and the lightweight event was awarded to the Sophomores amid yells by that class which echoed back from the buildings of the quadrangle. Gleason struggled into his clothes, and ducked through the living wall as fast as he could go, while the calls for the middleweight wrestlers were being yelled by the marshals. A husky young Sophomore quickly responded, but again the Freshmen were slow with their man. The big football captain, who had been in conference with some of his aides, walked across the ring. "You red-head, there," pointing to Turner, "come out here and defend the honor of your class. The Freshman who just wrestled says you're a good one." Frank and Jimmy looked at each other. "So that's the game the Codfish put up on me," said Jimmy. "Wait till I get at him. I'll dirty his clothes worse than they are now." "Come on, Freshman," said the Captain peremptorily. "I can't wrestle," said Jimmy. "Get out here and learn then. Come on," and the Captain reached a big hand over the heads of the squatters in the ring. Jimmy felt compelling hands pushing from behind, and with the eyes of everyone on him, there was nothing to do but go forward. A path was cleared for him and he stepped into the ring. "Good boy, Red. You've got to even this thing up." "Show us you have the goods!" yelled someone whose sympathies were with the Freshmen. The Freshman and Sophomore took their corners after the referee had satisfied himself that the pair would be well matched as to weight, and soon they were down to wrestling condition with bare backs and sock feet, because a wrestler is never allowed to wear anything that might in any way injure his opponent. "Does your friend know anything about the game?" inquired the news-heeler of Frank. "Not much, he did a little of it at school, but he is very strong," was Frank's reply. "Well, he'll need it. That fellow who is pitted against him is Francis who won the lightweight event for his class last year, and is one of the best men in his class at the wrestling game." When the Sophomore got to his feet, it was seen that he was a head taller than his opponent, but not so heavily built. His slender body was finely muscled, and his face wore a smile of confidence which said quite plainly what his opinion was of the outcome. "Middleweights--Sophomore Francis, weight 148; Freshman Turner, weight 154," bawled the announcer. Then the whistle shrilled and the boys sprang forward to shake hands. That preliminary over, they backed away from each other and circled around, sparring for an opening. Francis rushed, but Turner cleverly evaded him. Again he tried and was thrown off by Turner, the "spat" of the meeting bodies sounding sharp and clear in the night air. "Good boy, Turner. Don't let him get that grip on you," yelled a Senior as Turner eluded another bull-like rush which carried both the contestants in among the torches. It was Francis' method of wrestling to carry the fight fast and furious from the beginning. More skirmishing, and finally a savage rush, and Francis got a hold on Turner's leg, lifted him from his feet and threw him backwards. Both crashed to the ground. There was a twisting, squirming struggle with Turner at the bottom, but not downed yet for he managed to break away from Francis' hold and got to his hands and knees with Francis across his back. The picture at this point was one worthy of the brush of an artist. Riding in a clear sky, a round moon looked down through the branches of the big elms to where the boys fought it out on the grass, panting with their exertions. Most of the torches had by this time burned themselves out and lay smoking at the feet of the human circle. For a background to the picture hundreds of lights twinkled on in the dormitory windows facing the Campus, and in the dim light of the moon could be seen scores of people who had taken advantage of the Dwight Hall porch from whence they could get a distant view of the struggle. But the boys struggling on the ground and those crowded around the ring were not interested in the pictures. Back and forth the wrestlers went, the advantage first with one and then with the other. Francis could not get his famous holds on Turner for the latter, with extraordinary strength, either evaded or broke them before he was caught irrevocably. Time was up for the bout before either had scored a fall. "Keep him off, Turner," counseled one of his seconds, while he pummeled the wrestler's arm and shoulder muscles. "Tire him out in this next bout, and you will get him in the last one." "Don't let him get that half-Nelson on you or you are going sure as shooting," advised the man who fanned the panting Turner with a towel. "You've taken some of the confidence out of him already." Francis in his corner was getting the same kind of advice. "You'll get him this time," cheered his advisers. "Carry it right to him and don't let him get out of your grips." "He's strong," said Francis. "He nearly broke my arm, but I'll get him. Don't worry." But the confident smile had gone from his face. It was going to be a bitter struggle in which his skill was pretty nearly evened by the Freshman's unusual strength. "Ready," shouted the referee, and once again the boys sprang at each other. Francis was more cautious this time; Turner watchful and wary. Round and round they circled until Turner seeing what he thought was an opportunity rushed with such a tremendous drive that Francis, unable to escape, was borne off his feet. He managed to save himself from a bad position by driving Turner's head down, and mounting his back, rode half way round the ring like an old man of the mountains, while the crowd yelled and laughed. The laughter seemed to madden Jimmy. With a herculean effort he freed himself from Francis who dropped to the ground on hands and knees firmly braced. Using all his strength to turn him over without success, Jimmy relaxed his muscles, rested for a moment, and then putting every pound of energy into one supreme effort, picked his opponent up by the middle and threw him backwards over his head. Francis struck on his shoulder, rolled over on his back and lay still. He had been stunned by the fall. A little fanning brought Francis back to consciousness, but he had enough for that night, and the referee awarded the bout to Turner. A few moments of conference and the announcer cried: "Turner wins the middleweight bout for the Freshmen. The third bout will not be pulled off." The Freshman cheer that went up rattled the windows in Durfee Hall. As Turner was putting on his clothes, and while calls were going out for heavyweight candidates, a man wearing the 'Varsity Y stepped up to him. "Do you play football?" "Yes, a little," said Turner, rubbing tenderly a red welt across his right forearm, which had been raised by one of the Sophomore's love taps. "Report to me at the Field next Monday. I'm the Freshman football coach. Maybe I can use you." Turner thrilled. "So the old Codfish didn't get me in wrong after all. I'll forgive him," he thought to himself. Finished with his dressing, he was allowed to pass through the thinning wall of spectators, and was picked up by Frank who had wriggled from his position with difficulty. "Great stuff, Jimmy," cried Frank. "It was worth real money to see you in action!" "I don't deserve any credit for it," said Turner. "I happened to get a lucky lift on him. He knows more about the game than I'll ever learn. I hope I didn't hurt him." "Never fear, his pride was hurt more than his body," returned Frank. "I wonder where Hercules Gleason went to. He disappeared after his meteoric burst of wrestling form." "As I'm a sinner, there he is now," exclaimed Jimmy, pointing to a dejected figure leaning against the bole of a huge elm tree. The boys pranced up to him, and sure enough it was the Codfish, mussed and bedraggled. Great blotches of green grass stain ornamented his beautiful light gray trousers, and one knee peered out through a six-inch rent which had been made when his overzealous opponent dragged him along the ground in the second bout. His usually sleek hair was all awry and a zigzag scratch beautified the side of his face. "How did you like my début?" he asked weakly. "Great, but how in the name of Mike and the rest of the family did you come to get roped in?" "They noticed my special fitness for the job, I guess," murmured the Codfish, "and they threw me into the ring, and when I got there, what was there left but to take my medicine?" "Who was it that chucked you over our heads, and why didn't you follow us when we made a break?" demanded Frank. "O, you ducked off so fast that I lost track of you, and then while I was hunting around for you a bunch of fellows came along and asked me if I were a Freshman." "And you said no, of course," said Jimmy. "No, I said yes with the result as you saw it. I was lucky to escape with my life. How that Sophomore came to let me throw him is more than I can understand." "It was the blue socks that did it," declared Frank. "He simply couldn't withstand them." "Come on home," said the Codfish, groaning. "I'm a mess." "Not till this match is over," said Frank. "We've got to stick by the class. There's one for us I guess," as Freshmen yells betokened a fall for the candidate of the youngest class in the heavyweight match now going on desperately in the ring they had left. Five minutes more, and a great burst of cheering announced the end of the match with the Freshman candidate a winner. "That gives us the championship," shouted Frank, and the three friends grasped each other about the shoulders and whirled around in a wild dance, the Codfish favoring his lame knee as much as possible. Like magic the great crowd of students faded from the Campus and headed for York street. At the corner of High street and Elm the gang of town roughs, now augmented to a hundred or more, yelled defiance at the students, and occasionally fell upon some of them who were on the outskirts of the crowd. "Look out for your caps," came the warning, but it was not given soon enough to prevent some of the unwary from losing their headgear at the hands of the roughs who were out for the particular business that night of cap-snatching. Hot blows were struck, the whole body of students uniting against the common enemy. At every few steps a rough, backed by a half dozen of his pals, dashed into the students and for a moment there would be a whirlwind of fighting, ending generally in the attacking party beating a retreat with bloody noses but with the prized cap trophies. Keeping out of the fighting, the three friends moved slowly with the crowd in the direction of Pierson Hall on York street, where their rooms were located. Frank supported the crippled Codfish with an arm around his waist. Jimmy appointed himself as rear guard, keeping a wary lookout for attacks. Suddenly out of the crowd swooped two roughs and charged full at Frank and the Codfish, bowling them over like nine-pins. One of the roughs grabbed Gleason's cap, which he was unwise enough to wear, and with it a handful of his hair. This brought a blood-curdling yell from the victim of the assault, and drew the attention of the crowd. For the second time that night Jimmy went into action. A well-delivered punch knocked the cap-snatcher into the street, but before he could do more execution he was set on by a half dozen of the snatcher's friends who had followed closely on their companion's heels. Frank dropped the Codfish and sprang to Jimmy's assistance, and in a second a scrap of major proportions was in full swing. The boys put up a whirlwind argument with their fists, and were holding their own when through the mass came ploughing two officers of the law, the light flashing on their brass buttons. "Police, police, beat it!" yelled the roughs, and they fled precipitately, all excepting the two that Frank and Jimmy were pummeling with such exceeding vigor that they didn't have time to escape. Into the circle where the fight was going on strode the officers with clubs drawn. "Quit it and come with us," said one of the policemen. "We're going to put a stop to this street fighting. A night in the lock-up will take some of the spunk out of you fellows. Come on," and each grabbed an arm of Armstrong and Turner while the roughs who had started the trouble, with terrified looks, turned, dashed through the crowd, and made their escape. "They snatched my cap," said the Codfish. "So you were in it, too? You better come along with your friends," said one of the officers, reaching for Gleason's arm. "Why don't you take the roughs that started the muss?" remonstrated Frank. "No lip, young fellow," said the officer, scowling and shaking his club. Both policemen started forward, pushing their captors ahead of them, but the crowd blocked the way and began to hoot and yell. It looked like serious trouble for a minute when, shouldering through the crowd, came a giant of a man wearing the uniform of the University police. "What's the matter, boys?" he said in a soft tone. "These young fellows were fighting and we're going to jug them for a while." "No, I wouldn't do that, now," urged the soft voice. "Maybe they had a reason. Let me take charge of them. They're good boys." "They were defending themselves," said a man who stepped forward from the ring of spectators. "I saw the muss and these boys are not to blame." Turner recognized in the speaker the man who had asked him to report at the Field the next week, and his heart sank. It was a bad way to start his Yale career, he thought. "Let me take them in charge," urged the University officer, and reluctantly the City policemen released their holds on the offenders. "Well, see that they don't get into trouble again on the streets or you can't save them." "O, I'll take care of them," and then to Frank, "Come on, boys, let's go over to your room. I wouldn't have you fighting for the world. It isn't a good way to start, you know." "We simply couldn't help it," Turner burst out. "What would you do in such a case?" "O, I'd just naturally run," said the officer, and a laugh shook his huge bulk. "But if you couldn't run?" urged Turner. "Well, I'd just naturally have to fight, I s'pose," and he laughed again his good-natured laugh which had numberless times quieted turbulent spirits. "We'll forgive you this time. Now where do you live? I'll see you to your rooms. You've had enough fun for the night." "We live together at Pierson, just around the corner," said Frank. "Come on then," said the officer, and accompanied by a cheering crowd, the procession moved onward while the roughs, regaining some of their courage, followed at a safe distance and jeered. The boys gained their room without further trouble, and for an hour looked down on the seething mass on York street below where the classes pushed and struggled in good-natured fun. "Well, it's been some evening," said the Codfish reminiscently as he daubed arnica on his bruised knee. "Yes, Yale seems to be a lively little place," said Turner. "Hand me over that arnica when you have done with it. I have a few tender spots myself." "I'll have a lick at it when you are through with it, Jimmy," laughed Frank. "I lost a yard of skin in the last mêlée. I hope they don't have many nights like this. I wouldn't last." Sore and bruised the three crawled into their beds, but the sting of broken skin could not stifle the feeling of radiant happiness that was theirs because at last they were "Yale men," and a part of the great institution about which their dreams had so long centered. CHAPTER III. THE CODFISH CREATES NEWS. Golden October, slipping rapidly by, found our boys settled comfortably in their college life. The first week was a hard one for them all, but as time went on they adjusted themselves to their surroundings, began to make acquaintances and easily dropped into the daily routine of work and play. Frank and Jimmy had gone out for the Freshman football team, and the latter was now a recognized member of the squad with great hopes for the future. Frank had been unfortunate. On the third day of practice he twisted an ankle and had been obliged to sit on the side-lines watching his fellows boom along under instruction of the coach while he saw his chances gradually growing slimmer. To-day he had gone out again and after half an hour again wrenched the bad ankle. It would be another week at least before he could think of playing. "You are the best representation of Gloom I ever saw pulled off," said the Codfish that night as Frank hobbled into the room after dinner at Commons, and threw himself into a chair. "My jinx seem to be working overtime," returned Frank, "and my guardian angel is out visiting somewhere. Did you ever see such luck?" and he deposited the injured leg on the chair in front of him. "Bad judgment, my boy, bad judgment. You should have gone in for the less strenuous sport of rowing as I have," admonished the Codfish. "A lazy, sit-down job and one for which you are peculiarly fitted," broke in Jimmy Turner. "Ah, but my boy, if you can win your Y sitting down, isn't it better than to be mauled by bear-cats every day? I belong to the antisweat brigade." "The only Y you will ever get is the one you find in your soup," Jimmy flung at him. "Stranger things than that have happened, Mr. Turner." "Yes, blue moons, for instance." Codfish, fired by the general fever for something to do outside of the classroom, had indeed enlisted himself as a candidate for the coxswain of the crew, because, as he said, "You only had to sit still, pull ropes now and then and talk." He had been out as one of the coxswains and had shown some aptitude in spite of the fact that he knew nothing whatever about rowing. "I'm paralyzed with amazement," said Frank, looking the Codfish over quizzically, "that you ever got ginger enough into your system to even do sit-down work." "Well, you see it was this way," returned the crew squad-man, crossing one thin leg over the other. "I went down there to the boat house one day, merely to look on, to see----" "To see how the young idea was shooting, eh?" grunted Jimmy. "Precisely. And when the coaches saw me they were struck with my peculiar--ahem----!" "Unfitness!" "Wrong again, the phrase I was going to use was, 'peculiar fitness,' fitness, do you get it? for the job, and begged me to help them out." "And you helped?" "What could I do? Other things are claiming my attention but I could not see rowing go to the bad down there, so I accepted as gracefully as I could." "And now things are in a rotten state?" "For the second time, wrong and always wrong. They are improving daily. Of course, I'm not in the first boat yet, it would have created too much jealousy, but I have assurance from headquarters that I will be moved into the coveted position of cox of the Freshman crew as soon as it has been picked." "Heaven help the first Freshman crew then," groaned Jimmy. "Little do they realize the honor that is shortly to descend upon them," returned the Codfish, complacently. "I have some original ideas about steering a shell which will practically assure them of the race next June." "And they are?" "Why cast pearls before swine? The scheme will be revealed to you in due season," and the Codfish pulled a pad of paper toward him and began to scribble on it industriously. "You didn't know, perhaps, that I've decided to go out for the _News_, did you?" said the Codfish, scratching away with his head tilted on one side. "Aren't you a little late in the undertaking?" inquired Frank. "That is something of a job for even an intelligent man." "For an ordinary intellect, yes, but for me a mere bagatelle, or bag-of-shells, as the ancients have it." "Heeling the _News_ means hours and hours of shacking," said Frank. "Have you seen those pale ghosts of heelers flitting around by day and by night on bicycles?" "O, yes, that's the ordinary way, I know. I shall deal only in scoops, which, if you follow me, means a 'beat' on all the other fellows." "It's a difficult business, sonny." "On the contrary, a cinch. Watch your Uncle Dudley. Simply mind over matter. You boneheads wouldn't understand my reasoning processes if I explained, so why explain? But I say, when is David Powers expected in this burg?" "Arrives on the morning train from New York," said Frank. "Got in on the _Olympic_ last night from the other side. Began to think he was lost." "Good old Davey. And he's going to be in Pierson?" "Yes, right across the hall from us." "Good, I can use him in my _News_ ambitions. Now I guess I'll run across to the _News_ office and tell the editors I'm ready to start work." "I hope they kill you," Jimmy shot after him as the door banged. Half an hour later the Codfish was back in the room. "Well, what happened?" both boys demanded. "What do you suppose?" "They fired you out after one good look at you." "On the contrary, they welcomed me with open arms. Assignment Editor is a peach. He recognized my ability at once." "How?" "O, kind of naturally doped it out for himself. General bearing I have, I s'pose. Poor Freshman bunch heeling the _News_ now, he told me, and that makes my chances better." "O, you egotist, you blithering egotist," laughed Jimmy. "No, no, not egotism, just merely confidence. Now if I were on the Freshman football squad, I'd just simply know I was going to make the team, and that's all there'd be to it. I'd make it. Mind over matter, my boy, mind over matter, as I was telling you." "And when do you begin?" inquired Frank. "O, I'll knock off a little something in the morning. I've an hour after ten-thirty recitation. I asked the Assignment Editor to save me a column on the front page, in view of a scoop I contemplate. Hand me that paper, Turner," indicating the evening paper which lay on the floor at Jimmy's feet. Turner tossed it over to him, and Codfish at once buried himself in its columns. After ten minutes' reading, the Codfish slapped his knee with a resounding slap and gave evidence of excitement. "What's up, old top?" inquired Frank, looking up from his book. "Basis for a scoop first lick out of the box," was the answer. "And what?" "O, read it in the _News_ day after to-morrow," and the Codfish settled himself to lay out his plans. He had come across an item which suggested something in the way of a story which would attract the attention of the whole college. Nothing was seen of the Codfish the next day. He explained to his roommates that he had taken two cuts and had gone into the suburbs on an exploring expedition. He had hardly time to welcome David Powers who arrived in due season, and was properly installed among his belongings in the room across the hallway. But the following morning as with Frank and Jimmy he strolled across the Campus to Osborn Hall for the first recitation after Chapel, he proudly exhibited a copy of the _News_. On the first page in black type was emblazoned the head: EXTRAORDINARY DISCOVERY. BONES OF PREHISTORIC ANIMAL UNEARTHED BY WORKMEN PRESENTED TO YALE MUSEUM. SAID TO BE MOST IMPORTANT FIND IN RECENT YEARS. Then followed a description of the bones which were represented to be those of a prehistoric horse of a species not before known to the paleontologists. The article ended with the information that the bones had been carefully preserved, and had been presented, or would shortly be presented, to the Yale Museum by the _News_ representative who had had a prominent part in their recovery. The Codfish puffed out his chest as Frank and Jimmy scanned the article. "What do you think of your humble roommate now, eh, what? Didn't I tell you to read it in the _News_?" "So that's what bit you the other night?" "Sure. The ordinary eye would have passed that item over without a thought, but I saw possibilities in it. You never saw so many bones," he added. "Fine bones, perfectly fine bones, just as good as any over in the Museum, and a lot whiter than most of them." "Yes, but who told you they belonged to the prehistoric horse?" "O, the foreman of the gang. He was a keen guy, I tell you, knew all about the game and got me so enthusiastic that I bought the whole bunch for ten dollars. They'll have a chance to mull over them up at the Museum in a day or two." "More likely they are the remains of some poor bossy," said Jimmy, "who laid down and died yesteryear." "You are the most disgusting pessimist I know," said the Codfish in high dudgeon. "Haven't they as good a chance to be old-fashioned bones as anything? Anyway I got the story in and a credit of five thousand words at least on the scoop. The fact that I bought them and presented them to the Museum should be worth another bunch of credit to me, but I'll work that up into a new story that will knock their eye out." "But Lord help you if you've put the _News_ in wrong," said Frank. "Tush, tush," was all that Codfish would say, "don't discourage the efforts of a budding genius." Several days later three expressmen might have been seen carrying most carefully a gigantic packing box labeled: RELICS--WITH CARE. and addressed to the Peabody Museum. Behind it marched the Codfish. "Round the back way," he commanded. "You can't get in the front way. Easy there. You're carrying the most important thing you ever handled." "It's darn'd heavy," grunted one of the men. "That's because it's so valuable," admonished the guardian of the box. "Don't drop it, on your life; it's a prehistoric horse." "Well, if it is, give me a historic one. He must be solid stone." "No, only solid bone, like your head. Easy there!" Stumbling and grunting the men carried the box as gingerly as they could around to the back of the Museum. The Codfish left his precious possession, and hunted around in the gloomy depths of the basement of the Museum among the giant bones of long extinct mammals which lined the corridors. "They must all be ossified here," he muttered to himself, but as he was about to give up the search for something living in that forbidding cavern, he came upon an apron-clad man who looked him over curiously. "Well," said he of the apron. "I'm looking for the bone man," said the Codfish somewhat abashed. "You're in the wrong museum, you want the dime kind." "No, I don't. I want the bone professor." "O, the bone professor, eh? Well, I'm the man," he said, while the suspicion of a smile crossed the pale features. "What's wanted?" "Got a bunch of bones out here for you, great stuff, too." "Whose bones?" "O, it's something that will interest you. I've presented them to the Museum." "You have, eh? That's kind of you. Didn't you think we had enough?" glancing around at the tiers of cases and the tons of uncased bones lying on the floor. "O, but you've got nothing like these. These are the whitest bones you ever saw, belonged to a prehistoric horse or something of that kind. Don't you read the _News_? Take a look at them. Where do you want them put?" The "bone professor" called a workman who, with a hatchet, soon had the cover of the packing case ripped off, exposing the great find of the Codfish. "This is a poor joke," said the professor, the danger light beginning to flash in his eye. "Take them out of this." "Why, aren't they good bones? Didn't they belong to a prehistoric horse?" "A prehistoric jackass, and you are a direct descendant," shouted the professor. "I won't have you or your bones around here. You've dug up a domestic animal cemetery somewhere. Off with them," and he turned on his heel and plunged into the basement without so much as another look at the discoverer of the prehistoric horse. "And to think that I paid ten dollars to get them here," reflected the Codfish. "Science can go hang in the future. Here," to the driver of the wagon, "take this blooming box of bones away somewhere and lose it forever." "It'll take five dollars to lose it right," said the driver, who with his two assistants, had hung around, grinning broadly at the discomfiture of the friend of science. "It's worth five to have it lost," said the Codfish as he went into his pocket for the necessary bill, "and if I ever see it or you again, beware of your life." "We'll take it to the soap factory, eh?" "No chance," said the Codfish gloomily. "The bones are not old enough for the Museum and too old for the factory. Eat them if you want to, only get rid of them somehow. I'm off," and he strode out to High street in a rage. But the Codfish had the newspaper man's sense, and that night wrote an article for his paper which explained that the find was only "semiprehistoric, and as such did not have the value that it was first supposed to have in spite of the authority of the first testimony." The Codfish did not know till later that his prehistoric stories netted him less than nothing, for he was docked ten thousand words by the _News_ board for handing in an article which contained so much misinformation. In such ways do the Fates trip up even unselfish friends of science. CHAPTER IV. MAKING THE ELEVEN. "I'd give good money, if I had it," quoth Turner, "to have to-morrow's game over and won." Half a dozen boys were gathered in the Pierson Hall rooms, and the talk was on the Exeter game which was to be played on the morrow. "Why so timid?" spoke up the Codfish, who was planning another assault on the _News_ columns. "This Exeter team is good, awfully good. Did you see what they did to Hotchkiss last week?" "Sure--16 to 0." "And what was our score against Hotchkiss?" "Nothing to 6." "Figuring at that rate it will be an interesting occasion for us to-morrow afternoon," said Frank Armstrong gloomily. "But then," more cheerfully, "you can never tell what will happen in football. If our friend James Turner could get away on one of his dashing runs, right early in the game, it might be a help." "I haven't been dashing much lately," said Turner. "My dashing has been chiefly on the ground." "The worm may turn," suggested Butcher Brown, a broad-shouldered and loosely built young chap who played a tackle position on the second Freshman eleven, and who lived on the same floor in Pierson, at the end of the corridor. "Speaking of worms," observed the Codfish, "did you notice the _News_ this morning?" "I saw it was printed as usual," said Frank. "Some good football news on the first page?" "Always thinking of football. Did you happen to look in the crew notices? Of course, you didn't." "What was it? Tell us. Have you been promoted?" "Promoted is the word," said the Codfish proudly. "I have the honor to announce to you, since you didn't read it for yourself, that I'm to guide the destinies of the third Freshman crew henceforth." "I'm glad I'm not on it, then," said Turner. "And," continued the Codfish undaunted by Turner's shot, "in about a week I'll land in the seat of the first eight. They are very fond of my style down there at the boathouse." "Your line of talk I suppose is so overpowering that the crew rows hard to get away from it." "Don't be sarcastic, Armstrong. It doesn't fit your particular style of beauty. You are peeved because you can't make the Freshman football team, and, of course, I don't blame you, but try not to be jealous of me." Frank laughed. "Go it, old bird," he said. "We're too fond of you to be jealous, but remember the old proverb: 'Pride goeth before a fall!'" "Watch me," said the Codfish. "Proverbs don't fit my case," and the Codfish busied himself over a pile of correspondence. "Why such industry?" inquired Turner, after a few minutes of silence broken only by the scratching of the Codfish's pen. "Read it in the _News_, my son. I'm going to have a red-hot scoop to-morrow." "Let us in on it." "Not on your life." "Has it anything to do with prehistoric horses?" "Nothing at all. Better than that. This one will make them all sit up and take notice. There ought to be about ten thousand words credit in this one. I can see the road clear to an editorship on that ancient and honorable sheet. When I get on the Board, I'll see to it that all football games are very carefully reported, and that your glaring mistakes are not brought out too prominently." "Thanks, very much," said Turner, laughing. "You're a confident little rooster. For a man who talks so much you get very little into that same _News_, it seems to me." "I'll bet you I can get a front page article to-morrow." "I'm not a betting man," said Turner. "Moreover I don't want to take your money." "Quitter," retorted the Codfish. "I'll bet you for fun, money or beans." "I haven't had any fun for the last three weeks. I have no money, and beans are scarce." "Then I'll show you, anyway. Read the _News_ in the morning," and grabbing a handful of manuscript the Codfish dashed out the door, slamming it vigorously behind him as was his habit. An hour later, just as the boys were about to turn in for the night, Jim, the University officer, pushed the door open and entered. "Hello, boys," said the officer, seating himself in a big armchair and puffing with the climb of three flights of stairs. "Do you have a fellow named Gleason rooming here, a _News_ heeler?" "Sure," said Frank, "that's the Codfish." "Yes, yes," said the officer. "Well, he's been pinched." "What, arrested?" "Sure thing. He's down at the lock-up now. Captain just telephoned me to see if I could locate his friends." "What was he up to?" "Riding a bicycle on the Chapel street sidewalk." "But he has no bicycle, it would be too much like work for him to ride one." "Well, he must have borrowed it then, because he was pulled in by one of the city men for breaking the ordinance against riding on the sidewalk." "The nut," ejaculated Turner. "He should have known better than that." "We've got to get him out of hock," said Frank. "I guess you will if he gets out to-night," returned the officer, laughing, "and it takes about fifty dollars bail to do it." The boys looked at each other, aghast. "Fifty dollars!" they said. "That's a lot of money." "Take up a collection," suggested the officer, "and I'll go down to the station with you. It has got to be cash. They won't accept checks for bail, you know." Frank and Jimmy brought forth their rolls, but when they had laid all their cash on the table they were still short a matter of twenty-five dollars. In this emergency David Powers was called upon across the hall, and he advanced the necessary funds. At the Police Headquarters they found the Codfish installed in the Captain's room, writing industriously. "Just in time," said the Captain. "I was just going to put him in the cooler. I think he ought to spend the night with us, anyway. Teach him a lesson." The Codfish continued his writing unconcernedly for a minute, sighed with satisfaction, folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. "When the formalities are complied with, I'll go along with you. Have you got the bail?" he said to Frank, who was gazing at him in amazement. The money was soon paid over, and the Codfish was released from the grip of the law with instructions to be on hand for the opening of the city court at nine o'clock the next morning. "You crazy nut," said Jimmy, on the way up to Pierson Hall. "How did you come to get pinched?" "Method in my madness, old top. Let's swing around to the _News_ office. I've got a couple of articles for them, two more scoops." "And what are they?" "O, read the _News_ in the morning," said the Codfish, joyfully. "You wouldn't understand the workings of the genius mind like this," tapping his forehead, "if I told you." The boys swung over to Elm street, and the Codfish handed in two articles at the _News_ office, and then went along with his friends. "It always gives me a feeling of deep exhaustion to see those heelers working so hard on that sheet." "Do they work hard?" inquired Frank. "Work hard! Great fishes of the vasty deep, they put in an amount of hours that ought to make you football fellows blush with shame, if you could blush. The ordinary news-heeler doesn't have time to eat his meals." "You don't cut out many, I notice," laughed Jimmy. "Yes, but I'm not the ordinary kind." "I've heard you say that before." "These other fellows chase little bits of things for news' sake, while I create news for my sake. Get the difference?" "Right--O," said Frank. "You created some the other day--some bone news." "'Still harping on my daughter,' as one William Shakespeare said some moons since? Can't you give that a rest and turn your mind to the present? Never worry about the dead past, is my motto. Even Napoleon made mistakes, to say nothing of Turner, eh Jimmy?" Reaching the Pierson room, the Codfish threw himself into a big chair and sighed luxuriously. "Great day's work. Although I started late on this competition I must be nearly up to the leader now, and a little more hustling will shoot me to the front." "What an ego!" exclaimed Frank. "But now in the privacy of our own room, will you kindly tell me, why, how and what for did you get yourself in the hands of the law to-night, whose bicycle was it you borrowed, and when are we going to get the money we advanced to release your worthless carcass from hock?" "My, what a lot of questions. Do you mean to tell me you haven't visioned my scheme, a bright young fellow like you? Pshaw, pshaw, Armstrong, I didn't think it of you." "Go ahead and elucidate, Sherlock Holmes!" "It seems hardly necessary, but it is said, and truly I now perceive, that brains and brawn are not kindred attributes of the genus football man. In a word, I got myself pinched, and thereby made news for the _News_. Savez?" "You got arrested on purpose to write up your own arrest?" "Sure thing, surest thing you ever knew. Made a pretty little story of it, touched on the brutality of the officer who hauled me into the station, and, incidentally, made a strong plea for the use of the city sidewalks by heelers on bicycles when the streets are as dusty as they are now, to say nothing of a little hit at the lack of courtesy accorded the Yale student by the ordinary, garden variety of policeman." "And this is what we provided good money for!" said Frank. Turner advanced threateningly upon the offender. "This is what we were dragged from our room in the dead hour of night for, this is the thing for which we deposited our good money! I hope they give you a thousand dollars and costs, and send you to jail for a year, to-morrow morning." "O, yes," continued the Codfish, not noticing Turner's outburst, "and I forgot, I wrote another little item suggesting that the Criminal Club, of which I am now a member in good standing, and which has fallen into decay, be rejuvenated and reëstablished in its glory of the olden days." "Well, you've had your trouble for nothing, old lunatic. The _News_ won't print anything like that." "If they don't, they don't know good news when they see it." "Costly news, I should say," grunted Frank. "Costly with our money. We want our money back and fifty per cent. interest for the wear and tear on our constitutions in this night air." "I'll pay it to you out of my dividends from the _News_ Board when I cash in." "Then we'll never get it," groaned Jimmy. "I'm going to bed. Codfish has absolutely gone nutty." "That's always said about geniuses by ordinary folks, old top. Time alone will prove who is the nutty gent," the Codfish shot after him as Turner went into his bedroom. The next morning the college was agog with excitement about the proposed flight of aeroplanes over Yale field some time during the afternoon while the football game was in progress. Details of the flight were given in the Yale _News_, the names and histories of the aviators and the types of machines to fly. It was further stated that one of the flyers would loop-the-loop in full view of the crowds in the stands. The Codfish was bursting with pride at the sensation he had sprung, for it was his story which had set the college talking. "It's knocking their eye out," he boasted. "Is it coming off?" inquired Frank incredulously. "Sure, it's coming off. It cost me a cool two hundred and fifty to get them here, and I've had a dickens of a time keeping it quiet." "So that's what you've been at these last three days, is it?" said Turner. "A week, my boy, you can't do big things like that in three days. This ought to give me a lead in the race. Eh, what?" "A race for your life, if it doesn't come off." "Always skeptical, no imagination, typical football type, slow to grasp an idea. If you had read the papers you would have seen that they're having a flying meet down at Bridgeport. With a little lubricant in the shape of cash, the rest was easy." A great crowd journeyed to Yale Field that afternoon, so great that it resembled in a measure the days of the big football games. With three events scheduled--a Freshman game, a 'Varsity game and a flying exhibition, all in one afternoon, thousands were drawn in the direction of the field, and the football manager chortled with joy as he saw the shekels going into his treasury. The games came and went, but no fliers hove in sight. The Freshmen were overwhelmed by the big Exeter team, and after that was over the 'Varsity proceeded to punch holes in their opponents. The spectators divided their attention between the field and the sky, but nothing came. The nearest thing to an aeroplane that appeared during the afternoon was a large hawk which floated up from the southwest, and volplaned down from the heights. For a moment it raised false hopes. The crowd reluctantly filed out of the big stands as darkness began to settle over the field and still no flying men put in their appearance. The Codfish was puzzled but not alarmed. Nothing could disturb his buoyant nature. He rode back to the city on a car loaded with people who indignantly proclaimed a fake by the Yale _News_ for the purpose of drawing a larger attendance for the game, but although he heard, the Codfish kept his own counsel. Arriving at his room he found a telegram from the manager of the meet at Bridgeport, notifying him that owing to a disagreement among the fliers, they would not be able to come to New Haven at all, and that his check would be returned next day. "Well, this lets me out," soliloquized the promoter of the flying meet. "I'll write this up, describe the disagreement in detail, and hand it in for Monday's paper. Great thought," he added aloud, "more credit for yours truly. We play them both ways and the middle, there's no chance to lose." Just then Frank and Jimmy came in. The game had not been one to enliven their spirits. They were caustic in their remarks to the Codfish. "You are certainly a bum flying meet promoter," said Frank. "With two such stories as you have pulled off in our conservative little _News_, you might as well die." "On the contrary, I've just begun a little story," as indeed he had, "which will explain the matter satisfactorily. Fliers are said to be uncertain birds anyway, and I guess they are. This story," he added, "will put me straight with the editors and the editors straight with the college. No harm done at all. Exhibition arranged, all in good faith, some aviator has the pip, no flight, telegram explains, I explain, more news at every turn, and there you are." "Yes, and there you are," said Turner scowling. "Your roommates get the blame for not letting you be locked up, as you should be." "O, I didn't see you scoring any touchdowns to-day. Come in," he yelled as a knock came on the door. A young Freshman heeler entered with a note which he handed to the promoter of the flying exhibition. "From the _News_," he added and went out. The Codfish took the letter and tore off the end of the envelope. "Big assignment I imagine, expected as much, they're beginning to see I'm onto my job." But as the Codfish read, a change came over his face. He went through the short note once and then again, while his roommates watched him curiously. "Well, what is it, an assignment, eh?" said Frank. "Something big?" "An assignment, yes," returned the Codfish weakly, "an assignment to quit. What do you think of this?" and he read aloud: "G. W. Gleason, Pierson Hall. Dear Sir:-- It is the unanimous opinion of the Board that you had better confine your activities to some other field of endeavor than the _News_. An imagination like yours is wasted on the ordinary business of publishing a college paper. We do not deal entirely in fiction. We respectfully suggest that you try the _Courant_, which will more nearly suit your peculiar type of genius. Very truly yours, JOHN P. MURRAY, Chairman." "Fired, by gosh," said the Codfish. "Fired it is," said Turner. "I knew your zeal would carry you over the falls." "Well, I had a good time going, anyway." "O, I say," said Frank, "what did they give you at City Court this morning?" "Five dollars and costs, not much for the experience. It was worth all the trouble. Experience is what I live for." "You funny duffer," said Frank, laughing. "Now pay up," and the Codfish did. "Well, there's one thing I still have left, my crew job. They can't shake me there." CHAPTER V. FRANK LEARNS TO TACKLE THE DUMMY. "How does that ankle feel?" inquired the Freshman coach of Frank Armstrong one afternoon at practice on the week following the Exeter game. "I see you stepping around quite lively on it." "I think it is good enough, sir," said Frank. It was far from a well ankle, but Frank was desperately anxious to get into the game from which he had been denied on account of his accident, and was willing to take a chance with it. He had felt that he was going to be overlooked entirely in spite of the fact that he had kept in training and had done as much as he could under the conditions. "Good enough then. Do you know the signals?" "Yes, sir." "Well, then take some practice now and later I want to try you at quarter on the Second. You played there on your prep. school team, eh?" "Yes, sir," said Frank, his heart jumping at the thought that he was to have his chance, after all. "All of you over to the 'Varsity field," commanded the coach. "The exhibition of tackling in that Exeter game was enough to make a strong man weep, not a half dozen clean ones in the whole game. I'll teach you to stop a man or kill you in the attempt," and Coach Howard, with a determined face, led his squad into the great wooden amphitheater where at one end below the goal line stood two tackling dummies, looking very much like gallows, each with the canvas-clad shape of a man dangling from a rope over a pit of sawdust and loam. There had been some tackling practice early in the season in which Frank had not participated on account of his injured ankle, so the experience for him to-day was to be a new one. "Now, this is the way, watch me carefully," said Howard. "Start from here," indicating a point about fifty feet from the dummy, "get under way quickly, increase your speed toward the end of the run, spring off one foot, not a dive, remember, strike the dummy with your shoulder just under the hips, and wrap your arms around the legs. This way," and suiting the action to the word, Howard, who was in football uniform, dashed at the swinging figure, struck it with a crash, carried it from its fastening on a clean, driving tackle. "Now line up and all take your turn," said the coach as he came back to the group. "Lead off, Bostwick." Bostwick was an old end from Andover, who had come down to Yale with a reputation already made, and who had been chosen captain of the team. After Bostwick ran a steady string of the Freshmen tackling the dummy, some cleanly, some awkwardly. A field assistant picked up the canvas-clad figure, and replaced it on the hook after each savage assault, ready for the next man, while the coach stood by, offering criticism and suggestion. "Too low, too low," he shouted to a candidate. "Your man would get away from that. Just what you did Saturday." Or to another, "Don't slow up; he won't bite you. Drive into him hard, and carry him right off his feet and keep a good grip with both hands, both hands," he yelled as one of the tacklers slapped one arm around the canvas legs. It was Frank's turn. He sprinted down the runway, sprang head-first at the swinging figure, hit it cleanly, and grasping it tightly with both arms, crashed down in the sawdust pit. "Wrong, wrong," cried Howard. "That was a diving tackle. Your team would be penalized for that; you've got to make that last step a long stride, not a jump, remember. Otherwise it was O. K." Frank picked himself out of the pit, and walked back limping a little. He had leaped with all his vigor from the injured leg, and winced with the pain of it. But he was not going to show it. On his second trial he did better, but was so anxious to favor the ankle that he slowed up and took a succession of little short steps just before he sprang, which drew the fire of the coach down upon him, and caused a smile to go around the waiting line. "Afraid of it?" queried the coach, sarcastically. "It isn't stuffed with anything harder than excelsior, and it won't bite you." Frank walked back to his place at the end of the line crestfallen, but determined to show a better result on his next trial. Several of the 'Varsity coaches had strolled over from the other tackling dummy, where some of the 'Varsity line men were being put through their paces, and all of them were on the lookout for likely material for future 'Varsity teams. But, try as he might, Frank could not satisfy the coach. Something was wrong with all his attempts. The coach did not know that the injured ankle was throbbing like a toothache. Frank was afraid to admit it for fear he would be relegated to the side-line for another period of waiting. So he blundered through his tackling at a great disadvantage. "That's enough," said the coach at last. "You are a sad bunch at this game, but we'll give you a daily dose of it and see if it helps any. Come back to the Freshman field for a scrimmage," and followed by his squad of pupils, he led the way. That afternoon was a nightmare for Frank. Favoring his ankle as much as he dared, he ran the Second team without snap or vigor, and although he got away on two quarterback runs for ten or fifteen yards each, and nearly got a field goal from a difficult angle, he was pulled out of his position and sent to the side-lines before the scrimmaging was finished, firmly convinced that he was not cut out for a quarterback. "This infernal ankle of mine," he grumbled to Jimmy Turner on their way back in the stuffy car to the city. "I couldn't do anything. My leg felt like a stick. I couldn't get out of my own way." "I don't think you made much of a hit with the coach this afternoon," admitted that individual. "I heard him say to one of the 'Varsity men, just as we were getting on the car, that you had some possibilities, but you were too much afraid of getting hurt." "He did, did he?" and Frank glared at Coach Howard who was sitting further up the car pointing out a play diagram to Madden, the quarter of the first team. "Thought I was a nice old lady! I'll show him something if this leg ever gets better," and he gritted his teeth in anticipation of the happy time to come when he could disprove the coach's suspicions. Handicapped by his bad ankle, and often in agony with the pain of it on the field, Frank continued, as the days went by, to fight an up-hill but losing fight. Turner was daily strengthening his position at left halfback, and was already looked upon as of possible 'Varsity caliber for the next year. While not very fast, he ran hard and low, and it took an uncommonly hard tackle to bring him to the ground. He also had that thing which pleases the coaches, an unfailing instinct for the ball. Wherever it was, Turner was not far away. On the Saturday of that week came the game with Pawling School. Frank sat on the side-lines with longing in his heart as he saw his teammates, for the first time in the season, play a game worthy of them. The first quarterback, Madden, ran his team with speed and judgment, and when the half was finished had driven the visitors down the field and scored two touchdowns on them. In the third quarter, Madden received a hard jolt in the stomach in a scrimmage, and Frank thrilled as he saw the coach walk down the side-line, looking for a substitute. He came on, passed Frank and selected a quarter named Barlow to take Madden's place, and who sat just beyond him. Barlow shed his sweater as he ran, and with a few words from the coach, sprang into Madden's place behind the center. Under his guidance another touchdown was added in the third quarter, and the teams changed sides for the last period of the game. Frank gave up hope, as the minutes flew by, for any chance at that game. Barlow was not doing so well now, but there was little time to play. The Pawling team had twice succeeded in stopping the Freshmen near the Pawling goal line, and the substitute quarter had fumbled a punt which for a moment threatened a touchdown against his team. Bostwick, the vigilant end, had recovered the ball at midfield, and saved the situation, but Coach Howard was evidently anxious. He had made many substitutions to give new men practice, and had thus weakened the team, while Pawling seemed to gather new strength. Down the side-line came Howard again. This time he stopped opposite Frank. "I'm going to send you in, Armstrong, to get a little practice. Hang onto the ball and keep your head. Steady that line up and look out for the forward pass. Hurry it up." But there was no need to tell Frank to hurry. He had torn off his sweater with the first hint of his opportunity, and was listening to the coach with body poised for the run onto the field. In his eagerness he had entirely forgotten about the ankle. With the coming of the new quarterback, the team took fresh life. Under his urgings, they began to mow down their opponents as they had in the first part of the game, and the crowd gathered along the side-lines expressed their appreciation of the brace the team was taking in joyous howls. A pretty forward pass, Turner to Bostwick, put the ball on Pawling's 15-yard line. Harrington, the big center, made a bad pass on the next play, but on a slice outside of tackle, Turner made five yards. The Pawling team braced, and cut the advance down on the next play to a single yard. Bostwick stepped back to Frank and whispered something to him. Then he called the whole team around him, and with arms over each other's shoulders, they conferred on the next play. Dropping apart quickly, the linemen sprang into position. "Look out for a fake," cried the Pawling quarter, dancing around in front of the goal posts. "A forward pass!" cried another of the backs. But it was neither a fake nor a forward pass. Armstrong ran quickly to a point ten yards behind his crouching line, coolly measured with his eye the distance from where he stood to the cross-bar, and a moment later, receiving the ball on a long, true pass from Harrington, dropped it to the ground, swung his toe against it as it rose, and sent it spinning directly between the posts. The kick was as pretty a one as could be desired, and its appreciation was testified to by jubilant yells and the skyward flight of sweaters and blankets along the side-lines. A kick-off at midfield which Turner ran back 30 yards, a single rush, and the whistle ended the game. "Why didn't you tell me you could do that?" said Coach Howard giving Armstrong a hearty slap on the back as he trotted over to the side-line to pick up the discarded sweater. "You put that over like a veteran!" "Didn't have a chance before," said Frank, grinning. "Guess you didn't. Well, I'll see to it that you get a chance after this." And then, as the throng of grimy players and the spectators straggled off to the cars, "I had pretty nearly come to the conclusion that you were too soft for the game of football." "My ankle isn't as good as it ought to be," said Frank, looking down. "I was afraid of doing more damage to it." "I'll take a look at that ankle in the gym," said Howard. "Maybe we can make a quarterback of you yet. I want you to come over to the Freshman training table after this." It was a joyful gathering in Pierson that night, with a full attendance, for little by little the Armstrong-Turner-Gleason-Powers combination began to have a following in the dormitory and in the class. Friends began to drop in to talk over matters of the moment as they passed to and from their rooms, and if they were the right kind they always had a welcome. The room became the central one for spreads and parties, when the fun raged until ten o'clock. "All over," Frank would shout. "Lights out." Both Turner and Armstrong believed in keeping strict training hours. On this particular night the Codfish was in his element. "Three cheers for our own little quarterback," he howled. "Sit down, you fish," shouted Turner. "You didn't even see the game." "O, but I have ears. All the little birds sang it as I was coming up from the boathouse this evening." "How's the Freshman crew coming on?" "I'm on the second now. You should have seen us scare the First boat this afternoon. Had a mile spin. Started up by the Quinnipiac bridge, and finished at Tomlinson, points you land-lubbers know nothing about." "And the Second was licked, of course?" "Only by a blade, my son. We gave them the race of their lives, fairly tore down the river, scared the oysters and all that sort of thing, to say nothing of the First Freshmen." "And when do they put you in the first shell?" "'Nother week, about, I guess. Wouldn't be right to the other fellow to advance me too fast." "Great stuff, Codfish," said Turner, laughing. "I think you have confidence enough to steer the 'Varsity crew over the course at New London right now." "Sure thing," said that worthy. "There's nothing to it. Mind over matter, as I hinted to you once before; kind of scientific attitude." The Codfish was busy untying a voluminous box which he had brought home with him. "For heaven's sake, what have you got there, a prehistoric horse?" inquired Turner. "No, my little halfback, it is a guitar," and having finished unwrapping the instrument, he swung it over his head. "I'm going out for the musical club stuff. I must have some activity, some life; can't get it with two grumps like you fellows, so I must go after it." "Jove," groaned Frank, "haven't we suffered enough with you and the piano without having a guitar?" The Codfish lay back on the window seat, strummed the untuned guitar, and began to hum: "When I was a student at Cadiz I played on the Spanish guitar--" "You'll be a student in Hades if you don't let up!" shouted Turner. "We can stand anything excepting the picture of you as a student at Cadiz. Please desist." "O, tush, old fellow, your soul is not attuned to music. What's the next line? I seem to disremember it----" "When I was a stoogent at Cadiz." strum, strum, strum, strum, "I played on the Spanish guitar." "Good night!" yelled Frank. "Come on, let's go to Poli's and hear some real music. We'll let the Codfish be 'a stoogent at Cadiz' all to himself." "S'matter?" said the musician reproachfully. "Well, if you must go, good night. I cannot frivol my time away at Poli's vaudeville when true art is stirring in my soul." "Let her stir then," said Frank. "We're off," and the door banged. CHAPTER VI. THE GREAT FRESHMAN BATTLE. The week of the Princeton game was a hard one for the Freshman team. Coach Howard, assisted by several members of the 'Varsity coaching staff, drove the team with all his might, but the results were not encouraging. Frank had been established as quarterback on the second team on the Monday following the Pawling game, and was making good there. He was now a substitute to Madden, and twice had been called over to the first eleven when Madden went out of the game temporarily. Away back in his head was the hope that he might still win out in the race for the quarterback position. But Madden had come to Yale with a big reputation justly earned at Hill School, and was a hard man to displace. When Frank's hopes were highest the crash came. Bostwick, the captain and end, threw out his knee in a fierce scrimmage, and was carried groaning to the side-lines. "The fifth end hurt this fall, confound the luck," said Howard as he stood looking down at the captain. "And no one to take your place that's worth a cent." "I'll be all right in a day or two," moaned Bostwick. "Stick some one in till I get a brace on this thing. I can play in the game Saturday." "Maybe you can and maybe you can't," said the coach. "Did you ever see such beastly luck, and we were just beginning to round into shape. Who am I going to put in there? There's half a dozen ends and none of them worth a tinker." He ran his eye over the squad which crowded around the injured captain. "Here, Armstrong," he called, "did you ever play end?" "A few times in prep. school, sir." "Well you can learn it, can't you?" said Howard petulantly. "Bostwick may pull through in time, and maybe he can't, and you are better than anything I have." "I'll do my best," said Frank, feeling his hopes for a place on the team slipping away, for he knew well that in the short time still left in the season his chances were small to learn that most difficult of line positions--end. "You are fast and about the only clean tackler I have on the squad," said Howard. "Get in and try it." Bostwick, having been temporarily fixed up and led limping away in the arms of two of the substitutes in the direction of the car, play was resumed with Armstrong in his new position. "Don't you let anyone get past you on the outside," commanded Howard. "And don't be drawn in, no matter what happens. If you can't break the interference, spill it so the defensive half can get the man with the ball. Come on, try it." Frank did try and tried hard. His ankle had improved, and under the punts he went down the field like a streak of lightning, missing but few tackles. But when the team was on the defensive, he showed the weakness of inexperience. "Outside of you that time," bawled the coach, and when the new end moved out further, the play went inside. Sometimes he stopped the interference and sometimes, digging desperately through the tangle of legs, he got the runner on a driving tackle, which earned for him a "Good boy, Armstrong," from Howard. But it was bitter hard work, and never in his life had the welcome "That's enough for to-day" found him so ready to quit. His body felt bruised and sore all over from the driving work of the afternoon and his legs were as heavy as lead, as in the gathering dusk he dragged himself to the waiting trolley car which was there to carry the team to the city. "You did well to-day, Armstrong, for a starter," said the coach kindly as he came through the car. "It's a hard dose I've given you." Frank smiled a wan smile as he loosened his shoe laces. "How heavy are you?" "Guess about a hundred and forty-one or two," said Frank, straightening up while the muscles of his back protested. "Too light, too light," said the coach, shaking his head. "If you had another ten or fifteen pounds on you, you'd do. But Bostwick may be able to get into the game by Friday," he added, and passed along to his seat. Walking over from the training table that night, Turner railed bitterly at Frank's luck. "You had a chance, a bare chance to get in at quarterback for a part of the game anyway, in spite of your bad start, and now you are dished, sure as shooting. The Captain will be O. K. It didn't look like a bad injury to his knee." "Can't be helped," said Frank. "We've got to take our medicine in this old game. That's part of the training at Yale, isn't it?" "It is, but it's not easy stuff to swallow." "Well, there's nothing to do but swallow it, and I'm going to be game, but it hurts. Bostwick may not make it, and I may get in against Princeton, after all." Turner shook his head. "I don't think there's a chance; you are only filling in. I can see the handwriting on the wall. He'll come back, and you will be his substitute. The only chance is that he may get hurt again, but I hope he won't for he is the best we've got on that side of the line." "I hope he comes back," said Frank fervently, "because with me in there I wouldn't give three cents for our chances." "Which are not any too good with the best we have." It proved to be as Jimmy said. Bostwick was put under heroic treatment in the baking oven for sprained and injured limbs, and to the great joy of all, Frank included, appeared on the field on Thursday. He was a little stiff because of the hampering action of the brace that Howard had devised for him, but went to his old place in the line while Frank was sent to the side-lines. The practice went well. "We still have a chance against the Tiger cubs," said the coach. "Only a signal drill for fifteen minutes to-morrow," he called out as the squad was leaving the field. "Get to bed early and don't worry yourselves to death. We're going to give them the time of their lives Saturday." The cheerfulness of the coach was largely assumed, for the Princeton cubs were coming up from Tigertown with a long string of victories to their credit. Only twice during the whole season had they been scored on, and one of these was a lucky drop-kick. The Yale Freshman team, on the contrary, had staggered through the season with a showing far from creditable, and the critics were all predicting a big score for the visitors. But in spite of the gloomy forecastings, the Yale Freshmen went into that game with a determination to do or die, and while they did not win, neither did the much-heralded Princeton cubs win. Frank watched from the side-lines the desperate battle up and down the gridiron. He saw his roommate giving the best that was in him in the struggle, and prayed fervently that Bostwick might last it out. Every man on the team was a hero that day, and when the final whistle blew, with Captain Bostwick still on his feet and playing a whirlwind game in spite of his injured knee, the score stood at a tie, nothing to nothing. Going in on the car the coach had nothing but praise for the team. "We didn't lick them, but it is a good start for Harvard next Saturday," he said. "We have a week left, and we'll give the Johnnies a run for their money, all right." "Armstrong," the coach added, as he dropped down beside him in the trolley car, "I'm sorry you didn't get in, but better luck next time." "O, that's all right," returned Frank. "I was mighty glad to see Bostwick go through, he showed his sand with that bad knee." "He certainly did, and he deserves a lot of credit. But I'm going to keep you at end just the same because I may need you." "All right, sir," said Frank, but he well knew it was the end of his ambitions for a place on the team excepting for an accident to the Captain, which he did not want to think about. Four days of practice the week after the Princeton contest brought the team to a condition of fitness which they had not before reached that year, and on Friday afternoon, escorted to the train by a hundred of their class, the team with substitutes, coaches, trainers and a goodly crowd of supporters, set out for Cambridge. As the 'Varsity was away, the Freshman game had the honor of being staged on the main gridiron. That game in the towering Stadium was one that hung long in Frank's memory. It was a game of desperate attack and defense. Three times in the first period the rushing red-legged players had the Blue team down inside the five-yard line, and three times they were stopped by the stone-wall defense. All through the first half the Yale team fought on the defensive, crumpling up before the fierce rushes of the Harvard players, but somehow stiffening as the goal line approached. So certain were the Harvard players of scoring a touchdown that they disdained to try for a goal from the field, and each time they were stopped by the men from New Haven they took the ball back with dogged determination, only to lose it again. "We have them now," said Howard as his men were being cared for between the halves. "Go after them. They've shot their bolt, and it's our turn." After the kick-off in the third quarter, Turner raised great hopes by running the ball back through the Harvard team, and, before he was tackled, laid it only twenty yards away from the Harvard goal line. A smash at center earned only two yards. "Armstrong, get ready, I'm going to send you in to try for a goal," said the coach, running down to where Frank was sitting, shivering with the excitement of the struggle that was going on out in the field. Frank slipped off his sweater, and made ready, but the chance he so longed for never came. Madden's signal was mixed somehow, and the man who was to take the ball wasn't where the quarter expected him to be. He started to run with the ball himself, but was upset by a savage tackle, and dropped the pigskin, which went bounding backward toward his own goal. Half a dozen players took a driving shot at the leather, but it eluded them as if it had been greased. Finally a lanky Harvard end wound his body around it at midfield. Yale's chance to score at that particular moment was lost. Frank gritted his teeth and slipped on his sweater again. The battle was once more taken up with renewed vigor. The advantage lay first with one team and then with the other, but never again did Yale have so good a chance to score. Again striking its stride, after a lot of futile punting, the Yale Freshmen got together and began to plough through their opponents. Turner was playing like a demon while the little Yale contingent matched yell for yell with the Harvard supporters on the other side of the field. Turner on two tries reeled off twenty-five yards, and put the ball just across the center of the field. A forward pass netted fifteen yards more, and again the coach began to look for a chance to score, not for a touchdown, for the attack had not shown itself capable of beating down that splendid defense, but by a drop-kick if the opportunity came. But again when hope was high in every heart came a sudden disastrous fumble, and again the red-legged end had the ball. "Take it away from them," howled the Yale crowd. "Throw 'em back." "Eat the Johnnies up." But that husky Harvard team was not a whit disturbed by the ferocious cries from the Yale side of the field. They settled down to business again, and slowly, but surely, worked the ball down toward the Blue goal line. The tired boys from New Haven fought on grimly in the fourth period, making the gains against them shorter and shorter as they were pushed back. Turner intercepted a forward pass which would have surely made a touchdown for Harvard, and for a time there was a respite for the Yale Freshmen for the fullback kicked the ball far down the field, only to have it caught and brought back past Bostwick, this time, for thirty yards. At it again went the two teams, Yale defending stubbornly, but vainly, against the powerful rushes of the Harvard backs, who, now that the end of the game was drawing near, threw their last bit of energy into the attack. Through center and tackle went the bull-like rushes of the backs. Bostwick's end was circled for fifteen yards, and he was laid out for a while, but revived soon after a little dabbing of the sponge on his face. "I want you to be ready, Armstrong," said the coach, hurrying up to Frank whose eyes were glued on the field, and whose heart was pumping with the excitement of the struggle. He was straining almost as hard as his mates out on the field, lunging his shoulder into the substitute who sat next to him, in the unconscious effort to help stop the Harvard rushes. "Touchdown, touchdown," sang out the Harvard Freshmen supporters. "We want a touchdown!" "Hold 'em!" "Hold 'em, Yale!" was the defiant cry from the opposite side of the field. "Show the Johnnies where you come from!" With the ball on the Yale ten-yard line it looked as if no power in the Yale team, at least, could stop the victorious march. Bostwick was again laid out, but was up on his feet after a minute of attention. "Good old Bostwick," cried Frank, stirred by the game fight his captain was making. "Long cheer for Bostwick!" and the dancing cheer leaders led a ringing yell for the fighting captain, which seemed to stiffen up the boys out on the field. They stopped the next Harvard rush without a yard of gain. Standing like heroes together, the Freshmen line did the impossible, repulsed the fierce assaults the Harvard team could give, and took the ball. "Y-a-a-y----" yelled the Yale stand, rising as one man. Hats and caps went into the air. The cheer leaders tried to get order, and give a cheer, but no one paid any attention to them. The crowd continued to yell like Comanches, as the lines settled themselves again. "Time must be nearly up," said a substitute. "It can't be," cried Frank, gritting his teeth in a frenzy. "They must have five minutes more to play. They've got to have it," and he drove his heels into the unoffending ground as if at that distance he could help in the charge that was to be delivered against the red host. "What's Madden going to do, rush it?" inquired a voice. "I hope not," said Howard. "A short kick would mean a free catch and a chance for a placement goal. Good boy," he shouted as Madden changed the signal, and the fullback, who had gone back behind the goal line, came running up again to the regular formation. "Put it through them!" "Smash it out, boys!" The signal came sharp and clear from the lips of the quarterback, high above the background of yells from the partisans. "Turner's ball," whispered Frank to himself. The pass was swift and true. Turner took the ball from Madden's hands at full speed. The play was intended to be a slice off tackle, a play that had gained a good deal of ground during the afternoon. But, alas for the best laid plans of men, mice and football players, he never reached his destination. The tired Yale line sagged and broke. Through gaping holes poured a stream of Crimson-jerseyed men. Two tacklers struck Turner, who was practically on his goal line, at the same time, and swept him backward like chaff. So swift and sudden had been the deluge that the halfback was carried off his feet and over the goal line before he had even a chance to yell "down." The crowd did not at once appreciate the significance of the matter, but a few, recognizing a safety for Harvard, set up a scattered cheer. A moment later the fateful information was flashed from the scoreboard, "Safety," and the Harvard stand delivered itself of a high-pitched yell. A moment later the referee's whistle blew, and the great game was over. A host of men swept from the stands and surrounded the victors, cheering and prancing about. With Bostwick at its head, trying hard not to limp, and with faces drawn and mud-stained, the beaten team walked wearily to the dressing rooms where they were joined by the substitutes. "You didn't win but I'm proud of you all," said Coach Howard, slapping the jaded players on the back as they came through the door. "You were up against a better team, fifty per cent. better." "Here, Bostwick," he added a minute later to the captain, who, sunk in gloom and with hanging head, was pulling off his wet football clothes, "cheer up. We can't always win. The main business is that you and your team played a magnificent up-hill game. I'm satisfied and Yale will be satisfied for you gave the best in you. That's always the test. You'll have another chance next year." CHAPTER VII. A WRECK AT THE HARBOR. The excitement of football had passed like most things in college and out of it. The 'Varsity had triumphed over Princeton, and tied with Harvard in a stirring, up-hill game, and now the students had settled down to the ordinary routine. While it was late in November, the fall had been such an open one that the crews, eager to get every day of practice possible, stuck to their work in the harbor. Codfish held manfully onto the job of coxswain in the Second Freshmen eight, the long-looked-for place on the First still eluding him. He was hopeful, however. "I'll get it before the rowing stops, and if not then, when it starts in the spring," he boasted to his roommates. "Watch me." This afternoon he was perched on the window seat, legs crossed, lolling back on the cushions, and tickling the guitar. "For the love of Mike," cried Frank from his room, where he had gone to nab an elusive French irregular or two, "isn't that 'stoogent from Cadiz' ever going to graduate?" "Why so peevish?" inquired the Codfish, keeping up his strumming and humming. "There are fourteen different keys, you know, Mr. Armstrong, and as you never know which one you're going to be caught in, I've got to be a Spanish student in every one of them. I only have ten more to fix in my retentive memory, so the agony will soon be through." "How many have you circumvented?" "Six to date. I'm going to tackle the minors to-night; plaintive little things, those minors, they get the heart-throb stuff." "Heavens!" said Frank. "Why don't you hire a hall somewhere out in Hampden? I'll go halves with you to get rid of you." "'Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast,'" quoted the Codfish, "but not the football player." "Music did you say?" growled Frank. "No soul, no soul at all for the beautiful," sighed the guitar player. "Such music ought to move you to tears." "It does, bitter tears, very bitter tears. Please desist, stop and quit. I'm having trouble with this dose of Romance language. I wonder why they ever called them Romance languages?" "Give it up." Then, throwing down the guitar: "I say, Frank, chuck it and come down to the harbor. We are going to have a bit of a brush with the First Freshmen crew, and you've never seen your old pal hold the tiller ropes. Maybe I can get you into the launch. We go out at three. Where's Turner and David?" "David is probably grubbing on his Lit. stuff, and there's no use in trying to get him. Jimmy went over to Chapel street to get something, and ought to be back here in a minute. Here he comes now. I'll go if he does." Turner came into the room whistling a merry tune, threw himself on the couch and elevated his heels to the end of the desk in the national attitude. "Gee whiz, but it's a great day! Why don't you fellows get out? Not many more days like this between now and next May." "The Codfish has just invited us down to the harbor to see how well he can't steer a boat, and I said I'd go if you would. I've some French here, but there's no hope of doing it when this musical bug is doing his stunts." "I'm your man," said Turner, jumping up at once. "I know the coach and maybe we can get on the launch." "I'll attend to that," said the Codfish, majestically. "I haven't been knocking around that old boathouse two months for my health. You are my guests to-day." "Go it, old skate. So long as we get aboard we don't mind who does the trick." "Lead on, Macduff," quoted Frank, and like playful dogs newly unleashed, they broke for the street. Racing over to Chapel street, they caught a steamboat car at the York street corner, and, after a fifteen-minute ride, reached their destination. On the float was a scene of great activity. The crews of half a dozen boats were standing around waiting their turn to embark. Some carried oars in their hands, others were stretched at full length on the runways, taking in to the full the rays of the warming late fall sun. Most of them were stripped to the waist as in summer, for the day had an uncommon warmth. One crew had just landed, evidently from a smart row, for sweat glistened on their bare and brawny backs, as they unshipped their oars and at the word of their coxswain snapped their shell out of the water and turned it upside down over their heads in one splendid free sweep. They were just in time to see the 'Varsity go out, eight clean-limbed, stalwart young fellows, who carried their shell easily, with a quick and springy step, and with almost military precision. Without a word spoken, the long sweeps were quickly adjusted in the row-locks. At a word from the captain, the men stepped to their seats, bent and fastened their feet into the sandal-like attachments at the footboards. Then the boat was shoved off until the long sweeps were free to catch the water on both sides of the boat. "Row," snapped the coxswain, and eight blades cut the water like knives, sending up a little spurt of water in the front of each one of them. Like a machine the bodies swung back and forth, the blades dipped rhythmically, and in a minute the crew was but a dot in the waters of the lower river where the 'Varsity launch, the "Elihu Yale," waited. "By Jove," said Frank, admiration showing on his face, "that was about as pretty a thing as I can imagine." "Don't you wish you had gone out for the crew?" inquired Turner. "They don't twist your ankles and knees down here, or muscle-bruise you." "No, but they break your back and freeze you to death in the cold winds down here," said someone laughingly. "I just heard your friend's remark, and thought I'd enlighten you. Don't you remember me, Turner? We wrestled this fall one night, about a thousand years ago. Francis is my name." Both then recognized the wrestler whom Turner threw over his head the night of the rush. He extended a frank hand. "Coming down to look us over?" "Didn't know you rowed," said Turner, taking the proffered hand. "Yes, I'm trying it. Not much good, either, but maybe I can help to push some other fellow up a peg higher. That's all we scrubs are good for, you know." He said it without any heat, merely stating the fact. "We help to cultivate the flowers, but we can't pick them. It's a part of the Yale training. "Ta, ta, there's my call," and he dashed into the boathouse where his crew were preparing to take the shell out. Following the Second 'Varsity, came the First Freshmen crew, and then on the heels of the First came the Second, the Codfish busying himself with an air of great importance. Permission having been given Armstrong and Turner to watch the practice from the Freshman launch, which lay at the end of the float, they climbed in with alacrity. The launch preceded the two crews down to the bridge where it waited till the shell came up. "Take it easy, now," said the Freshman coach as the crews lined up alongside. "Keep your stroke to about twenty-six and pull it through. Ready? ROW!" Both crews dropped their blades in the water, pulled a long, slow stroke, and slipped rapidly up the river, the little launch darting first to one and then the other while the coach shot words of criticism at the oarsmen through a short megaphone. "Number Five, don't slump down on the catch!" "You're very short in the water, Number Two, finish it out and get your hands away quickly." "Don't buck your oar, Four, on the finish; sit up straight." "For heaven's sake," this to the Codfish. "Can't you keep that boat straight? What are you wabbling all over the river for?" "'Vast, 'vast," he yelled as the rowing grew ragged. "'Vast" is short for "Avast," the usual signal to stop rowing. When the crews came to rest on their oars, the coach shot a torrent of criticism at the men. No one escaped. "Exactly like football," said Frank grinning. "No one ever gets it quite right." "Only difference from football is," said Jimmy, "that the other fellow is getting the hot shot now. I guess I'll take mine on the field." "Me, too," said Frank. "It doesn't strike me as inspiring, this crew business." "And the Codfish isn't such a whirlwind as he tries to make us think," commented Turner. The coxswain was coming in for a fire of criticism from the coach with the megaphone. "Now try it again and watch yourselves--you get worse every day." "Doesn't it sound natural?" laughed Frank. "No more of that in ours for a year." The crews, stopping and starting, but always under a shower of advice from the coach, drove their way up to the upper bridge where they were ordered to turn around and line-up for the race down stream. After much dogged paddling by fours and high-pitched orders by the coxswains, for the boats were difficult to swing around in the swift running current, they finally got about and were sent off with a word from the coach who had previously ordered them to keep below twenty-eight to the minute. Down the river the boats flew, each crew striving with might and main. For a little time it was nip and tuck, but by degrees the First crew edged ahead, and half a mile from the start had a lead of three-quarters of a length and were rowing easily, while the winded Second was splashing along and dropping further back at every stroke. The Codfish was steering a serpentine course which further retarded his boat. When the crews drew up at the end of the mile, both badly pumped out from the sprint, the coxswain of the Second came in for a raking by the coach. "You wabbled down that course like a drunken man," he said hotly. "You ought to be on an oyster boat. What's the matter with you? Can't you see?" "Poor Gleason, he's getting his this afternoon," said Frank. For another hour the crews were kept on the jump and then, as the dusk was beginning to come down over the hills, the coach ordered them in. "Race it for the float," he commanded, "and look out for the sand bar by the bridge. It's low water. GO!" The Second was lying about a length ahead of the First boat when the order was given, and, seeing his opportunity, the Codfish shouted: "Now we've got them, beat 'em to it. Row, you terriers!" Throwing what science they had learned to the winds, the Second Freshman crew drove their oars into the water and, at a stroke far above what the coach wanted, tore off for the boathouse, the shell swaying and the water flying while the Codfish urged them on at the top of his voice. "Sock it through, you huskies, don't let them get you!" The First crew, not to be outdone, started after the Second. At first they kept the stroke down, but the coxswain, seeing his chance of overhauling the renegades in the short distance to go, called on his stroke to "hit it up," which that individual was nothing loath to do. "Cut them out before they get to the float," cried the coxswain of the First crew. Up went the stroke, and the race was on in earnest. The coaching launch had drifted down toward the bridge on the outgoing tide, before the coach saw what was in progress. He waved his arms, bawled through the megaphone, and gesticulated in an endeavor to stop the wild pace, but neither crew heard, nor wanted to stop if they had heard. This was not a race under instructions. It was only a private scrap and, as such, it stood, for the launch was too far off to overhaul the flying, splashing crews. Foot by foot the First crew gained on the Second, which now, with the stroke over forty to the minute, merely stabbed their oars in the water and jerked them out again, while the spray flew from each assault of the blades. The better trained First crew kept the stroke longer, and in coming to the float were only a few yards behind. Edging in, they crowded the Second from their course, and in order to avoid a collision, the luckless Codfish steered his crew widely to the left. He knew, but had forgotten in the excitement of the race, that a narrow sand bar almost awash at low tide, was just below the central pier of the drawbridge. "Look out there, Second crew," came the warning cry from the float now directly opposite the racing shells. The coxswain in the Second heard, but it was too late. Straight onto the sand bar, on which rippled less than an inch of water, ran the slender nose of the shell. The brake thus suddenly applied to the frail craft checked the speed, and when the boat stuck midway of the bar, with each end suspended above deep water, every oarsman was thrown from his seat. Immediately an ominous cracking was heard, and the front end began to sag with its load of more than five hundred pounds. "Jump," yelled the captain, who rowed the bow oar; but before any of the forward four could free themselves from their foot harness, the slender boat snapped squarely in the middle, where it rested on the bar, and both pieces, with their crews aboard, slipped off into deep water, filled and sank. For a moment it looked serious, but, fortunately, every member of the Second, with the exception of the Codfish, could swim. As they found themselves deeply immersed, they shook themselves free from their foot fastenings and struck out in the cold water for the float only a few rods distant, all excepting the Codfish. He kept his seat in the shell and held to the tiller ropes for dear life, while the current swept him down stream in the path of the oncoming launch. As the rear end of the broken shell swung across the bow of the launch, the coach reached down, grabbed the ill-fated coxswain by the back of his coat, and jerked him into the launch. Then with a boat-hook both ends of the ruined craft were captured, for both ends, released from their weight, now floated buoyantly, and were towed to the float. "I forgot about the sand bar," said the Codfish meekly, as he stood on the cockpit of the launch, the water running from him in streams. "And you forgot my instructions, too," said the coach, his eyes blazing at the luckless coxswain. "This will do for you. Pack up your duds and don't come down here again. If I see you around this float again, I'll chuck you overboard." The bedraggled oarsmen had all made the float in safety, and enjoyed the discomfort of their coxswain who in his zeal had inadvertently given them a cold bath. "How was I to remember the blooming sand bar?" complained the Codfish that night, radiant now in dry raiment. "We were winning. What's a sand bar in the glory of victory?" "Are you going down again," inquired Frank, "and take the chances of a ducking?" "Not on your tin-type," said the ex-coxswain. "The thing was beginning to pall on me. No diversity in the job, no spectators to urge you on as you have out at the field, nothing but work. I've resigned the job." "Another way for saying you're fired, eh?" said Turner, smiling at the imperturbable roommate. "Have it any way you want to, old sport. One thing," continued the Codfish, "even if I have lost the chance to shine in aquatics, I still have the Mandolin Club left. I'll put a dent in that by and by." And curling himself up on the couch, with the pillows properly arranged at his back, he struck into the Spanish Fandango, the newest addition to his not very extended répertoire. CHAPTER VIII. FUN AT THE THEATER. Up the gallery of the Hyperion Theater, the Freshman class went bouncing with a great clatter and stamping of feet. It was the night of the Glee Club concert, toward the end of January, which, in the days of Frank Armstrong's Freshman year, opened the festivities of Junior Promenade, the great social function of Yale. The Promenade has for generations been known as the "Junior Prom," but it is not strictly a Junior occasion. Seniors, and even Sophomores whose finances are not too low to permit the purchase of a ticket, may go, but in spite of the fact that many of these classes do go, the Prom is still largely a Junior affair. Around the Prom, or ball, which brings the social gaiety to a close, have grown in the course of years other entertainments for the fair guests and their chaperons, who gather in New Haven by the hundred from the length and breadth of the land. Of these the Glee Club concert was one where the Freshmen in those days, for it has all been changed since, were tolerated in the upper gallery of the theater. They could not sit in the pit or balcony of the house. Custom had allowed them certain rights and their "stunts" were looked forward to as a part of the entertainment. The Freshmen were not supposed to interfere with the concert itself but frequently did interfere in spite of the restraining influence of Junior guards who were scattered through the gallery. But the throwing of confetti, streamers and cards to the fair guests was tolerated and expected. Occasionally the Freshmen overdid the thing and not infrequently a "rough-house" of considerable proportions held sway. Frank's class was a lively one, as had been shown on several occasions during the fall and early winter. A number of the members had a faculty for getting into trouble on all occasions. Half a dozen of them had been only a few days before up before the Freshman Committee for attempting to break up a dance in one of the local halls of the city, which necessitated the rushing of a squad of police to the scene. Minor mischief was always being done. Rumors were rife that the Freshmen were going to perpetrate something new on the night of the Glee Club concert. Therefore the Junior guards were more than usually vigilant. "What's that you have under your coat?" demands a Junior as a tall Freshman appears on the landing of the stairs with the skirts of his raincoat bulging suspiciously. "Nothing but myself," backing away. "Come on, open up! What have you got?" "Nothing, I tell you," but the Junior lays violent hands on him and after a moment's search drags forth a squawking hen! She flaps herself free from the grip of her rescuer and creates a disturbance which brings scores up to the landing on the double quick. The hen is finally captured and carried out, squalling tremendously at the unaccustomed usage. Other Freshmen are captured with noise-making devices, living and mechanical, and thrown out bodily or the objectionable instruments of torture taken from them. But some have slipped past even the vigilant eyes of the guards, and are ready to carry out the Freshman part of the entertainment as classes before them have done. Inside the theater the gallery is jammed till it can hold no more. There is a babel of voices through which occasionally cuts the sharp Yale cheer, that the Freshmen now, with three months of practice, have learned to perfection. Cheers, howls and catcalls make that gallery a perfect bedlam. Over the gallery front, looking fearfully insecure in their high perch, hang scores of boys angling for the attention of the Juniors' young ladies with a long string to which is attached a card and perhaps a pencil. One side of the card bears a fond message to the fair guest below, and the other side is blank for the answer, which the Freshman above hopes to catch in his angling. And frequently he does. The Junior takes it all in good part. "O, lovely creature, will you be mine, will you let me hold your lily-white hand when I'm a Junior?" is the rather disconcerting message a young lady in one of the boxes pulls down after it has been dangled in front of her nose for a minute or two by Freshman hands in the top gallery. The Freshman above having established communication, waits impatiently for an answer. Presently it is written in the box below and is pulled up eagerly. "No, I don't like the color of your hair." "I'll dye it blue if that will help any," may be the next message. Fifty men are angling at a time and the lines sometimes get crossed. It is all great fun for the girls who enter into the spirit of the thing and are not disturbed, after the first shock, at the ardent messages that are swung in front of their faces. Of course, every one cannot angle for love messages in the pit because, although the front of the gallery resembles a grape-hung garden wall with the clustering heads, there are several hundreds behind the first row. They content themselves with throwing confetti and paper streamers into the pit and boxes until there is a jungle of it below, through which a late-comer must literally break his way. The floor itself is covered with confetti and cards whereon are printed in prose and verse amazing praises for the class in the upper gallery, recounting what that class will do when it becomes a Junior class two years later and shall have the position of honor. On this particular night everything went well in the gallery until the program was half over. Then trouble broke loose, for all legitimate means for attracting attention had been exhausted. At the moment the quartet was delivering itself of a touching melody and quiet was temporarily established even in the gallery. The tenor, striving for one of his highest notes, suddenly broke off with a violent sneeze. Some one in the gallery had thrown a tissue paper wad of snuff against the scenery behind the quartet. The paper broke and the snuff, light as feathers, permeated the air. The bass singer of the quartet immediately followed the tenor with a resounding bellow at which the audience, not knowing the cause, burst into roars of laughter. But soon they changed from laughing to sneezing, for handfuls of the snuff were now pitched over the gallery rail by the offenders, and the coughing and sneezing became general. No one was exempt. Dignified chaperons, pretty girls and their escorts joined in the chorus. The quartet retired in confusion, holding onto their noses. "Stop it, stop it!" "Get out, Freshmen," yelled the guards, but so thick was the press in the gallery that the guards were powerless to get at the offenders. To cap the climax, a Freshman emptied about a bushel of fine, powderlike confetti on the heads of the people below, while still another opened a pillow of fine down feathers which, dropping to the pit of the theater in a cloud, covered the gowns of the ladies. The feathers insinuated themselves down the necks of everyone. Having worked their last indignity, two score of the Freshmen tumbled down the gallery stairs like a hurricane, and broke pell-mell for the street with the guard after them. Some punches were delivered, but most of the Freshmen escaped, yelling, with whole skins. Then the Glee Club concert went on again and was not interrupted but once, when someone threw a small rubber ball from the gallery which struck the leader fairly on top of his head and bounced twenty feet into the air to the great amusement of the audience and the discomfort of the leader. "Some night!" observed the Codfish as the boys reached their room in safety. "I got hit three times in the overflow. Gee whiz, how those feathers stick!" "Were you the pillow man?" inquired Frank. "I was that same. Have you noticed the absence of two of our best cushions?" "My cushions," gasped Frank, "and where are the cases?" "When the storm burst I didn't have time to get them under cover. They go to the Hyperion management as a souvenir." "More likely to the Junior scouts," suggested Jimmy. "Thoughtful kid, my initials were on them," said Frank. "You could create trouble for someone if you were alone on a desert island." But no trouble did come out of the incident for the great dance itself coming on the next evening, as it did, overshadowed such minor things as the Freshman class and its doings. But the affair had one result. It was the last time that the Glee Club concert was ever held at the Hyperion. After that year it went to one of the University halls where Freshmen, fishing from the top gallery, tantalizing feathers and tormenting snuff were not known, and where the concert went its full length without disturbance of any kind. Frank Armstrong, while a frequent visitor at the swimming pool, had not gone out for the Freshman team. Football had claimed his attention in the fall when swimming practice first began, and although urged to join the Freshman team by classmates, who had seen him in the pool, he had declined. "I want to have a good big deposit in the education bank when baseball opens up," he used to say. "You're a blooming old grind," the Codfish would retort when Frank advanced his reasons for keeping the time free for studies. "You aren't doing as much as I am for the class." "But I'm doing as much as I can for the class and something for myself." "Selfish, selfish. Here's the Freshman swimming team staggering along----" "Floundering along, you mean." "Fishes flounder, and there's no fish on the team, human or otherwise. That's the reason they ought to have a good, able-bodied fish like yourself, scales and all, to help 'em out." But in spite of Frank's desire to keep away from swimming, other than as a pastime, and to keep in fair condition, he became drawn into it unintentionally. One day, sprinting down the length of the pool to overtake Jimmy, he attracted the attention of Max, the swimming instructor, who kept an eagle eye on the outlook for promising talent. "Where you learn to svim like dat?" inquired Max as Frank pulled himself out of the water at the end of the pool while Jimmy hung gasping with his exertions on the edge. "O, paddling around," returned Frank. "Pretty good paddlin', I guess. Vhat's your name?" "Armstrong." "Freshman?" "Yes." "Ever do any racing?" "A little." "Here, let's see if you can svim fifty yards fast." "O, but I'm not in training." "Don't make no difference about dat. Svim up one length and back again. I see your time. Come on, I tink you can svim fast." Frank, thus urged, took a racing dive, paddled easily to the other end of the pool, turned leisurely and came back to the starting point. "Umph!" grunted the swimming instructor. "Dirty-five seconds, dat's bad. You ought to do it five seconds bedder!" Frank grinned, thinking he was nicely out of the difficulty, for he argued with himself that in justice to his work he could not give the time necessary this year at least to go in for swimming. But he reckoned without Max who stood squinting at him. "Now," said the instructor, "vhen you've got your vind again I vant you to do dat over again. Und doan loaf along so much, move dose arms and legs a little bid faster." Jimmy laughed, for he knew Frank was trying to get out of swimming training. But Frank was fairly caught now, and there was nothing for him to do but to swim the distance again. He perched on the edge of the pool end, and balanced for the start as Burton had shown him. He took the water as cleanly as a knife and using a graceful but powerful crawl shot down to the further end, turned half under water and came back with a quickening gait until his hand touched the pool end where Max stood with his eyes glued on the watch. "Dirty seconds," said the instructor half to himself. And then to Frank. "Vhy didn't you dell me dat before? I vant you to come here effery day and svim. Dis Freshman bunch of mine ain't no good. You'll help? Who showed you how to svim like dat anyway?" "O, a fellow named Burton." "Who?" "Burton, one of your Yale captains." "O, Burton, hey? Are you de fellar Armstrong dat svam down at Travers Island last summer?" Frank nodded. "Py jiminy, vhy didn't you dell me dat before? Dat settles it. Now you got to come and help out this Freshman bunch." That was the end of Frank's resolution not to get mixed up in athletics until the baseball practice opened. Every day found him at the pool, and under the careful guidance of the instructor he improved steadily, and when the Freshman-Sophomore relay race came off he was selected as the man to swim the last relay for his class. This he did so well that, although starting with a handicap of ten feet, he beat out his opponent by the breadth of a hand, and won the event for the Freshmen. Frank might have been induced to continue in the swimming game, for the love of it, but in the last part of February the overpowering call for baseball candidates caught him, and he joined the uniformed crowd that daily haunted the cage in the rear of the Gymnasium; and through the afternoons, when recitations permitted, he took his share of batting, base-running, pitching, stopping grounders, and all that goes to the training of a Yale baseball player. He was at first enrolled among the candidates for pitcher, but as there seemed to be a great plenitude of pitchers, he was relegated to the outfield, but glad to be on the squad on any position. "What, our young Christy Mathewson out in the lots! Fie upon them!" exclaimed the Codfish when he heard. "Even Napoleon had to begin," returned Frank. "Maybe they'll back me off the field before long. College baseball isn't school baseball, you know." With the coming of warmer weather, the crocuses and chirp of the robin in late March, the baseball and track men forsook the cage for the open field, and there during the long afternoons the candidates were put through their paces by the different coaches. Coach Thomas, who had been appointed by the 'Varsity captain to drill the Freshman nine, was a believer in hard work and gave his pupils plenty of it to do. Naturally, men from the larger preparatory schools, who had come to Yale with a reputation made in their school, had the first call. When they made good they held their positions. Armstrong and Turner, coming as they did from a school not among the half dozen prominent ones in the country, had to show their merit by hard fighting. But the coach played no favorites and when a player showed merit in the practice he had due consideration. Turner and Armstrong, the former as catcher and the latter as pitcher, worked as a battery for some of the early practice. Frank's remarkable control stood him in good stead at first, but as the batters improved in their hitting of straight balls, Frank dropped behind in the race, and was now used only occasionally for batting practice. He was one of the half-dozen substitutes in the outfield. Turner fell into a more fortunate situation as catchers on the squad were scarce, and before two weeks of practice had elapsed, was in second place in the race for the position of backstop on the Freshman nine. CHAPTER IX. A JUMP IN BASEBALL AND THE RESULT. The fact that the Freshman diamond lies very close to the running track, and more particularly that the right field foul-line impinges on the back stretch of the track, by a peculiar circumstance had a very important influence on the college life of Frank Armstrong. And so do great things turn on small incidents. On a particular day in May, Freshman baseball practice was in full swing. Frank was still an humble outfielder with little hope of a promotion to the pitcher's box, for three men of more experience were ahead of him. Thomas, however, attracted by the bearing of Frank, had held him on the squad in spite of the fact that he was not an exceptional fielder. He was attentive to instructions and because of his willingness and earnestness to do whatever was told him to do, held his place as a substitute right fielder. "In these days," the coach told him, "no pitcher can get along without a good assortment of curves. Your straight ball is fine, but they get to it. You can curve the ball but you can't get it over the plate when you do curve it." "That's my trouble, but I'll learn if you'll show me," said Frank, "that is, I'll do my best to learn." But Thomas was not a pitcher and therefore could not show him just how to get that puzzling break to the ball which assured a pitcher of success with even a moderately good control. So Frank languished in the outfield much to the disgust of Turner and the Codfish who thought he was being done an injustice. A practice game was in progress between the First and Second nines, and the First nine was at bat. Frank was playing right field. Down along the first base line came a sizzling grounder just inside the base. An undercut to the ball caused it, when it struck the turf, to pull off into foul ground. At once the man on second shot for home. Frank started at the crack of the bat, while the batter set sail for first base with the evident intention of making second at least on the hit which seemed good for two easy bases. Frank, who was playing closer in than he should have been, went for the grounder with all his speed, but seeing no hope of intercepting it by ordinary means, leaped in the air to a point in the line of the rolling ball. His feet, as they struck the ground, formed a barrier which the ball struck and jumped into the air in easy reach of his hand. He recovered his balance, seized the ball and drove it like lightning to the plate, catching the runner. The catcher snapped the ball to second, completing the double. It was a pretty play and brought forth hand-clapping from the two score of bystanders who were watching the game. Now it chanced that the trainer of the track team, Johnny Black by name, was looking over his runners as they loped around the back stretch of the track. His eye for the moment was off his half-milers, and was attracted by Armstrong's leap for the rolling ball. He crossed the track to the Freshman outfield, searching for the mark of Frank's cleats when he left the ground. Having found the starting point, he searched carefully till he found the marks of his landing, which happened to be on a bit of ground bare of turf where the cleat marks showed plainly. A ball whizzed past his ear, but he paid no attention, and even the shout of the Freshman coach that he was in the field of play apparently had no effect upon him. He measured the distance of Armstrong's jump with his eye, then stepped it deliberately. "Hey, right-fielder," demanded Johnny, as Frank, the batting side having now been retired, trotted toward the plate, "what's your name?" "Armstrong," shouted that individual over his shoulder. "Come here, Armstrong," said the trainer in peremptory tones. Frank halted and went back to him. "You look to me like a jumper. What are you doing over here when you can jump 18 feet with baseball clothes on?" he demanded. "Trying to play ball the best I know how." "Any chance to make it?" said the trainer as he walked along toward the plate while the First team went to their places in the field. "Not very good looking now," returned Frank. "I'm sort of a seventeenth sub-pitcher and outfielder." "So! I want you over at the track for a day or two. You ought to jump a mile. Say, Thomas," this to the coach, "let me have Armstrong for a day or two. I'm in an awful hole for jumpers and he ought to make one or I miss my guess. If he doesn't turn out right, you can have him back again. If he does, you'll never get him!" "That's right, come and take my men away from me," grumbled Thomas. "But I can spare him just now as he is a pitcher and I've got three pretty good ones. Send him back here if he doesn't make good." "All the work I'll ask him to do in training for the jump, if he has the goods, won't prevent him from working with you if he wants to, but I want him first." "All right," said Thomas. "Armstrong, report to Black to-morrow afternoon, and when you have shown him how far you can't jump, come back here for what practice you can get." "All right, sir," returned Frank. "Two o'clock to-morrow at the track house. Bring a track suit with you and jumping shoes if you have them." "All right, I'll be there," said Frank but he did not relish the change. His heart was set on baseball, and it was a great disappointment to him to be pulled into the track work. But his motto was to do the best that was in him without question, which is the starting point for success in most things. The coming of the Freshman jumper did not create much interest on the track squad. His jumping did not please the trainer. "Your form is bad," Black told him. "In jumping, form is everything. You may get to twenty-one or twenty-two feet the way you are going, but that will be the end of it. You must get higher in the air at the take-off." Frank worked hard to master the new style. In school he had jumped naturally and without much coaching, but felt himself that he was not getting his greatest distance. He redoubled his efforts but could not lengthen out beyond nineteen feet or a little better. Then he began to fall below that even. "You're jumping like an old brindle cow," said Black one day. "Are your legs sore?" "My shins feel as if they would crack every time I land in the pit," said Frank, feeling the offending legs gingerly. "Why in thunder didn't you tell me that before? You can't work at the broad jump the same as you do at football or baseball. Lay off for a day or two and keep off your feet." The rest did Frank a world of good for when he returned to the jumping pit he cleared over twenty feet in his first trial, much to the trainer's delight. Thereafter he was watched with the closest attention by Black. In the spring games which came the last week in April he won third place in the handicap broad jump; and after a hard fight succeeded in beating out Warrington, the Freshman jumper who had done the best work up to that time. Two weeks later at the Princeton Freshman meet Frank won second place with a jump of 21 feet 5 inches, and first place in the Harvard Freshman games a week later, bettering his mark by three inches. Armstrong was ineligible, of course, for the 'Varsity meets with Princeton and Harvard, but kept at work perfecting his form and watching closely the work of Hotchkiss, the Junior, who was a consistent performer around 22 feet 6 inches, and who occasionally approached 23 feet. But as Frank daily increased his marks, the interest of Hotchkiss waned. The Intercollegiates came and went, and Hotchkiss maintained his position as Intercollegiate champion by winning the broad jump for Yale at 22 feet 10 inches. But Armstrong never ceased his efforts. A trip to Cambridge for the finals in the Intercollegiates showed him the styles used by the greatest collegiate jumpers, and after returning to New Haven he put his observations to such good effect that he cleared 22 feet 4 inches. "What's the use of keeping up that old grind at the track," said the Codfish one night. "Why don't you go over to the Freshman baseball squad? You may get a chance there yet." "I'm after something," returned Frank, "and it's coming so fast that I don't want to let go." "And that something?" "Don't laugh, it's Hotchkiss. He's been so blamed cocky that I'd give my shoes to lick his mark in the Intercollegiates just for personal satisfaction. I'm too late to do anything with the baseball squad now anyway." "Noble ambition," said the Codfish, "but what's the use? There's nothing more for the track men this spring." "Just the same I'm going to keep at it." "Go ahead then, jump your legs off, while Turner and I win the glory." Turner had by steady improvement worked himself into the position of first catcher on the Freshman team. The Codfish, leaving temporarily his ambition to break into the exclusive ranks of the Mandolin Club, had won the position of official scorer of the Freshman, a place which he filled with great credit. "Another sit-down job," said Turner laughing. "Trust the Codfish to get something easy." "Why not? I don't love violent exercise. If I hanker for the cool shade of the scorer's bench and can record the glorious deeds of our young catcher and ease up on him when he makes flub-dubs, who is to say me nay? But I'm a believer in hard work, just the same----" "For the other fellow," broke in Frank. "Sure, that's what gives Yale her prestige, doesn't it? If it becomes necessary for me to don the baseball suit to uphold the athletics of Yale, then I'll do it. Till then, with all you good workers around, I don't see any reason why I shouldn't take the shade." "Noble youth," said Frank. "We'll keep on in the sun and let you take the shade," and nothing either the Codfish or Turner could say changed Frank's determination to keep everlastingly at his jumping practice, uninteresting though it appeared to his roommates. "Now I know why you stuck to the jumping," said the Codfish one morning as he scanned the first page of the _News_. "Elucidate," said Frank. "Here it is right in our lively little daily. Oxford and Cambridge-Yale-Harvard meet arranged. Teams about evenly matched. Sail for England July 2nd, and a whole string of likely candidates in which I see your name." "O, but I'm a Freshman, and a Freshman can't compete in 'Varsity matches," said Frank, but his heart gave a bound just the same. "You won't be a Freshman after June 17th, you bonehead," returned the Codfish joyfully, "provided you don't flunk your examinations. You'll be a jolly Sophomore with all the blackness of Freshman year behind you." "But there's Hotchkiss. He's better than I am, and a Junior." "He'll be a Senior, don't you savez, but that will make mighty little difference if you can outjump him. They will take only the best, or I'm a galoot." "You generally are, Codfish, but I'll work my head off to make that team." "You've nearly worked it off already, and you've got to make that team. Pictures in the papers, details of your early life, moving stories about your many virtues, weeping relatives at the dock as the ship sails out of the bay and all that sort of thing. I can see it all now." Frank laughed at his enthusiastic friend. But his pulse quickened at the thought of the possibility of making the team which should represent America in this international contest. Turner, too, was wild with delight at the turn affairs had taken. "Now I wish I had been a jumper. We'll read the cable dispatches every day. You're bound to make it." "Don't count your chickens," said Frank, "till they are safely hatched. You forget that Hotchkiss is doing nearly 23 feet." Two days later a call in the _News_ brought all the first string track men together in the trophy room of the Gymnasium, and Frank Armstrong was among them. Captain Harrington read the challenge from the English Universities, and told them what was expected of them. "This is going to be a free field, and everyone will have his chance. The team will be the best that Harvard and Yale can get together. Practice will be held at the Field every day as usual, and the trials will be at Cambridge a week before we sail. Only first place counts in this meet with the Englishmen so it will not be necessary to take any but the best men in each event. I want you to give the best in you. We must give a good account of ourselves here at Yale." The captain got a rousing cheer at the end of his speech which was a long one for him, and the athletes clattered down the wide, marble steps in excited discussion of the coming event and Yale's possibilities. "Armstrong," said the trainer next day at the field, "you have a chance to make this team. I want you to go to it as hard as you know how." "I've been doing that for the last month." "Well, you've improved a lot in that time. You've got to beat Hotchkiss to win out. It's up to you." During the remainder of the college year Frank put every spare minute in the preparation for the final test for the team. Even in the trying time of examinations he managed to squeeze out half hours at the Field, and when it was not possible to get out there, he studied the theory of broad-jumping, searched the library for information on the subject and found little enough. At Commencement a famous jumper of former years took him in hand and gave him some advice which helped him greatly. Steadily, if slowly, he continued to improve his marks, until one hot morning he raced down the runway and cleared 22 feet 10 inches, much to the discomfort of Hotchkiss who, in spite of his experience, did not relish the fact that the Freshman was drawing nearer and nearer to equality with him. "Twenty-two feet ten inches," announced Black. "Hotchkiss, you've got to look out for your laurels. This Freshman will beat you out if you don't improve your jump." Hotchkiss scowled and tried harder than ever, but he seemed to have reached his limit, and was unable to surpass his distance in the Intercollegiates. That night Frank wrote to his mother: "Mother, I have a chance, only a chance, mind you, to make the team that is going to England to represent Yale and Harvard. If I win a place are you and dad willing to let me go?" And the answer came back on the next mail: "Yes." "That settles it," cried Frank, flourishing the letter above his head as he capered about the room. "I'll win out or die trying." The Codfish spoke up: "Perhaps you don't know that I'm going too." "For what?" inquired Frank. "To see that you keep in strict training and out of mischief." "You actually mean you would go across if I should make the team?" "Bettcher life," came the quick answer. "I've got to do something this summer, and I can't imagine anything better than to see the Johnny Bulls properly tanned." "Jimmy, how about you?" inquired Frank. "I'm not a bloated bondholder like the Codfish. It's work for mine this summer. But I'll read all the cablegrams and pray for you!" CHAPTER X. THE TRY-OUTS AT CAMBRIDGE. It was the day of the try-outs at Cambridge when the best that Harvard and Yale could muster were gathered to contest for a place on the team which should meet Oxford and Cambridge. "One week more and we will be on the briny," observed Gleason confidently to Frank. The speaker, Jimmy and David had all journeyed to the big Stadium to see their classmate compete for a place. "Gleason, if you talk like that much more, you'll hoodoo me. Don't forget that I'm a novice at this game. I've got about one chance in ten." "You'll come through all right," said David Powers. "I've noticed that you do pretty well under pressure." "As, for instance, football on the Yale Freshman team!--Go to, David, go to! I know what you fellows are trying to do. You're trying to keep up my sinking spirits. Much obliged." Frank was dressing for the trials along with the point-winners of the 'Varsity track team, but he felt strange and shy with the older and more seasoned athletes. He was the only Freshman who had been taken with the Yale squad, and his three friends, David, Jimmy and the Codfish, had made it a point to be with him. "I don't see any particular reason for anyone going over to represent us in the broad jump anyway," said Frank. "How's that?" inquired someone. "Didn't you see the morning papers? No? Well, Vare, that Oxford man, jumped 23 feet 5 in practice, and they think over there there's nothing but England to this coming meet. All the prophets have it settled." "I've heard of prophets slipping before now," said the Codfish gaily. "And Vare is a consistent jumper, better than 23 feet most of the time, from all I can learn," went on Frank. "Cambridge has a pretty good jumper, too, better than we have, but away behind Vare. So if the unexpected happens and I should win out, which doesn't look bright, I'd be nothing but an also-ran when it comes to the scratch over there." Out on the track where the contestants were now hurrying, a crowd of officials and friends were gathered along the straightaway and the various jumping pits. Halloby had already won his place in the high hurdles and was receiving the congratulations of his friends as he walked smilingly back to the track house. "Good boy, Halloby," came the greeting from all sides. A Yale man had been second. Both would be taken. Hotchkiss was at the jumping pit when Frank reached there, and was engaged in marking with the greatest care the length of his strides just before the "take" of the jump so that he would get the best results. Up and down the runway he went, measuring and pacing. He gave Armstrong a curt nod as he walked to the jumpers' bench to the right of the runway. Just as the quarter-mile ended, giving Harvard two men and Yale none in this event, the broad jumping contest was started with Hotchkiss leading off. On his first try, Hotchkiss overran the jumping block. McGregor, a Harvard man, cleared 21 feet 8 inches, another Harvard man 21 feet 6, and then it came Frank's turn. "Now, Armstrong," said the trainer as he walked down the runway toward the point where Frank had left his jersey as a starting mark. "Keep your head, get a breeze up in those last six strides and hit the block hard. Go ahead." Frank loped down the runway for perhaps fifty feet, speeding up toward the middle of the run. Then within six or eight strides of the block he burst into full speed, hit the block squarely, and shot into the air. It looked like a magnificent jump but when he struck in the soft sawdust and loam of the pit he could not hold the full distance, and fell backwards, breaking the ground a good three feet to the rear of where his heels first touched. Naturally, the jump was measured from the block to the point where his hand broke the ground. "Twenty feet four inches," sang out the judge of the event. "This Yale Freshman isn't such a wonder, after all," whispered a Harvard competitor to another sitting next him on the bench. "If he could have held his distance, it would have been a peach, though." "Your old fault, Armstrong," said Black coming over to him. "That jump was actually better than 23 feet. Now, try to stay up on your next." As the trainer spoke, Hotchkiss came rushing down the runway. He got a perfect take-off, rose in the air, turned halfway round in his flight, but held the distance he had made on the jump, which was a moment later announced to be 22 feet 10 inches. McGregor followed with a pretty jump of 22 feet 6, while his teammate did not better his first jump, which was not good enough even to be measured. Again it was Frank's turn, and so well did he heed the coaching of Black that the judge gave him credit for 22 feet 8 inches, the second best jump of the afternoon. Hotchkiss still held the lead, however, and swaggered a little as he walked around. The jumpers followed each other in rotation. Frank's next try was a failure, but on the following one, gathering all his energies for a supreme effort, he sailed into the air like a bird. "Twenty-two feet ten and three-fourths inches," called the judge, showing in his voice an awakening interest in the event. Hotchkiss, stung at the thought that the Freshman had beaten his best mark, showed very plainly in his preparations for his trials that he meant to wipe him out. He moved his marks a trifle, stepped the distance carefully, and then, seemingly satisfied, walked slowly to the end of the runway. "He's peeved," remarked Turner. "What difference does it make to him anyway, he's sure to be taken, isn't he?" inquired David. "Hotchkiss is one of those chaps who hate to be anything but first." "He has a head like a rhinocer-hoss," said the Codfish. As he spoke, Hotchkiss turned at the far end of the runway. Every eye was on him now, which was not at all displeasing to him. Down the runway he came like a race horse, his gaze fixed steadily on the take-off block where the supreme effort was to be made. But so great was his speed in his endeavor to eclipse all previous efforts that he struck the block badly, sprang in the air, lost his direction and landed partly in and partly out of the pit in an awkward straddle. Unable to keep his balance he fell over sideways on the hard ground and lay there groaning. In an instant a half score of bystanders had run to the aid of Hotchkiss. He was picked up and set upon his feet, half stunned, but when he attempted to take a step, he sank down groaning. The trainer sprang to the side of the injured jumper. "Where is it?" he demanded. "My ankle," moaned Hotchkiss. "I twisted it in some way. Here, let me try it again." But try as he might, he could not bear a particle of weight on the injured leg, and had to be carried to the Locker Building in the arms of two of his teammates. Immediately a buzz of excited conversation rose. "That hurts our chances in England, doesn't it?" inquired one of the officials. "Yes, it does. Hotchkiss was good enough to win over the Cambridge man in case anything should happen to the Oxford man, Vare. He didn't have a chance to beat Vare because Hotchkiss has never done as well as 23 feet, while Vare is a consistent performer at several inches better." "The broad jump is one of the events that we've got to count out, then, isn't it?" "It certainly is now," said the trainer. "If Armstrong had a year more of experience he'd give the Oxonian a good battle. Armstrong is a natural jumper, but has not perfected his form yet. It will take another year." When the excitement over the injury to Hotchkiss had passed, the trials continued and Armstrong created a ripple of interest when on his last trial he came within an inch of the coveted 23-foot mark. The result of the contest in the broad jump was that Armstrong, representing Yale, and McGregor, representing Harvard, were selected for the team. In all, twenty-six men were chosen that afternoon for the fourteen events to be contested in England, fourteen from Harvard and twelve from Yale. These men were the very flower of both teams. In the hammer and shot events only two from each college were selected since the best hammer throwers were also the best shot putters. To say that it was a jubilant quartet of boys who tumbled off the train at Milton, would be expressing it in weak terms. "Open up the cupboard," cried Frank after the home greetings were over. "You have four champion diners with you to-night." "A little soup, slice of mutton and toast for the athlete, Mrs. Armstrong. Frank isn't allowed to eat anything rich, you know, training table grub and all that." "You chase yourself around the block, Mr. Codfish. The training table has a rest for a solid week--apple dumplings, strawberry shortcake and all the fixings belong to me." "Seems as if you had earned it, son," said Mr. Armstrong. "Grand little muscles, Mr. Armstrong," said the loquacious Codfish. "Nice, hard and knotty, warranted pure steel, made in Germany--just feel them, best set in Yale--delivery of goods guaranteed----" The dinner gong cut the speaker's flow of language short, but at the table he kept the conversation moving at a lively pace. "Well, boys," said Mr. Armstrong, edging into the torrent of talk, "do you like Yale as well now as ever?" "Yale is great stuff," came the ready chorus. "It would be better if we didn't have so many studies," added the Codfish. "How's that?" "Well, a fellow just gets settled down to doing something like baseball or football or track athletics when the recitations break in. And the profs. get so peeved when a fellow isn't up to form that they have an unkind habit of flunking him." "And do you flunk, Mr. Gleason?" inquired Mrs. Armstrong. "Does he flunk! O, my!" laughed Jimmy. "I hold the record in the class," said the Codfish proudly. "Four in one day. Such a successful flunker that I have three conditions for next year." "Conditions, what are they?" "O, just little attachments that they sometimes put onto Freshmen," laughed Frank. "Have you any, Frank?" inquired his father. "In athletics a fellow has to keep up to the scratch, you know. If he doesn't, he can't go into athletics. The Codfish is the free-lance." "Yes, he's gone into everything," interjected Jimmy, "and so far hasn't won a battle." "O, but he will," said Mrs. Armstrong. "Thank you for your confidence," said that individual rising and making a sweeping bow. "'Familiarity breeds contempt,' so they say, and my familiar roommates fail to see the outcroppings of genius as clearly as you do. I've nearly won several battles already." And then Jimmy gave the history of the Codfish's unsuccessful onslaughts on the _News_, the Crew and the Mandolin Club to the amusement of the older members of the family. "The difficulty is," said the Codfish, "that the individual has no chance at college. It is all for the development of the average man, like Jimmy there, for instance. Genius is frowned upon. I could have revolutionized the _News_ if they'd given me a little longer chance at it." "Demoralized it, you mean," said Frank. "Mother, give me another piece of that shortcake. My, but it tastes good after so much training table." Training hours were broken that night, and for several nights to come, for the boys played with as much vigor as they worked. But Frank did not neglect his physical training. Swims at Seawall, where our friends foregathered for the first time several years before, rowing, and walks in the country, kept him in trim for the work which was to come. CHAPTER XI. A VOYAGE TO LONDON. Ten days after the trials at Cambridge, Frank, with the Codfish at his side, stood on the promenade deck of the great White Star liner _Olympic_, and waved good-by to his friends on the dock as the big boat moved slowly out into North River. "Bring back their scalps, you Indians," shouted someone. "Don't let the Johnny Bulls get your goats, you Yaleses!" "Show them how they do it in Yankeeland, Harvard!" To all of which the outgoing athletes, in a little group apart from the rest of the passengers, smiled and waved hands in acknowledgment. "Gee whiz," said the Codfish as the big ship slipped swiftly down the bay, "I never thought of it before, but what if I should be seasick?" "It doesn't make so much difference about you," said Frank heartlessly, "but what if _I_ should? That's the question!" Fortunately, the ocean was calm and none of the team suffered in the slightest from the dreaded sickness. With the first meal on the ship the athletes were seated together, and soon Yale and Harvard lines were forgotten. The men from the two universities fraternized with each other and the team was neither Harvard nor Yale, but an American team with only one object in view,--victory from their English cousins. Training regulations were established at once, and while the routine was not so strict as on land, the trainers saw to it that their athletes retired not later than 10:30 and that they were up at 7 in the morning for a jog around the decks before the passengers were about. The long decks of the _Olympic_ made a surprisingly good training ground. A training stunt which amused the passengers was dancing, not in the ordinary sense of the word, but "standstill sprinting" as the Codfish called it, on a cork mat, on which the runners got practically the same leg action as they would running on the open track. A large cork mat was spread on the boat deck, and relays of men, four at a time, pranced merrily, rested and pranced again. Then came a cold salt water shower and a rub-down. In the afternoon the dancing exercise would be repeated. Skipping the rope was another deck exercise which played a large part in keeping the men in good condition. "Where do you keep yourself nowadays?" said Frank one evening after dinner. He had noticed that Gleason disappeared for long periods during the day. "O, just sitting about and thinking. Can't think where you athletes are romping around. You make more noise than a bunch of magpies. I'm sick of athletic chatter, that so-and-so ought to do 10 seconds, and that Mr. Blinks of Harvard should win his half if he doesn't get too fast a pace in the first quarter, that Mr. Jenks of Yale is likely to pull a tendon, and so on and so on." "So you sneak off and improve your mind?" "Right-O, sonny. I'm doing that same." But the next day Frank discovered the cause of the Codfish's long absences. The Codfish did not have his meals at the athletes' table but at a table nearby. Adjoining the table where he sat, Fate, in the person of the steward's assistant, had placed Mr. and Mrs. Mortimore Hasbrouck, their daughter Marjorie and son William. Fate went a step farther than the location of the Hasbrouck family and undoubtedly had a hand in the business of seating Marjorie at this table where her bright face was in range of the Codfish's roving eyes. Now, Marjorie was fair to look upon as the Codfish admitted to himself when she made her appearance in the dining saloon the first night at sea. "But she's only a kid," he said to himself, "just fresh out of some boarding school if I dope that pin on her shoulder right." The Codfish looked and looked, but the eyes of Marjorie were on the athletes' table beyond him, and were not for him. Her gaze continually traveled over his head, and now and then he could hear the words "Harvard, Yale, track athletes----" for, of course, everyone knew that the teams were aboard even before the ship left the dock. "She doesn't know I belong to the party," thought the Codfish, gloomily, "or she wouldn't waste all her looks at the next table. I've got to fix that!" That night he made it a point to speak to Billie, while the latter hung on the outskirts of the crowd of athletes, and Billie was, of course, overjoyed to be spoken to by a college man, for he was only in his third year in prep. school, and considered a collegian a kind of demigod. "Are you one of the athletes?" inquired Billie. "I'm one of the Yale men," said the Codfish feeling his chest expand. Billie jumped to the conclusion that he was one of the competitors, and was duly elated at the fortunate acquaintance. "Gee whiz, I'm glad to know you. I'm going down to Yale myself next year if I get through my exams. Should have been there this year but flub-dubbed the exams. Dad says if I don't make it next year it's good-night for mine." "Stick to it, stick to it, my boy! A college life is a great thing,--training of the mind, associations, mental and physical development and all that sort of thing." As he talked he led the way up the deck in the direction of the Hasbrouck family chairs. The Codfish shot a look out of his eye and observed the object of his search, the fair Marjorie. But the expected didn't happen. Billie, glorying in the companionship of a Yale man and a member of the great team of athletes, led his new-found friend up and down the deck half a dozen times to let the full weight of its significance sink into the family. Getting impatient at last, and tired of the walking, the Codfish said: "Seems to me I've seen you and your sister before somewhere. Perhaps it was down at the game last fall." "Wish I had been there, but nothing doing! Just at that time I got into trouble at school and the Pater shut down on me. Beastly luck. But, say, Mr.-- Mr.----" "Gleason." "Mr. Gleason, won't you come and meet the family? Sis will be delighted to know a Yale man." Thus came the Codfish to the Hasbrouck family, where, being properly presented, he bowed low and with supreme dignity. When Marjorie offered him her hand he held it a trifle overtime and looked unspeakable things. "What is your specialty, Mr. Gleason?" inquired Mrs. Hasbrouck. "O, a little of everything," said the Codfish noncommittally. "O, isn't that lovely," cried Marjorie. "He does everything!" "Well, I try a few things," struggling to produce a modest smile and with indifferent success. "Tell us about Yale, Mr. Gleason," said Mrs. Hasbrouck. "I'm so sorry John isn't here because William is going down to Yale next year, I hope. I went to a game there years ago, a football game I think it was, in June----" "Baseball, I think," corrected Billie. "They don't play football in June." "Well, baseball then. I thought it a wonderful place." "O, it's a pretty good place," said Gleason, and then nothing loath to talk, particularly when Marjorie made the inquiries, he launched into a dazzling word picture of Yale and her glories. At the end of ten minutes he had made such progress with Marjorie that she readily accepted his invitation to take a promenade with him. From that moment the affairs of the Yale-Harvard track team, and even the more intimate concerns of his roommate began to decline from the zenith of his attentions. Marjorie was in the ascendency. It was on the second day out that Frank Armstrong, noticing the Codfish's absence, had asked him where he kept himself, and was not at all satisfied with the answer he got. "The Codfish sitting around, thinking! Never!" said Frank to himself. And shortly after, Frank had ocular demonstration as to the real trouble. He met Codfish and Marjorie, and the former was so much absorbed that he didn't even see his roommate. "By Jove!" cried Frank. "Wait till I see him!" When the Codfish turned up that night in the stateroom, Frank pounced upon him. "So you've been sitting around, thinking, have you?" "Sure thing, thinking what I'd do next. I say, Frank, she's a pippin. Billie's an awful bore, but his kid sister is a peach, believe me!" "I thought you were an out-and-out woman-hater." "I used to be in my younger days," said the Codfish, earnestly, "but this Marjorie girl has certainly got me going. Some eyes, boy, some eyes." "So, that's why you've been neglecting your poor roommate, is it? I thought you came over here to see that I had good attention and kept in training. I might be at almost anything, even enjoying a pipe in the smoking room with John Hasbrouck as far as you are concerned." "I guess you will be all right looking after yourself. Now in Marjorie's case--" he had reached the point already of calling her "Marjorie," and he lingered a little over the name--"in Marjorie's case, it is different. She needs a strong arm to lean on," and the Codfish stretched his legs out luxuriously. "And you are furnishing the arm?" "Precisely." "And how about her father and mother and even her brother? They have no protecting arms, I suppose?" "Frank, they don't understand her. She seems quite alone. This is in confidence, Frank,--she's going to go on the stage as soon as she's through school. She'd make a hit, I tell you! She has great ambition, that girl has!" "And what does her mother say about the stage?" "O, just laughs at her, has no conception of the depths of that girl's nature. I doped her out for myself soon as I saw her. Frank, old chap, I love her!" At this astounding piece of intelligence Frank howled with laughter. "All right, go ahead and laugh, but I tell you this is serious. Say, Frank, you wouldn't mind if I went on to Paris with the Hasbroucks, would you? You won't need me for anything. I'll get back to London for the meet maybe." "You'll get lost snooping around Paris all by yourself," said Frank as soon as he could regain the breath that Gleason's question had knocked out of him. "O, but I'll not be alone. I'll travel with the Hasbroucks. My heart tells me to go." "Very well then," said Frank. "If you have such an unreliable heart, there's nothing for it but to go I suppose. You may change your mind or your heart before we dock." "Never!" said the Codfish. "This is a deep and lasting feeling I have. It has changed the whole course of my life. I came onto this boat a mere boy, now I feel I'm a man with all the responsibilities of a man." Codfish's infatuation was too good a story to keep, and Frank took McGregor, the Harvard broad jumper, with whom he had struck up a friendship, into his confidence. "That friend of mine, Gleason, has a love attack and tells me he is going to desert and go on to Paris with the fair charmer. How are we going to head him off?" "Win his girl away from him," suggested McGregor. "But he doesn't give anyone a chance," said Frank, laughing. "He sticks around from morning till night. He certainly has a terrible case." "Get him up on the boat-deck for a game of shuffleboard," suggested McGregor, "and then we'll get someone to talk to Marjorie. When that fellow gets tired, we'll have someone else take up the relay and so on." "Great," said Frank. "Let's try." That afternoon, the Codfish, all unsuspecting, was led off for a try at the popular deck game, and in his absence one of the team, who was in the plot, contrived to get an introduction to Marjorie, took the vacant chair of her father, and began a lengthy conversation. When the Codfish, who had been detained at the game as long as possible, hurried back to his lady-love he found his place occupied. Back and forth he paced, casting longing looks in the direction of the Hasbrouck chairs, but Marjorie was deeply interested in the young man alongside of her, and did not even look in the Codfish's direction. After half an hour of agony, the Codfish observed with joy that his rival was preparing to leave, but just at that moment, up strolled another of the athletes to the coveted chair, and being asked to sit down, did so and continued the conversation, while plotter No. 1 went on his way. For two mortal hours the Codfish was held at bay, pacing the decks and railing at his luck while the relays continued. "How in the deuce did she come to know all these fellows?" growled the Codfish to himself. "Next time I'll not go playing shuffleboard and leaving her alone, so help me Bob!" When finally the Codfish thought his inning was about to come, Marjorie tripped gaily off with the last of her suitors, and after a promenade around the deck, disappeared somewhere below to Gleason's great distress of mind. That evening Marjorie was again carried off, this time by the Yale half-miler, and the only thing left for the Codfish was to occupy her vacant chair, which he did, and proceeded to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Hasbrouck, though his eyes followed Marjorie on her promenade up and down the deck. "Mighty attractive girl, that Miss Hasbrouck," said Frank that night as the boys were preparing to retire. "She's made a great hit with the team, did you notice it?" "Did I notice it?" cried the Codfish petulantly. "Yes, I noticed it. Where in the name of the Great Horn Spoon did she meet all those fellows?" "Mutual attraction, I s'pose," said Frank. "I saw you holding forth with her mother most of the evening. Charming lady, eh?" "O, yes, all right. Interested in philanthropy and all that sort of thing. Wanted me to help her raise something for the Widows and Orphans Fund for Sailors; subscription papers, and all that sort of thing." "And you're for it?" "O, yes, Marjorie's mother you see. Couldn't do anything else. I've got to stand in right with her mother." "Noble youth," said Frank. "First catch the mother and the daughter will come easy. Is that it?" "You have a glimmer of intelligence, Armstrong, a rare thing in your case." "We have him on the run," said McGregor the next morning at breakfast. "I suggest a round-robin letter to the young lady. How would this suit?" He hauled a letter from his pocket and handed it to Frank, who read it while a smile stole over his face. "Will she take it all right, do you think?" said Frank as he handed the letter back to the conspirator. "Sure thing. The Codfish cuts no figure now since she's had a taste of bigger game. I'll write it out and get everyone to sign it." "Go to it," said Frank. "We must save our little Codfish." That afternoon while Miss Hasbrouck was curled up in her deck chair with the Codfish in attendance, a deck steward handed a letter to her. A long list of signatures followed. "A wireless?" inquired the Codfish, much interested. "Too funny for anything," said the girl. "I wonder if I had better let you read it? It concerns you." "Me?" said the Codfish in astonishment, reaching out for the letter. "Promise not to get mad if I let you see it?" "Cross my heart, hope to die if I do." "All right, then, but remember your promise." She passed the letter over to him, and this is what he read: "Dear Miss Hasbrouck:-- "We have observed with growing anxiety the attention which one of our party has been paying to you. While we do not wish to alarm you, we feel you ought to know that this young man is afflicted with mental aberration. In other words, he is slightly off his head. As far as we know he has never had a dangerous spell, but you can never tell. Please pardon us for seeming to intrude, but we thought you ought to know." Then followed a long list of signatures of practically every man on either team. Gleason was just finishing the perusal of the note when McGregor pranced up to Miss Hasbrouck. "Take a walk around the deck?" he queried, and that young lady hastily jumped up without even excusing herself to the Codfish, and started off at a brisk pace with the young Harvard man. "Nutty, am I?" said the Codfish. "I'll show them," gritting his teeth, "I'll show them. They're trying to queer me," and then to Mrs. Hasbrouck who had just come up from her stateroom: "O, Mrs. Hasbrouck, I'm going to help you with that fund. Guess pretty nearly everyone of the two teams will subscribe to it." "That's very sweet of you, indeed. It is a noble thing to do to help such a good cause to provide for the widows and orphans of the sailors who go down in the great deep." "Sure thing," said the Codfish, enthusiastically. "All our fellows are very generous on such a thing as that. I never saw such a noble bunch of fellows as we have with us." Mrs. Hasbrouck beamed over her spectacles. "I think we ought to collect as much of the fund as we can to-day; only a little more of our sea voyage is left, you know." "'A bird in the hand is said to be worth two in the bushes!'" returned the Codfish. "I'll be back in a minute," he added. On the way down to the bulletin board in the companionway where were inscribed the signatures of those who were willing to help along the fund with contributions, he came upon Marjorie and McGregor, their heads together in deep conversation. Neither saw him or they pretended not to see him as he passed, and the fires of revenge burned the deeper in his heart. Five minutes later he was back at Mrs. Hasbrouck's chair. "The names of pretty nearly every one of our fellows are down under that subscription paper," he informed her. "I've made a copy of them all and the amounts opposite each name." "This is wonderful," said Mrs. Hasbrouck, enthusiastically as she ran through the list. "Mr. McGregor $25; Mr. Armstrong $25; Mr. Wallace $10; Mr. Burrows $10; why, this is really wonderful. You will certainly get your reward for your kindness. I'll call the steward's attention to this, and suggest that he ought to collect to-day, for to-morrow will be our last day on shipboard, you know." "Yes, I think he ought to get after them to-day. So much hurry and scurry on the last day that he might miss some of the contributions." A little later consternation was thrown into the "contributors" to the Widows and Orphans Fund. A very businesslike young steward armed with a list, began his collections. Two or three of the collegians paid up without protest for they supposed such collections were the regular thing, but when the collector reached McGregor, who was still holding the fort with Marjorie in the shade of one of the lifeboats, he met a refusal. "Twenty-five dollars for the Widows and Orphans Fund! I never heard of it before!" protested the "contributor." "There must be a mistake, sir," said the steward, "you must have forgotten, your name is one of those on the subscription paper in the companionway bulletin board." "My name on the paper? Quit your kidding." "O, but it is, sir. I made a careful copy myself, sir, of all the names, and I'm sure I'm right." "Then I must have done it in my sleep," exclaimed the puzzled McGregor. "Where is the bulletin board?" "I'll show you, sir," and the steward led the way to the saloon deck. Shortly they stood before the board in question. There were a number of notices on the board, but the steward pointed out the one in question. "There it is, sir, and there's your name," triumphantly. "We, the Undersigned, subscribe to the Widows and Orphans Fund the amount set after each of our names:" McGregor's jaw dropped as he read the notice. Then in amazement his eye traveled down the long list of signatures till it fell on his own. "It is sure enough my signature and no forgery. But when in the name of Mike did I do it?" He gazed in helpless wonder at Marjorie who had accompanied him to the companionway. "Seems to me I've seen that list before," said Miss Hasbrouck. "It looks like one that was attached to a letter I received to-day." McGregor stepped up to the board, scrutinized the subscription paper closely, then took out the thumb tacks which secured it to the board itself. "Look," he said, displaying the back of the paper. "The Codfish has put one over on us. This list has been very neatly pasted onto the bottom of the Widows and Orphans Fund subscription paper, and as both were written on ship's paper the deception was a clever one." "O, my, the wretch!" said Marjorie. "The young runt," quoth McGregor in high dudgeon, "wait till I get at him!" But he did not get at the Codfish just then for that individual kept himself out of sight until the next morning. The story went the rounds of the ship as might naturally be expected, and not a few of the team members, seeing that the Codfish had made a neat shift of the joke onto their own heads, paid up their alleged subscriptions so that the Fund was a gainer in the end. Sad to relate, however, the standing of the Codfish with the Hasbrouck family was gone, never to return. His best efforts next morning failed to draw even a look of recognition from Marjorie's bright eyes as she passed and repassed him during the deck promenade, tripping along gaily between two members of the team. Once he thought he caught the expression as she passed: "That horrid boy." From Mrs. Hasbrouck he could only draw a frigid nod. "And that's all the thanks I get for boosting the old fund," said the Codfish to himself. "Well, never mind, women are fickle. I'll have no more of them in my whole life," and he went his way whistling a merry tune. That afternoon as the ship was passing up Southampton Water the Codfish found Frank leaning on the rail watching the beautiful and ever-shifting panorama opening before him. "Say, Frank, I guess I'll not go on to Paris." "Changed your mind?" There was a hint of laughter in Frank's voice. "Yes, I think I ought to stick around for the practice and the games, don't you? Doesn't seem quite right to desert now." "Good boy," said Frank. "I think you'll find England more congenial than Paris. It wouldn't be right to leave us anyway." "That's what I think, too. I'll stick with the bunch." CHAPTER XII. THE CODFISH LOSES HIMSELF. The team with all its paraphernalia went through to London that night, and the next morning took train for Brighton about fifty miles south on the English Channel, where all were quartered at the Grand Hotel on the Esplanade facing the channel. Training quarters were established on the grounds of the Brighton Athletic Club which had been generously offered to the visitors by the Board of Governors. It was an eager lot of athletes that tumbled out of the tally-ho at the Club that morning, for the trainers insisted that the practice should begin at once, and the men themselves, cooped up as they had been for a week, were no less anxious to get to work than the trainers were to have them. Several scores of people, attracted to Brighton by the news that the Yale and Harvard teams would train there for the week previous to the match with Oxford and Cambridge, were in attendance when the Americans got into action. "A likely looking lot," was the English comment. After a light work-out, Armstrong and McGregor were called to the jumping pit. "Try a few," said Trainer Black, "but make it easy and be careful you don't twist your ankles. We're badly enough off as it is." After measuring out the runway and taking half a dozen practice runs, McGregor made a leap of something over 21 feet on his first try. Frank followed, but did not show anything impressive. Again he tried, but whether from the enforced idleness on the steamer or from physical condition, again fell far short of the jump he expected to make. "You're not getting any lift at all," said Black, coming up at that moment. "Shoot high in the air when you strike that take-off." Frank attempted to follow instructions, but his legs felt heavy and dead. He knew very well without information from the trainer that he failed to get his height. The more he jumped, the worse he got, but persisted until Trainer Black said: "That's enough, now. Jog around the track a couple of times and go in. You are off to-day but I guess it will be all right to-morrow." But the next day, while there was a little improvement in his distance, Frank was far behind his American performances. McGregor jumped consistently at 22 feet and a half. The strange ground did not seem to bother him in any way, while with Frank either the straight runway, the different conditions of air or the week of partial idleness on shipboard had played havoc with his skill. Naturally, he began to worry, and this had its effect in keeping him back. On the third day on English soil the whole team was taken up to London to the Queen's Club grounds so that the athletes might have an opportunity to try out the track. It proved to be a faster and better track than the one they were working on at Brighton and everyone was well pleased with the result of the day's work. Frank had improved a little on his jumps, but was still inches behind his Harvard mate. Several times he had succeeded in getting a good spring, but failed to hold the distance. It did not make him feel any happier to note that the English writers, after watching the performances of the two American jumpers, had counted them out of the contest entirely. "Vare," wrote one sporting critic, "will have no trouble in winning the broad jump for the American representatives are not in his class. It is unfortunate that their best jumper was unable to come across the water because of an accident in practice a few days before the Americans were to sail. But even with Hotchkiss, the injured Yale man, at his best he could not expect to measure up to the great Oxford jumper who has been doing 23 feet and over, consistently in practice, and has never yet been extended to his full limit to win in any event he has entered. With the broad jump a foregone conclusion for the Oxford-Cambridge team, the chances seem to favor the English athletes to carry off the meet." Frank laid down the paper. "So, they've written us off, have they? Perhaps we may fool them yet," and he ground his teeth together, resolving that if he were beaten out it would not be because he did not try. But the next day's practice on the Brighton track yielded no better results. As he was walking slowly down the runway with feelings of disgust at his poor showing, he was accosted by a tall stranger whom he had seen talking with the captain a few minutes before. "Do you mind if I give you a word of advice?" said the newcomer. "Certainly not. If you can show me how to get out about a foot further, I'll be the happiest jumper in the United Kingdom." The stranger smiled. "You are too anxious about this jumping business," he said, "and you're working too hard at it. You have plenty of speed and a good spring, but you don't get high enough at the take-off. Supposing we try a little experiment." "I'll try anything," said Frank, eagerly. "I used to jump a little myself," said the stranger, "and my trouble at first was very like what yours is now. I couldn't get up. So I tried an experiment which I'm going to try on you now." Stepping to the side of the track he picked up a high hurdle and placed it about four feet behind the jumping-block, in the pit itself. "Now," he continued, "I want you to clear the top of that hurdle by six inches or more. At your highest point of flight bring your shoulders and arms well forward, so you will hold all your distance when you strike. Try it." Frank went back the full length of the runway, started at an easy lope and gathering full speed fifty feet from the end of his run struck the block squarely, and sprang high into the air. He had the feeling that it was a good jump but was not prepared for what the measuring tape showed--22 feet, 8 inches. "That's better," said the tall stranger. "But I want you to go even higher than that. Clear the hurdle by a foot or more if you can. Get your greatest speed right at the take-off and _think_ high as well as go high." Again Frank rushed down the runway and leaped with all his power, clearing the hurdle by a foot or more. By this time half a dozen of the members of the team were gathered by the jumping pit. Recognizing a good jump, one of them seized the tape and measured: "Twenty-three feet, one-half inch," he sang out. "Well, maybe we have a chance for that jump yet. Good boy, Armstrong." Twice more the stranger sent Frank down the runway and each time the jumper rose to expectations. On the last jump the tape showed 23 feet, 1½ inches. "Now, we'll take the hurdle away, but you must _think_ it is there," continued the coach. "Have it in your mind as you come up to the block that you are going away above the imaginary mark. Jumping is a matter of brains as much as of legs. Try it without the hurdle." This time Frank almost equaled his former jump, and as the figures were announced, his teammates crowded around him, congratulating him. "That's the stuff, Armstrong," said Trainer Black. "You may throw a scare into these Englishmen if you keep up that gait." "Who is that man coaching me?" inquired Frank, a little later. "That, didn't you know? That's Princewell, an intercollegiate champion of ours a few years back, one of the best in the business in his day." "He certainly knew what was the matter with me," said Frank, almost beside himself with happiness. "I'd give a leg to beat Vare." "I don't expect that," said Black, "because Vare is a great jumper, one of the best in Great Britain. If you give him a good run for his money you will have done something we will all be proud of. We can win without the broad jump if our calculations are right." But alas for Frank's high hopes, the next day saw him below 23 feet again, and work as he might, he fell back steadily. Without the impetus given by Princewell, who had gone to London, he could not get within six inches of his best marks of the day before. Black finally ordered him to the clubhouse. "I don't want you to put on jumping shoes again before Saturday." Saturday was the day of the games. "But I need the practice," Frank remonstrated, "I'm just getting the knack." "Forget it," said the trainer, "and do as I tell you. I'll take the risk. You mustn't jump again before you go into your event. And I'd advise you to keep off your feet as much as you can. Rest, rest, man. That's the best thing you can do just now." Frank turned away heartbroken. "If I could only keep at it, I'd get the trick back. I had it yesterday and I've lost it to-day." "Keep off my feet," grumbled Frank that night to Gleason. "Rest and keep off my feet. I wonder if he intends to have me keep my bed." "O, you're too nervous, that's all. A little country air would be good for you. Say, by Jove, I've got an idea, rest, recreation, off your feet, on the job and all that." "Open up, my son." "It's this. Let's hire a motor and see some of this blooming country. I don't suppose they object to your exercising your eyes." "I'm with you if the captain hasn't any objection. We've been sticking pretty closely around here." "It's a monumental idea and worthy of a great brain like mine." The captain had no objection and was indeed glad of it since he felt it would take Frank's attention from the coming games. "And how about the motor? I'm not a bloated bondholder like you, but I'll go my halves." "Oh, run away. I've been aching to find an excuse to spend some money round here. I know where I can get a little pippin of a machine for ten shillings the hour. Ten shillings are $2.50 our money and cheap when it includes a dinky little chauffeur with a uniform. Watch me produce!" And away the Codfish dashed down the street. In twenty minutes he was back with a snappy little, high-powered runabout painted a flaming red color. "Couldn't get a blue one," he apologized. Frank hopped in alongside the driver, and the Codfish perched behind in the rumble seat. For two hours Frank forgot entirely about the Yale-Harvard-Oxford-Cambridge track meet, and his part in it. And those who have traveled in the beautiful lanes and highways of Sussex will understand his absorption. Again in the cool of the afternoon Gleason appeared for another "personally conducted" tour, this time to the west of Brighton, along the shore road. Eye-tired from watching the moving panorama of country and town, Frank Armstrong slept, free from the regular nightmare of broad-jumping competition in which he never could quite reach his best. The great day of the contest came around at last and found the American athletes pitched to a high degree of excitement. A final trial of the Queen's Club track had given some very satisfactory performances, which more than hinted at an American victory. Burrows, the Harvard sprinter, had run the hundred in nine and four-fifths seconds, and seemed sure of not only this event but of the two hundred and twenty as well. With these two secure, the American athletes had a clear lead in the race for victory. "This is the great day, boys," announced Trainer Black at the breakfast table. "Train leaves for London at 10:30. Games at two o'clock. Put all the stuff you need in your suit cases. They will go up on the train with us." "Do we lunch in London?" asked someone. "No, we have a bite on the train which gets to London at a little before twelve. It's a half-hour's ride in taxis from the station to the Queen's Club grounds. We won't get there much before half past twelve or a quarter to one. That'll give us plenty of time to dress and be ready for the Johnny Bulls by two o'clock." Frank finished his packing quickly, sent his suit case down to the hotel lobby, and began to fidget around. "I'm as nervous as a cat," he said to himself. "If they had only let me keep on working I'd have been a lot better off, but this waiting, waiting bothers me to death." "Oh, there, you little jumping jack," came the hail from the street, "come and take a ride, guaranteed last appearance before breaking the world's record." "Can't," said Frank. "Train leaves in less than two hours. Have you packed up?" "Packed up, no. The valet will do that. Who wants to pack suit cases a morning like this? Come on, you short-skate, come on and forget Queen's Club." "I'll go you for an hour," said Frank, "but that's the limit. I don't want to take any chances with a busted tire five miles from nowhere." "This machine is guaranteed bust-proof. You can trust the old reliable. It is even fool-proof." "I'd need that assurance with you around." "And you're coming?" "Yes, but only for an hour." "Don't worry, I'll have you back, hope to die if I don't." Away shot the little runabout on the Eastbourne road. As before, the chauffeur acted as guide and pointed out various objects of interest as they spun along the smooth road. "Just down there to the east about twenty miles the way we're heading is Hastings." "That's where William the Conqueror had his little scrap one day some moons ago, isn't it?" inquired the Codfish. "Yes, sir, he fought a bit of a fight there, and just over to the left there is the Duke of Buccleuch's estate. And down there in the field where you see that house in the trees I was born meself, sir." "Good for you," said the Codfish, "fine place to be born, nice open spaces; a very good piece of judgment. And the old folks still live down on the old New Hampshire farm?" "Yes, sir, they are living there now. I say, would you mind stopping at the door, sir? My mother's been ailing, and I'd like to see her a minute." "Dutiful and kind-hearted son, we'll be happy to stop for you. Better still, you give me the steering wheel and we'll drive on for a mile or two and pick you up on the way back." "Can you drive?" asked the chauffeur dubiously. "Can I drive? Can a duck float? I've driven a six-sixty Pierce Arrow through the White Mountains, but you wouldn't know what that means. Let's see," said the irrepressible Codfish, as he slipped into the driver's seat just vacated by the chauffeur and worked the shift lever as he spoke: "First speed inside ahead, second speed outside ahead, high, outside back. Reverse, inside back. I've got you, Steve. We'll be back here in fifteen minutes. Please be waiting at the church for we haven't too many spare minutes this morning." "Be careful, sir," called the chauffeur, "it's a heavy penalty driving without a license." "Same thing in our country, but we're hard to catch," the Codfish shouted back over his shoulder as, with motor speeding up, he dropped into high gear and fled up the road like a red shadow. "This is what we should have done long before this," quoth Gleason, "a chauffeur is a clog on conversation." "Yes, but he's handy to have along under certain conditions." The boys drove along in silence for five minutes, when Frank, with his mind on train time, said: "Better turn now, old man. We've been out nearly thirty minutes, and thirty more makes an hour, my time limit." "You're great on mathematics. Let's go up this road through the village there to our right and out back on the main road, pick up the gent who went to visit the old folks, and then I'll drop you in dear old Brighton in some few minutes. But first let us explore a little." "I'd rather we explored some other time," Frank remonstrated. But the Codfish was willful. He found a road leading to the left, circled the village and came back again to a highway. "Now, let's see, where did we leave that chap?" he mused. "Right along here some place by the willows, wasn't it?" Driving slowly, the boys scanned the roadside for their chauffeur, but no sight of him could they discover. "Well, it certainly was here somewhere, and if he hasn't the gumption to come back as per agreement, he can stay behind, eh, what?" "Gleason, this doesn't look like the road we came on," said Frank, in alarm. "Well, it's a good road, isn't it?" "But no road is good unless it leads to Brighton. Remember your promise. That train leaves at ten-thirty and it is five minutes of ten now. And, moreover, we're lost." "Lost, your eye! How can we be lost when I'm at the helm?" But, nevertheless, the puzzled look on the Codfish's face continued to grow deeper as the minutes passed away and nothing was seen of the chauffeur. "I say," he called to a passing farmer, "can you tell me if this is the road to Brighton?" "Naw. Second turn to the right and then keep straight ahead." "How far from here?" "'Bout five mile." "The country is saved. Now see the dust fly. Twenty minutes to do five miles. Oh, it's a cinch. That chauffeur can walk home. I'll settle." Fifteen minutes later the Codfish drew up at the outskirts of a small village. "Is this the way to Brighton?" he inquired of a passer-by. "This _is_ Breyting," with an accent on the "is." "What?" almost yelled the driver of the red car. "This _is_ Breyting, I tell you." "How do you spell it?" "B-r-e-y-t-i-n-g, Breyting." "Oh, Lord, we want B-r-i-g-h-t-o-n, Brighton, down by the sea, where all the piers and pebbles are." "Oh, why didn't you say so at first? Take the road to the left down about half a mile. It'll bring you down to the far end of the street that runs along the water." "How far is it?" asked Frank in a despairing voice. "'Bout twelve or thirteen miles." "And fifteen minutes to do it in. This is awful!" "Cheer up, cheer up," said the driver, making a great show of confidence which he didn't in the least feel. "We may do it yet." Opening the throttle the car fairly leaped along the road. "It's exceeding the speed limit, but in a good cause," said the Codfish. "Lord, I hope the tires stand up." He had hardly spoken the word when the right front shoe gave way with a loud bang. The car careened to the right sharply, crossed the shallow ditch with a lurch that nearly threw the boys out of their seats, and, finally, under control again, was steered back on to the road to fetch up with a violent jerk when the emergency brake was driven down hard. CHAPTER XIII. THE FLYING MACHINE TO THE RESCUE. "Well, I'm glad that's over," said the luckless Codfish, as he slipped from behind the steering wheel and hurried out in front to see what damage had been done. "Phew! we're lucky," he continued, "to be alive. If that shoe had gone and busted itself on the bridge half a mile back we would probably have been two bright little angels by now; gone and done for." "By the looks of things, I'm done for anyway," said Frank. "We are lost some miles from Brighton and," looking at his watch, "the train starts in just seven minutes." "Maybe they'll wait for you." "Royal mail trains never wait, and that carries the mail. It's twenty minutes' work to put that shoe on." "Shoe, nothing. I put no shoe on. We'll pick up some wayside garage and till that happens I'll drive on the rim. No damage is done on our flight up the bank. Here we go, halting but steady." Frank was silent. He was thinking of the effect his absence would have on his teammates. It hurt him to think that his captain would set his nonappearance down to carelessness, and so it had been in a way. He should not have gone so far. He should have insisted that Gleason keep away from the steering wheel. Perhaps the need for his presence would be desperate. His absence might mean, in some unaccountable way, the loss of the meet. These thoughts and many others pounded through his brain as the car limped along the road, but they all had the same refrain: "You've been a failure, you've been a failure." Rounding a turn in the road, Gleason caught sight of a garage sign, and in a minute drew up at the door. "Ten shillings to put that tire on and put it on quickly," said he. Two workmen from the garage sprang at the wheel, but they had scarcely begun work when a clock in a neighboring church tower boomed the half-hour. The boys looked at each other. "I know how you feel, Frank," said Gleason. "I was a double-barreled jackass to take you off this morning, and seventeen times a fool for getting lost." "I'm in very badly with everyone," said Frank, "but growling will not help matters. Maybe there'll be a later train which will get me there in time." "I've got you into this, Frank, and I'll get you out of it somehow, don't worry. There must be another train." With the new shoe on the front wheel and the garage men the richer by several shillings more than the Codfish promised, the red runabout was again headed for Brighton, this time at a more moderate pace. It was just eleven o'clock when the car drew up at the railroad station. Frank almost expected to see some of his teammates, but the platform and waiting-rooms were deserted. Inquiries at the ticket office brought the information that the next London train was at twelve-fifteen and did not reach London till one-fifty. "One-fifty," groaned Frank. "I might as well take the next ship back to America. I've lost out. I'm disgraced." Both boys were the picture of gloom. Suddenly Gleason's face lit with high resolve "Look here, Armstrong, I'll take you to London in this machine." "But it isn't ours, and you have no license to drive." "It's ours as long as we pay ten shillings an hour for it, license or no license." "You'd get lost again." "No, no, it's a straight road. I looked it up once. You follow the railroad. Look here," he added in great excitement, "the thing can be done without a grain of doubt. Here it is a little past eleven. We can certainly average twenty-five miles an hour. That means that we can be there a little after one. Fortunately, the Club is but a little ways out of our course, over in West Kensington." "I'm game for it," said Frank, "but just the same, I don't like the idea of your going off with a machine and no license. You'll get jugged for sure if anything goes wrong." "Nothing's going wrong. I got you into this trouble and I'm going to get you out somehow. Climb in and hold onto your headgear, we are only going to hit the high places." He shot away from the station and swung into the great north road, sign-marked "London," with the motor humming to the quickened pace. "Nothing to it, Frank," boasted the confident chauffeur. "This is the way they all should have come up, plenty of ozone and action, no stuffy cars. We may even beat them to the club if we have luck," and he pushed the gas lever a few notches higher, and neatly dodged a dog curled up in the sand of the road. Now that he was headed for London, even Frank's spirits rose. What seemed no chance half an hour ago had been transformed into a possibility. Well he knew that Gleason was exceeding the speed limit, but the time was so short a chance had to be taken with tires, road, police and everything else. The stake was worth it. One cannot race along the roads of south-east England and race very far. So the inevitable happened. Ten miles outside of Brighton, when Gleason was doing something better than forty miles an hour, he pretended not to hear a hail from the side of the road, and kept straight on, but he could not help hearing the sharp spatter of a motorcycle behind him a minute later, and instinctively knew it was the police. He slowed down till he was running at about fifteen miles an hour. The officer came alongside. He was plainly angry. "Why didn't you stop when I called to you?" demanded the officer. "Oh, did you call?" asked the Codfish innocently. "We are in a great hurry," explained Frank. "We have to be there by one o'clock or one-thirty at the latest." "Now maybe you will and maybe you won't. Turn that car around and come along with me." "Look here, this chap here," indicating Frank, "is in that track meet up at Queen's Club at two o'clock this afternoon. He lost his train by accident and I promised to get him there. Now, let us go through." "Can't be done. You Americans all try to tear through the country at break-neck speed. You can't do it here, I tell you. Let's see your license." The Codfish began fumbling in his pockets. "Great Scott! I haven't got the thing anywhere about my jeans, the chauffeur must have it, bad luck to him." "Another thing to explain to the magistrate. Come along now." The Codfish reluctantly tacked the car around and followed his guide to the little hamlet where the officer first hailed him from the roadside. To the disgust of the two American youths the magistrate could not be found, a piece of news imparted to them by the officer after a ten minutes' search around the little court building off the main street. "Well, now, let us go along," insisted the Codfish. "We've made our call, the magistrate isn't in. We've done our duty, now let's call it off. When you come to America I'll get you a job on the police force of Syracuse. Come on, be a good scout and let's be hitting the gravel. This fellow here with me has to jump in the track games at Queen's Club grounds, and it will be a great disappointment to his friends if he can't be there, to say nothing about his own feelings. Think how it would be if he were your own offspring and was jumping for the English to help lick the Yankees." His cross-fire on the officer might possibly have had some effect if affairs had not taken a new and sudden turn for the worse. As the Codfish was making his arguments, a messenger came up and handed the officer a note. He read it, looked over our friends who were still seated in the car and ran his eye over the car. "You're a pretty slick young fellow," he said, "but both of you will stay with us for a while. You are in pretty deep." "How so?" inquired Frank. "As if you didn't know! Perhaps you never heard of this," and he read the message he had just received: "Stop and hold two young men in red runabout Number 1664B. Stolen from chauffeur near Brighton, known to have started for London shortly after eleven o'clock." The message was signed by the Chief of Police of Brighton. "A lovely kettle of fish," commented Gleason. "Do you remember once of telling me that I could get into trouble in a desert island?" "I do and it's true." "It would be still true if I were alone in the middle of the Pacific. But there's one thing about this business which cheers me: you are now a member of the Criminal Club at Yale in good standing." "I'd rather be in good standing up at Queen's Club. Do you realize that the team is at London now and we are in the lock-up?" For the greater part of an hour Frank and Gleason were held in durance vile as automobile thieves, and as a secondary count, breaking the speed limit. But all things finally come to an end. The magistrate was found, and sat with great dignity on the case. One of his first acts was to fine Gleason the sum of five pounds for excessive speed and then to declare him still liable to the charge of theft. Fortunately for the Codfish and Frank, who momentarily expected to be thrown into the village jail, the chauffeur, who had been overcome with the desire to see his parents that morning and who had been the innocent cause of most of the trouble, appeared with the proprietor of the garage where the little red runabout had been obtained. Explanations soon followed. The garage proprietor verified all that the boys said about their being a part of the American team and followers, and his hand being properly greased with American dollars from the plethoric purse of Gleason, was perfectly willing that the car should go on to London, driven by his own chauffeur. "But remember," said the magistrate, "not over twenty miles an hour or you'll be brought in before you get to your journey's end." "At twenty miles an hour," said Frank, "it is no more good to us than an ox-cart. It is nearly one o'clock now and two hours on the road would bring us there too late. I guess it's too late all right," and he turned away, deeply moved by the thought that his hard work, the three thousand-mile trip across the water, the ambitions of himself and of his friends, all went for naught. Tears of chagrin came to his eyes. "Nothing on earth can save us now," acquiesced the Codfish. "O Lord, if I only had an aeroplane with about a hundred horse-power motor in it," he wailed. "Guess they could accommodate you down at Burtside," said the officer who, now the incident was closed, showed a friendly interest in the two young men. "What do you mean?" Frank burst out. "Oh, there's a flyin' school down at Burtside, 'bout half a mile from here. Perhaps they'd rent one to you young chaps for the afternoon." "Great Peter!" cried the Codfish, "let's try. Here's a chance. Here," to the returned chauffeur, "drive us down to that aeroplane place if you know where it is. I'm going to buy one." "Yes, sir," said the chauffeur, thinking that the young Americans had better be favored for they were very likely mad as March hares. How could they be otherwise, having first run away with his machine and then, being deprived of that, willing to buy an air craft to continue the journey. But he piloted the boys to Burtside which proved to be a flying school of some importance with biplanes and monoplanes in the hangars, and two or three beginners at the flying game, receiving instruction. The boys quickly explained their errand. They wanted to get to London in desperate haste, trains couldn't accomplish it, automobiles at the rate they let them run over English roads couldn't and there was no other way but the air. The director of the school was not sure whether it could be done or not. Money, Gleason told him, was no object, which played its part in the decision. By good fortune one of the aviators in the school was a young American who had been flying with great success in England for a year. He heard of the plight of his compatriots, and readily agreed to take Frank up. He would take one or the other, but not both. "I'm willing to pay $200 if you will take Frank Armstrong to the Queen's Club, or as near to that point as you can get, and I'll give you an equal amount not to take me." "You needn't be afraid," said Butler, "I have no machine that will carry more than one passenger. It will have to be only one of you." "That suits us both. Armstrong, here, wants to go and I don't, so we're all satisfied." "Have you ever been up?" inquired Butler of Frank. "Never, but I'm determined to get to London if I can, and I don't care how it is." "All right," said Butler. "We have no time to lose. I'll get out the big biplane." The plane was run out of the hangar, examined closely by the attendants, looked over in a cursory manner by the aviator himself. "Now," he said to Frank, "hop up here alongside of me, to the right. Take hold of that wooden support and put your feet on this wire. Don't look down or you may get dizzy. I'm going about five hundred feet high. Keep your eyes straight ahead and forget you're flying." "Good-by, old fellow," said the Codfish, half in fun and half in earnest, as Frank climbed to his precarious place alongside the aviator, and then to Butler, "Where do you come down?" "One can never tell in this business, but I will try to land in Hendon, which is only about three miles from the Club." "And how long will it take?" "Somewhere about thirty minutes if the wind aloft is as steady and strong as it seems to be down here." "Frank, that will get you to Hendon at one-forty-five, and a taxi will do the rest. I'll come as fast as I can in the motor, and if we don't get pinched again I may get to dear old London in time to see the finish." "All ready," sang out Butler. A half dozen attendants clung fast to the trail of the big biplane while another spun the propeller. The engine immediately sprang into noisy life, the roar of the exhaust drowning out all human speech in the neighborhood. Gleason saw the hands of the aviator drop off the steering-wheel in a downward sweeping signal which meant "let go," a signal instantly obeyed by the attendants, who dropped flat on the ground while the great tail of the birdlike monster swept over their heads with an ever increasing rush. For fifty or sixty feet the running gear of the machine kept on the ground, but, as the velocity increased and Butler elevated his plane, the machine gradually cleared the earth and soared aloft. The Codfish watched it as it rose and followed it in the vastness of the sky vault until there was but a mere dot against the fluffy clouds in the northern sky. CHAPTER XIV. PROGRESS AND A WRECK. We will leave Frank Armstrong shooting Londonward in the largest passenger-carrying biplane in the Burtside School for Aviators, seated on a mere chip of a seat, holding on with a death grip to the slender upright of seasoned spruce, and turn our attention back to the morning at Brighton. Contrary to what Gleason and Frank imagined as they sat in their disabled motor on the highway some miles outside of Brighton at the hour their train was scheduled to leave, they were not missed at first. In the hurry of leaving their temporary training quarters, the team managers and assistants had so much to do that they left the business of getting from the hotel to the station, a matter of only a few hundred yards, to the individuals themselves. No one happened to notice, as they left the hotel in straggling groups of three and four, that Armstrong was not with them. At the station half a dozen compartments on the London train having been reserved in advance, the athletes tumbled aboard without even a thought of luggage, taking it for granted, with the usual cheerful carelessness of traveling athletes, that everything would be all right. Each was concerned only for himself. It was not to be thought of for a moment that any member of either team would be so foolish as to get himself left behind. The ten-thirty on the London and Brighton was the vestibule and corridor type of train, not like the ordinary single compartment coach in common use on English and Continental railroads. It was therefore possible to pass from car to car and from compartment to compartment on this train much the same as on an American Pullman train, and visiting between team members shortly began. Trainer Black, going the rounds, discovered that Armstrong was missing. At first it was thought that he, with his companion Gleason, had accidentally gotten into a wrong compartment, but a hasty search from end to end of the train disclosed the fact that he was not aboard at all. "I don't remember having seen him after breakfast," said the Yale captain. "Could he have gone up to London on the train ahead of us by any chance?" "No," returned McGregor, "Armstrong is very conscientious and would not disobey orders which were explicit enough about this train." "I'll bet a hat," said Halloby, "that his rattle-headed friend, Codfish Gleason, took him out for a ride this morning, and that something went wrong with the power-plant, and they are sitting on the road somewhere waiting for someone to tow them home." And, as it proved, Hurdler Halloby wasn't so far out of the way, excepting that, instead of sitting on the road, they were at that moment falling with a loud report into the hands of the law. So, perhaps, it was well that no one on the American team knew their exact location. "Come to think of it," said another, "I saw the chap they call Codfish swing around to the hotel this morning in a red runabout and a little later saw the runabout going off up the street, but didn't notice who was in it. But I do know that all three seats were full." "That's enough," said Black. "Gleason thinks he is the sole and special guard of Armstrong's health and happiness, and hired that automobile for the purpose of keeping the jumper's mind occupied with something besides jumping. I agreed to it myself. Now we lose a man on account of it." "Thank goodness," broke in the captain, "we didn't have to depend on him for an event or we'd have been in a bad way. If he should get to the grounds in time after all, I'd feel like punishing him by not allowing him to jump," snapped the captain. "He's punished already," said Black. "Probably eating his heart out somewhere. He's the most conscientious fellow I ever saw. It's his fool friend, the Codfish, who got him into any trouble that he's in." "I'll telegraph him to come on the next train," said the captain. "Will not do much good, I guess, the next train wouldn't get him there in time. But don't worry, he'll be there at those games if he hasn't met with a serious accident, or I miss my guess badly, but as for his doing any good, it's another matter." "It's too bad," growled Captain Harrington. "The papers will throw the hot shot into us for being careless. It makes us all look like dummies, confound the luck!" "Don't worry about it, Captain. You have enough on your hands, and Vare is a certain winner anyway in Armstrong's event. You have your own troubles this afternoon in the quarter. So take it easy, and quit worrying about something that really doesn't matter a great deal as far as actual results go." "I'm going to telegraph, just the same," returned the captain, "to the Grand. They would probably go there when they found we had gone, eh?" "Go ahead, it will do no harm," admitted Black. So Harrington sent off a telegram from a station fifteen miles or so from London. A bit peremptory the telegram was, but it relieved the captain's feelings. This was the telegram: "Frank Armstrong, The Grand, Brighton. Come to London on next train, take taxi to Queen's Club immediately afterwards. Absolutely no excuse for missing team train." But this telegram, as we have seen, never reached the man for whom it was intended. At one o'clock taxicabs dropped the Yale-Harvard athletes, attendants, and trainers at the south gate of Queen's Club. Already several thousand people had gathered in the stands, and a steady stream was pouring in the gates, not with the impetuosity that distinguishes an American crowd, but interested withal in the games they were shortly to see. The majority of the crowd was, of course, English, but the Americans made a brave showing. They gathered together, apparently for mutual support, halfway down the track stretch and at once selected a cheer leader who was now working up enthusiasm by an occasional yell, simply to let the enemy know that young America would be heard from in more ways than one. A surprising number of Americans had come together for the event. Not all were Harvard and Yale men, although members of these two institutions predominated. Students and graduates from universities all over the United States might have been seen in the crowd. It was not a Harvard-Yale affair to them, it was America against England, and everyone from the far side of the Atlantic was there to lend a shout for his countrymen. College lines were forgotten. Along the track-side and in the grand stand speculation was rife as to the outcome of the games. Experts had figured out just how the various men were to finish, and the figures had been printed in the morning papers and in the noon editions. All admitted, however, that the match would be an extremely close one with the chances slightly in favor of the visitors. "Well," said one confident young man in the group of Americans, "we'll take the hundred, two-twenty and both the hurdles. I'd bet my last dollar on that. These Englishmen can't get their legs moving in a short distance." "Ah, yes, but then when it comes to the longer distance we can't keep our wind going. That's where they have us." "Oh, I don't know, there's Harrington, the Yale captain, who can certainly get away with the quarter. He's been doing under fifty seconds right along. He will give us the fifth event, and all we need to tie is one more, and to win, two more. Why, Dick, old fel, it's a cinch." "And what are the other two events, please, Sir Prophet?" "Shot for one, they can't beat old red-top McGinnis. These English chaps never learned how to put a shot anyway, and there's the high jump, certainly ours; it's like taking money from a baby." "Sounds like seven wins, the way you have it figured out." "It is seven places or my training as to what five and two make is all to the bad. I tell you it's a cinch. I'd put up all my spare cash on it, and walk home cheerfully if I lost out. But, pshaw! we can't lose!" Conversation was checked by the appearance of several athletes who had emerged from the Club locker-room doorway, and who were walking across the turfed stretch to the track. They were seen to be Americans, and a ringing shout went up from their supporters which brought smiles to the faces of the young athletes. The English spectators applauded the Americans with hand-clapping. By twos and threes the athletes made their appearance on the track before the hour set for the beginning of the games, for the day was bright and warm and the sun of more advantage to them than the shade and cool of the training quarters. It is not our purpose to narrate in detail the doings of the half hundred athletes who struggled for the honor of their colleges and country that afternoon nor how records fell and predictions of experts were set at naught, how the balance swung this way and that, how the mercurial American cheer-leader ruined the throats of his countrymen for the encouragement of the team striving desperately on field and track. We are more intimately concerned with Frank Armstrong whom we left a thousand feet more or less in the air, taking a last desperate chance to be in at the finish on the Queen's Club track. Frank afterwards said that he experienced no fear of any kind as the flying machine glided upward from the earth. At first there was the sensation of great speed, though the machine was comparatively close to the ground, but as the height increased that sensation diminished. Instead of the machine seeming to rise, the earth seemed to drop away leaving the machine stationary. Below, the country revealed itself like a map, with the highways and lanes standing out sharply. To the south he got the glint of the English Channel, and to the north was a great black smudge which he took to be London with its smoke from tens of thousands of chimneys. "Going higher," shouted Butler. "Bad currents down here." The words came faintly to Frank through the roaring of the wind and the sharp crackle of the engine exhaust. The plane plunged and rocked in an air billow. "Go ahead as far as you want to," shouted Frank, "but get me there." He had lost all sensation of fear and almost of interest in the flight. His mind was on Queen's Club. Steadily the machine climbed until the green of the trees and the grass all became as one, and the red tiles of the roofs showed only as a splash of color among the vast expanse of green. At the greater height of perhaps two thousand feet, where Butler found better currents, Frank thought the country below seemed more than ever like a map in one of his old school geographies. Twenty towns and cities lay within the range of his vision and, by turning his head slightly, he could distinguish, across the whole width of the Channel, the dim outlines of the shores of France. The motor of the big biplane, which had been running with the precision of a well-timed clock for the space of half an hour, began to give evidence of something wrong with its internals. It skipped, stuttered in its rhythm for a moment and then went on, only to repeat in a moment. The aviator, helpless in this emergency, merely jiggled his spark lever, but the stuttering of the motor continued, and then with a most disconcerting suddenness the motor stopped entirely. "We've got to come down," shouted Butler, "but I'll make our fall as long as possible. Hold tight." Frank needed no urging. He felt the death of the steady forward movement and the grip of gravity as the biplane began to drop with incredible swiftness toward the earth. But it was a drop which was controlled by the cool-headed Butler, and every foot of the drop took them nearer to their destination. Five hundred feet below, Frank saw a little patch of green field entirely free from trees or shrubbery, and to this he rightly guessed the aviator was heading. It looked like a golf course from that height, and, indeed, proved to be. Now they were directly over the haven which Butler had picked out, and it seemed in a fair way to pass it, when the flyer banked hard to the left, almost pivoted on his left wing, brought the machine around over the golf links again and, with a final swooping spiral came to earth with a shock sufficiently hard to snap off at the hub one of the wheels of the biplane's running gear. CHAPTER XV. THE MATCH AT QUEEN'S CLUB. "Sorry," said Butler, "I couldn't land you where I promised, but this motor has played hob with me. She's been acting badly for a week." A score of people came running up. "Hurt, hurt?" they cried. "Hurt? no!" said Frank, "only disappointed. We were heading for Hendon. How far is it to Queen's Club grounds?" "'Bout five miles," volunteered someone. "Is there a taxicab place about here anywhere?" inquired Frank. "I've got to get to Queen's Club on the double quick." He looked at his watch. It showed three minutes of two. The games were about to begin! "Butler, excuse me if I leave you," cried Frank. "Go to it, boy," said Butler, "and the Lord bless you." Heading in the direction of a taxicab stand, Frank started off on a sharp trot, but was doomed to disappointment as not a taxi was available at that moment, and the man in the little office wasn't hopeful that any would be back right away. "They may come any minute, and there may not be a blooming one for half an hour. If you'll take the 'bus on the next street, it will take you within half a mile of Queen's Club grounds." Scarcely waiting to hear the last words, Frank darted for the street mentioned, and, after a wait of five minutes, boarded an electric 'bus bound for West Kensington. Fortunately, he found a seat-mate who was well acquainted with what was going on at Queen's Club that day. "Going to see the games, I suppose," he said. From him Frank learned that a short cut could be made which would be of considerable help as a time-reducer. Fixing the direction in his mind, he sprang from the 'bus at the street indicated, and started on a run in the general direction of the Club. As he ran, the last instructions of Trainer Black came to his mind: "Take it easy till the games, and keep off your feet." He could not suppress a grim smile as he pounded along, running flat-footed to keep as much spring as possible in his toes if he ever reached the track and if he was in time when he did reach there. Always he kept an eye out for a taxi, but fate was against him and he saw none excepting those with fares seated therein, and whirling along on their own business. Losing his way, finding it again with the help of passers-by, and nearly but not quite despairing of there ever having been such a place in London as the Queen's Club, he was halted by a college yell, sharp and incisive, delivered comparatively near. Getting his bearings from the direction in which the yell came, he dashed through a short street and stood before the main gate of the Club. "Is it over?" he panted to the officer at the gate. "The meet--is it over?" "Who are you?" asked the officer, staring at the newcomer, whose eyes, fierce in their intensity, looked out from a face streaked with sweat and dirt. "I'm one of the competitors," gasped Frank. "Ho, ho!" laughed the officer, "you look it. Did you run all the way from New York?" "I _am one of the competitors_," said Frank, emphasizing every word, "and through an accident got left at Brighton. Please let me go to the training quarters of the American team." "Well, 'ere's a rum cove. Comes up 'ere and wants to get passed into the gymes for nothink." For a few minutes it looked as if, after all his trouble to get to the Club grounds, he was to be held up outside while his chance was lost. Finally, however, he induced the officer to send a messenger to the American quarters, and in half a minute he was snatched through the gate by an assistant trainer and stood in the presence of Captain Harrington, who was just going out for his quarter. The captain looked him over with cold, hard eyes. "You're a little late," he said. "We don't bring men across the Atlantic to have them late for the beginning of a track meet. You are no value to us. We will not need you." Frank opened his mouth to speak, but Harrington interrupted sharply with "I don't want to hear excuses," and passed on to the start of his event. Frank did not have the heart even to look at the race which was slated to go to the Americans through the superior ability of the Yale captain. Trainer Black looked up when he entered the building, but said nothing. Frank felt as if he had been thrown into outer darkness. He ground his teeth in impotent rage and dropped into a chair, listening in a half-hearted way to the little volley of spontaneous cheering which drifted through the window. "What's that?" cried Trainer Black, and dashed out the door. "Sounds like an English cheer!" An English cheer it was, and it announced the victory of a Cambridge "dark horse" who had run the Yale quarter-mile champion off his feet in the stretch. A minute later Harrington staggered into the room, and threw himself face downward on a table. "This loses us the meet," said a rubber in a whisper. "To think that Harrington should lose out, of all people. He loafed too much in the first part of the race and couldn't hold the sprint at the end. It was a foxy trick the Englishman worked, but a fair win enough." "Where's Armstrong, where's Armstrong?" came the excited call by Trainer Black. Frank stood up. "Here," he said simply. "Get into your clothes," Black shouted. "Why are you sitting there like a dummy? Here, some of you fellows help him. Patsy, rub his leg muscles a bit--Jack, help Patsy. Move lively!" Frank tore off his clothes, and in half a minute his leg muscles were being slapped and kneaded by the two rubbers as if their life depended on doing a quick and thorough job. "It's like this," said Black, coming over to the rubbing table. "Everything went about as scheduled until Harrington fell down in his quarter. That leaves us short an event we counted on." "Did we get the shot?" "No, confound it, that Rhodes scholar from Dakota beat our man out on the last try." "So the Englishmen have now two more than we calculated?" "Exactly, and there isn't a ghost of a chance of their losing the two-mile run unless their men choke." "And the broad-jump?" inquired Frank, weakly. "You've got to win that!" Black said it as if it was by no means an unusual request. "Win it?" gasped Frank. "What has Vare done?" "Took only three jumps the last of which was twenty-three feet, and hasn't jumped again. McGregor's been dragging his tries along, hoping that you would turn up, but he hasn't been able to do better than twenty-two six. Armstrong, if you can turn the trick on Vare it will give us the meet. You've got to do it!" he added vehemently. Frank rolled from the rubbing table, slipped into his scanty track suit, and, with the Yale manager, trotted quickly to the field. "I suppose you are in good shape," suggested the manager hopefully. "Were you resting and keeping off your feet?" In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Frank could hardly restrain a grin. "Keeping off my feet!" he thought. "If they knew what I've been through to get here! Guess I'm all right," he said aloud. McGregor greeted Frank enthusiastically. "Where in the name of Billy Patterson have you been?" and then, without waiting for an answer: "This Vare is a grasshopper. He has this event cinched, you and I are only ornaments, not real jumpers at all, and the Johnny Bulls have decided they've licked the Yankees for once in their lives--look! they're beginning to go!" Then to Frank: "For pity's sake, let out a link and make a good showing. I'm tied to the ground with a bag of lead in each heel." Frank did not need any urging. The complacent attitude of the Englishmen, who were beginning to file out in groups of three or four, their faces showing the satisfaction of sure victory, added to his determination. He had made a desperate struggle to be where he was now, and he was not going to let it end there. Measuring off the runway with more than ordinary care, Vare set his marks, and, after two or three practice runs, loped down the runway and made his first leap. "Twenty-two feet, four inches," sang out the measurer. Vare had walked to the jumping pit. A flicker of a smile crossed his face, he nodded cheerfully to his Cambridge jumping mate, and picking up his jersey swung it across his shoulder, and, without another look at the Americans, turned his face to the track house. "His Lordship Vare de Vare has published to the world that it's all over, Frank," said McGregor. "I'd give a good right leg if I could beat him, he's so mighty superior. But I've only got one more jump, and it's not in me. If you don't want to see my poor busted heart cluttering up this field, go after him." "It's now or never," said Frank to himself as he walked slowly down the runway. "What was it Princewell said--think high when you hit the take-off--think high---- I'll think a mile high if it will help!" In spite of the difficulties he had undergone in getting to the Club, he was keyed to such a state of nervous excitement that he felt as if he were walking on air. The hard incidents of the morning were forgotten, the thrilling ride in the air machine, the abrupt landing, the killing run through torrid streets, the frigid reception of his captain. Now, with his opportunity at hand he became cool and calculating. He had a splendid reserve of strength to call upon, and he would call it to the last ounce. Down the runway came Armstrong like a flash, first slowly, then with a great burst of speed. His eye was fixed on the take-off block, but his mind was on that four-foot hurdle supposed to be six feet out there in the pit. He struck the block perfectly and, with hands thrown high in the air and feet drawn up to clear the imaginary hurdle, he sailed up and forward, struck at last in the pit and held his full distance. With a shout McGregor, recognizing a good jump, sprang from the bench and ran forward to the jumping pit from which Frank was just stepping, brushing away the loam that clung to his ankles. "Twenty-three feet, even," the announcer bawled. Coming so unexpectedly, the announcement for a moment fell on deaf ears. Then, as the full significance became apparent, the Americans in the stand set up a piercing and spontaneous yell which startled and turned back the crowd already moving in larger and larger numbers in the direction of the gate. "Y-e-a-a-a--Armstrong!" yelled McGregor in a frenzy of delight, and fell upon that individual like a long lost brother, beat him upon the back and capered about like a man bereft of his senses. "It means that old Claude Vare de Vare, Lord of Creation and Elsewhere, has got to come back and do it over again! We have a chance! Oh, Armstrong, it means we have a chance!" Interest in the stand immediately became intense. People who were leaving returned to their seats. "A ripping jump!" commented an Englishman as he reseated himself, "but Vare will take his measure." Vare had been sent for, and was even now walking calmly across the track with an attitude which said plainly: "What's all this fuss about anyway? We'll settle this now once and for all." A ripple of applause and hand-clapping ran through the stands as Vare turned to face the pit at the far end of the runway, and glanced down the narrow way now hedged with faces. He was a champion of champions, and would show them how a champion jumped. But not that time, for his best effort fell under twenty-three feet. Surprised at his poor jump, he lost his composure and, against the advice of his friends, took a second jump without rest, and that, too, fell below his jump of twenty-three feet. The news that Armstrong had equaled Vare's best jump spread to the locker rooms of the two teams, and excitement ran high. What had seemed like an event lost for a certainty to the Americans, had in a moment been turned into a possibility. McGregor had taken his last jump without changing the situation in any way. Thereafter he devoted himself to encouraging Armstrong, whose magnificent leap had raised the hopes of the whole American contingent. "You have him now, Frank," McGregor whispered as, with arm over Frank's shoulder, the two walked down the runway. "He let himself get cold, and I'll bet he can't reach twenty-three feet again." But McGregor was mistaken. Vare, the champion, after he had had more life rubbed into his muscles, shot down the runway and cleared twenty-three feet, one inch and a half. A little scattering cheer from the Englishmen, and Vare sat down on the jumpers' bench, his face showing the relief he felt. "I'm all right now," he said to an anxious, inquiring teammate, "but I felt jolly well frozen those first two jumps, though." "The meet," bawled the announcer, facing the grand stand, "now stands six events for America and six for England, with the broad-jump still to be decided. Vare, of Oxford, has the longest jump to his credit--twenty-three feet, one and a half inches, which he made in breaking the tie created by Armstrong, of Yale, with a jump of twenty-three feet, which is _his_ best at present." At this moment Captain Harrington came onto the track in street clothes. He walked up to Frank: "Armstrong," he said, "Jack told me all about your troubles getting here. I want to tell you you made a game fight to correct the original mistake. I know you were personally not at fault. Here's my hand on it!" Frank took the proffered hand. His captain had taken him back into the fold, and his heart swelled almost to the bursting point with sudden joy. If Frank needed anything to make him unbeatable that afternoon, the thing had come to pass. "I'll try to justify your faith in me," was all he said, but his eyes shone with a new light. Coming down the runway with a surpassing rush of speed, he hit the take-off perfectly on his next trial, and soared into the air. Spectators, who saw him, said afterward that he seemed to take a step at the highest point of his flight, but it was only the first appearance of the famous "scissors hitch" used by other great jumpers before him, and which he had simply happened on, in his endeavor to get great distance. He struck squarely on his feet in almost a sitting posture, but his impetus carried him forward so powerfully that he pitched head-first into the soft loam of the pit. He held every inch of his great jump, however. For it was a great jump. That could be seen by anyone, and the officials and trackmen gathered around while a careful measurement was taken. The serene Vare was sufficiently stirred himself to crowd close to the pit. "What is it, what is it?" snapped Harrington who could hardly await the rather deliberate speech of the man at the end of the steel tape, who was taking his time to make certain. "Twenty-three feet, four inches!" The cheer of the small group of men on the track itself was taken as a good omen by the Americans in the stand, and these latter at once delivered themselves of a full-grown yell, which echoed back from the brick dwellings which surround the field. "Twenty-three feet, four inches!" came the announcement, bawled to all sides of the field through the megaphone, and again the American yells broke out. In the storm of cheering which Frank's great jump had elicited, Vare was seen to rise to his feet and walk slowly to the start of the runway. Two of his teammates went with him, and at each of his important marks he stopped and scrutinized them carefully as if he was not sure in his own mind that they were just right. Twice he tried the full runway from the start to the take-off block, making new marks for his guidance. And now, being quite ready, he made his first of the three tries allotted to him. On the first he cleared twenty-three feet, two inches, and on the second bettered this mark by half an inch. "Only an inch and a half behind you, Armstrong," said McGregor, in a nervous staccato, "but I'll eat my shoes, spikes and all, if he can equal that one of yours." "If he does," said Frank, "it's all over, I'm afraid. How I came to get that far out is more than I can understand. It's a dream, don't wake me!" Silence settled over the crowd as Vare faced the pit for his last trial. His face was drawn and white. Now he moves forward, crouching a little, with chin out and jaws tightly clenched. The loping run develops at half distance into a sweeping rush, the Englishman hits the take-off squarely, and leaps with every ounce of energy in his body--up, up, out, out, he goes, while the spectators at the track side hold their breaths. Now he has reached the full height of his jump, and is coming down. Will his drive carry him far enough to win? He is down in the pit, topped over by the impetus of his rush, but the jump is clean, and the measurers are at work. Carefully the tape is placed, carefully it is read, and then---- "Twenty-three feet, three and one-quarter inches," comes the announcement. The Americans go mad now indeed, for the meet is won, since the Oxford champion has failed to equal Armstrong's magnificent jump by three-quarters of an inch, not much, it is true, but enough to make the difference between victory and defeat. Just as the jubilation was at its height, a dusty, grimy youth, in what were once white flannels, rushed through the gate, and threw himself on Frank as the latter was being escorted like a young prince of the blood to the club house. "I knew you would do it, you old lobster," cried the newcomer, who was none other than Codfish Gleason. "Sorry I couldn't get in at the death, but I was arrested three times for moving too fast for these Johnnies, and paid a five-pound fine every time. I couldn't have gone much further for my money was running short." To say that Frank Armstrong was the hero of the occasion is to tell only a part of the truth. The youngest man on either team had achieved the greatest glory, and his teammates were not slow in acknowledging the fact. At the dinner that night in London, given to members of the four teams, Frank was called on to make a speech, and it was the shortest on record: "I did the best I could," after which he sat down covered with confusion, amid loud applause. The next day came the sight-seeing in London and some of the nearby towns, and then a generous and thankful management stood the expense of a trip for the American winners to Amsterdam, to Cologne, to Lausanne, where the song-birds of the party serenaded the girls' school there, and then to Paris, with many side trips. But, in spite of the beauties and wonders of the strange countries, Frank said afterward that the best sight of all was the shores of Long Island viewed from the deck of the homing Cunarder. CHAPTER XVI. MAKING THE 'VARSITY NINE. Frank Armstrong returned to college in the fall with a reputation. His remarkable jumping which won the deciding event of the meet at Queen's Club in London, and no less the picturesque manner in which he had made his way from Brighton that eventful day, had been spread widely in the newspapers, and no one within reach of the cable or telegraph but knew the details of the story. But the publicity and adulation in no way disturbed Frank's balance. He was much too level-headed for that, and went about his work the most unassuming of his classmates. "Nothing to make such a fuss about," he used to say. "I simply had to do it. That's all there is to it." The luck of the room drawings had landed our three friends in Connecticut Hall, that century and a half memorial to old Yale. "Comfortable and musty," was the Codfish's comment when he had heard the news. David Powers had drawn a room in Welch Hall directly opposite. It was David's secret ambition to win a position on the Literary Magazine, and to this end he had applied himself industriously in the Freshman year. He succeeded in getting several essays and a poem accepted by the august editors. He had tried himself out, and was now going after the coveted honor with high determination. Out on the football field the annual preparation for the great struggles with Harvard and Princeton was going on. James Turner and Frank Armstrong were enrolled as members of the squad, and took their daily medicine on the second eleven. Frank's lack of weight--he was still only about one hundred and fifty pounds--prevented him from competing on an even footing with ends twenty pounds heavier, with which the 'Varsity was well supplied that year. The quarterback position was so well filled that he despaired of winning his way there and the coaches, evidently of the same opinion, kept him where he had played on the Freshman team. Turner, on the other hand, had added weight and was in a fair way to win a place somewhere in the back field. Frank put in a great deal of time under the direction of the punting coach, and made good progress at that department of the game, but at drop-kicking he had little opportunity. "Drop-kicking isn't Yale's way of scoring," said Jimmy Turner one night when the day's work was being discussed in the Connecticut Hall room before a crackling fire of log-wood. "The coaches want a team that can carry the ball over the goal-line, not one that can boot it over the cross-bar." "I know it looks better to have the force drive the other fellow back across his own goal, but since these new rules went into effect it's mighty seldom you ever see it in a big game. But I'm not knocking. I'll keep at the drop-kicking and hope for a chance." But the chance for Frank did not come. In two of the smaller games he was called in the fourth quarter with a number of other substitutes, and when the team play was badly disorganized because so few regulars were in the line. He played at end in each case and was pulled back for the punting. Once with a good opportunity for a field goal on the opponent's twenty-yard line, a poor protection allowed a lineman to get through and block the ball--a thing which very nearly resulted in a touchdown against Yale, for a free end picked up the loose ball and was not brought down until he was well into Yale's territory. While Armstrong was not at all to blame, the general crowd saw only that his kick was blocked and considered him unsafe as a drop-kicker. Turner won his Y in the Princeton game when he was sent in to relieve Cummings, the right halfback, a few minutes before the final whistle, but Armstrong's chance didn't come. He sat through the four quarters and saw the Yale team win at the very end. A week later Armstrong was among the blanketed figures on the side-lines, who watched the struggle of Yale and Harvard up and down the gridiron, with hopes rising and falling as the tide turned one way or the other. At the very end of the game, with the score against Yale, a fumble in the Harvard back field gave Yale possession of the ball on Harvard's thirty-yard line. The Yale stand rose en masse and begged for a touchdown, but two assaults were stopped with scant advance. The coach ran down the line, looking among his substitutes. "Armstrong, get ready to go in," he said in a quiet, tense voice, but even as Frank jumped to his feet to obey the summons, the whistle blew and the game was over. "Another year coming," Frank said quietly as Jimmy, with arm across his roommate's shoulder, on their way from the field, protested against the hard luck. "You're pretty cheerful about it," commented Turner, "and you deserved the chance as much as I did." "If I had been good enough, I'd have gone in before. The coaches know what they are about. If I ever get enough weight on me, I'll have a better chance to make the eleven." "And then you'll not be able to jump twenty-three feet," said Turner; "for every compensation there's some setback. That's the way of life." The Codfish was bitter in his condemnation of the entire coaching system which did not discover Armstrong's "supreme merit." "The idea of not using you, Frank, when they had every chance in that last quarter. I call it a murdering shame! They might have pulled out the game." Frank laughed. "I recognize your talent as a musician and your loyalty as a friend and your virtue as a gentleman, but I still think the coaches knew their jobs, and that when they didn't send me in they had good and sufficient reason for it. I'm not kicking. Anyway, I have two more chances, so what's the use of crying?" The Codfish continued to growl about the "injustice" for several days, and then, like everyone else, forgot all about football and turned his attentions to the future. Before the fall Frank had taken occasional dips in the pool when not overtired by the work at the Field. Max, foreseeing a recruit for his swimmers, took pains to encourage him, and, later, at the suggestion of Captain Wilson of the swimming team, Frank became a member of the squad. After the close of the football season, being well up in his studies and glad of the opportunity to take up a form of athletics which appealed to him strongly, he went at the work with great earnestness. In the try-outs Armstrong won his right to a place on the team in the fifty and one hundred yards, having covered these distances in good time, and, when the intercollegiate meets came along, he did his share in point-winning for Yale. "Armstrong," said Captain Wilson one afternoon as the two were resting after a practice spin of one hundred and fifty yards, "did you ever try to swim a two-twenty?" "Used to go more than that distance in open water, but never in the tank. Why?" "Well, McGill, the Canadian university, is sending a team down here in February. They have two or three crackajacks up there and they are making a little southern trip. I've just wired them the date and I'd like to make as good a showing as possible." "We ought to be pretty good excepting in the two-twenty," said Frank. "And if you'll work for that distance we ought to be pretty good there, too. I'll take care of the hundred as well as I know how, and I'll let Hobbs swim the fifty." "And who swims the two-twenty for McGill?" "Hopkins, the Olympic champion." Frank gave a long whistle. "And so you want me to be the goat? All right, Mr. Captain, I'll do my best and lead the goat right up to the altar to be sacrificed by the Olympic champion. But to do it gracefully, I ought to have some coaching in that distance." "And you're going to get it. I've sent for Burton to come up and give us a little advice. He was one of our best men at the distance as well as at the hundred." "Yes, I know him. Taught me to swim." "Really! Well, that's fine. He has the knack of teaching, and can tell you the tricks of the furlong if anyone can." The McGill meet was only two weeks off, and Frank began his training in earnest. Twice a day he swam the furlong, first at a moderate gait and then quickening the stroke until he was traveling at good speed throughout the distance. Burton came up from New York and spent a portion of two days with him, and, before the coaching was over, Frank had the satisfaction of beating out his old teacher of the crawl stroke. "You're too good for me now," gasped Burton as he pulled himself out of the water at the end of the race. "I'll have to leave you to the tender mercies of Hopkins himself." The night of the meet finally came around, and the building was all too small to hold the hundreds who crowded to the pool doors. Every seat was sold long in advance and standing room was crowded almost to suffocation. The attraction was, of course, Hopkins, who had been taking the measure of every swimmer at his distance that he had met, and who was heralded as the greatest swimmer in the world over the furlong distance. After Wilson had won the hundred and Hobbs had lost the fifty-yard contest, Hopkins sauntered carelessly from the dressing room, clad in a black silk racing suit. He proved to be a tall and powerful young man, heavily muscled. Alongside of him, as the two stood perched on the pool end, Frank looked very slender, but there was a suggestion of concealed strength in the latter's well-rounded limbs and of vitality and staying power in the deep chest. "Two-twenty yards even!" sang out the referee. "Eight lengths and sixty feet. Hopkins, the Olympic champion on the left for McGill; Armstrong on the right for Yale. Ready! Get set! GO!" At the word, both bodies shot through the air and hit the water like one. The champion used a long, rather slow but powerful trudgeon which was peculiarly mixed with the crawl in the leg action; Armstrong used a quicker crawl, in which the legs were scarcely bent at the knee, but were thrashed rapidly in a very narrow angle. The crowd expected the champion to pull away at once, but when the two turned at the far end of the pool, they turned at exactly the same instant. Down to the starting point the swimmers came, moving with great speed, but still the Yale man stayed with his big opponent with grim determination, and even finished the fifty a fraction of a second in advance of his Canadian opponent, shooting away on the second fifty still in the lead. Twice more the swimmers covered the length of the tank without relative change in position. And now the crowd, with nearly half the race over, seeing that their representative was holding his own, rose to their feet and delivered a wild yell which echoed among the high girders of the place, and from that time they did not cease to yell at the game fight waged in the water below them. At the one hundred and fifty-yard mark, Armstrong, putting on a burst of speed, led his great rival by five or six feet. Hopkins, who had never changed his steady drive for a moment, now quickened his thresh perceptibly, and in another length of the tank had almost overhauled the Yale man who was kicking along with every pound of energy in his body. Armstrong still led, but as they approached the two hundred-yard mark, there was less than a yard separating them. "Armstrong! Armstrong! Armstrong!" yelled the crowd. But the boy who was causing all the excitement was not conscious of anything but a dull roaring in his head. The noise of the cheering came to him faintly, much more faintly than the splash, splash of Hopkins's arms just behind him, and, even as he looked out of the corner of a water-filled eye, the relentless Canadian drew up nearer and still nearer. "Sixty feet to go!" Frank heard in a dull sort of way the official's voice. Could he do it, that impossible distance? His throat was parched and his chest seemed bursting with the strain of the pumping heart. Could he live for sixty feet more? It was a thousand miles. Summoning every last ounce of will pressure, he drove ahead blindly, following mechanically the swimming lines on the pool bottom with no help from smarting eyes. Somewhere near was Hopkins, he could feel the swirl of water from his powerful arm drives, but whether Hopkins was ahead or behind he could not tell. His arms were like lead, his legs paralyzed. A great weariness settled upon him, a great and compelling burden which benumbed all the faculties of brain and body. About fifteen minutes later Frank found himself lying on a couch in the room of the 'Varsity swimming team, with several anxious faces looking down at him, among them that of Hopkins. "What's the matter?" he asked in a bewildered way. "Nothing, 'cepting you drowned yourself," said Captain Wilson, "dead as a door nail." "Did I finish?" he asked very weakly. "You certainly did, you finished the race and yourself at the same time. Two of us had to go to the bottom for you," said the Captain. "You sank like a stone." "That's where I went to sleep, then?" "I guess so, you had us scared, I tell you." "You gave me a great race, Armstrong," said Hopkins, "one of the hardest I ever had. It wasn't record time, but it was as fast as the two-twenty is generally done. I only won by a few inches, and mighty lucky to get it at that," admitted the Canadian generously. "If I made you work, I'm satisfied," said Frank weakly. "I hadn't a ghost of a chance to win, but I set out to make you work for your victory." "And you did," returned Hopkins laughing. CHAPTER XVII. THE SOUTHERN TRIP. "Congratulations to our noble little pitcher," cried the Codfish. "I see you are drafted for honors on the Southern trip." It was mid-March and the baseball work in the cage was over. The 'Varsity nine had been at work on the open field for nearly a week, and Frank Armstrong as well as Jimmy Turner were members of the squad. Frank had shown possibilities as a pitcher, while Turner was considered a substitute catcher in second or third place. The occasion for Gleason's congratulations was the announcement in the _News_ that not only Turner but Armstrong as well was among those selected to make the trip always taken to the South by the 'Varsity nine for practice at the time of the Easter vacation. Frank Quinton, a new graduate coach, who had taken charge of the baseball situation, had been attracted by Armstrong's earnestness and his peculiar ability to put the ball over the plate, and had undertaken with some success to teach him the art of curving the ball and at the same time retaining his control. Under the new coach's guidance the pitcher had done particularly well, and it was no surprise to anyone that he was included among the twenty players who were slated to make the trip. His chief competitors were Gilbert, a Junior, and Martin, a Senior, both more experienced in the box, but neither of first class quality. Appleton, the pitcher of the 'Varsity the year before, had graduated, and on these three named the hopes of the Yale team centered. "And is our old friend, the trouble maker, coming along with us?" inquired Turner. "Bettcher life," returned the Codfish. "Things might run too smoothly if I stayed at home." "You certainly can be depended upon to add a little dash of pepper wherever you are," said Frank laughing. "You have no cause to complain, old fel," retorted Gleason. "If I hadn't got you two thousand feet in the air last summer you could never have won your broad-jump, nor have had the chance to have your picture printed in the papers with the story of your sweet young life." "Perhaps all that excitement did help," said Frank, "but in the future we will take no more chances in an airship." "I'll promise you that much anyway," returned the Codfish, "but just the same I think a good deal of credit is due to your humble servant for that victory last July. Of course, I don't expect any credit for it from the unthinking public or my selfish roommates, but I have my own congratulations anyway." "And that's a lot," laughed Frank. "Do you go down with the team?" "Yes, all arranged, tickets, Pullman, boat, everything. I'm one of that noble band of 'heelers' who brave everything to be a supporter and lend a yell in the hostile country when most needed." "Bully for you, Codfish," cried Turner. "We may need you, but leave your automobile at home." The itinerary of the southern trip included Washington, where the tour opened with a game with Georgetown; Charlottesville, Va.; Richmond and Norfolk. At the latter place three games were to be played, then was to follow a boat trip up the Chesapeake Bay to Washington, where a second game was to be played with Georgetown. Everyone was looking forward to the delights of warm sun and spring breezes in the land of flowers, for the March winds on Yale field had been anything but conducive to good ball playing. But spring was reluctant even in the south, and warm days were few and far between. Yale lost the first game with Georgetown with Martin in the box, and fared no better with the University of Virginia nine when Gilbert, who was supposed to be the most effective of the Yale staff of pitchers, went down before the fusillade of hits. "You will start the game with the Norfolk League team to-morrow," said Coach Quinton to Armstrong as the players were leaving the dinner table at the hotel in Norfolk. "This will be one of the best games of the trip and I want to win it." "All right, sir," returned Frank. "I'll do my best." Frank won his game, but at heavy expense. For five innings he pitched great ball and kept the league hitters to two runs, while the Yale team, finding themselves, batted out seven runs by clean hitting and fast base-running. Then in the sixth Frank began to slow up and the Norfolk batters reached his delivery frequently, but runs were cut off by superb playing of the Yale infield. Every ball he pitched sent a sting through his muscles with a pain almost unbearable, but he kept on to the end of the inning. "What's the matter with you?" inquired the coach as he came to the bench. "Is your arm bothering you?" "Yes, something seems to be wrong with it. Hurts like thunder." Quinton knew only too well the symptoms. Armstrong had "thrown his arm out," a not uncommon thing in early spring baseball. His muscles, not sufficiently worked out, had been injured in the delivery of the speed ball he had been pitching. Martin finished the game and held it safely, but Frank pitched no more that trip nor during the season for the 'Varsity. For a time after returning to New Haven he was worked in the outfield, but even there was at a disadvantage because he could not shoot the ball on a long throw from the outfield. So he was displaced by a weaker hitter, and shortly after went over to the track squad where he was received with open arms by the trainer, who foresaw a certainty of added points in the coming track meets. And he was not disappointed, for Frank, now out of baseball because of his accident, gave his entire time to the perfection of the broad jump, and won first place at the Harvard and Princeton dual meets. He took second place to the great Moffatt who made the trip across the continent from the University of California, and set a mark at twenty-three feet nine inches, which even Frank's unusual skill failed to equal, although on three different trials he had improved on his jump at the Queen's Club in London. Armstrong was now rated as one of the best jumpers in any of the colleges. But his ambitions in the direction of baseball and football had failed to materialize through accidents of one sort or another. He was the kind of a boy, however, who was willing to do as well as it was possible the thing that was available without repining about the things impossible. During the stay at Norfolk the Codfish sustained his reputation as a friend of trouble. On the way down from Washington he had scraped acquaintance with a classmate named Chalmers, who had some acquaintances in Norfolk. The party was hardly established at the hotel when Gleason hunted up his friend Chalmers and suggested that they take a ride in one of the snappy looking motor cars that stood in front of the hotel for hire. Chalmers pleaded poverty. "Only four dollars an hour," said Gleason, "and we can look all over the town. Bully old place, all wistaria and pretty girls and happy darkies. Come on, don't be a tight wad!" "Four dollars an hour would break me. At that price I could ride about ten minutes. Let's walk," suggested Chalmers. "Oh, come on, let's show these southerners some speed. I have fifteen dollars in my inside pocket. There's a perfectly ripping blue car out front with a darky all fussed up to beat the band. It looks like a private rig and all that. One hour will do the trick, and I'll foot the bill." That argument moved Chalmers, whose finances were low. Together the boys located the blue motor car with its snappy driver, immediately after lunch, and tumbled into the tonneau. "Where do you-all want to go?" inquired the driver. "Oh, just show us around," said the Codfish, with a wave of the hand. "Show us all the flossy streets and the monuments, but I warn you now I don't climb any of them. Fire away." Thus admonished, the driver headed his machine in the direction of Ghent, threading the streets of the quaint old town while the boys lay back luxuriously on the cushions of the tonneau. "Gee whiz," said Chalmers, as the blue car rolled down Boissevain avenue, "there's Miss Smith or I'm an Injun." "Where, who and what?" inquired the Codfish, immediately alert. "Just coming down the steps of that white house over there." "Know her?" "Sure. Kid sister's roommate at school or something like that. Been at our house once. Promised Sis I'd look her up, but didn't expect to have time." "Gee, but she's a pippin," said the Codfish, enthusiastically. "Let's ask her to take a ride in our pretty blue car!" "And thereby kill two birds with one stone." "Which two?" "Keep my promise to Sis and do a humane act. She lives miles from here I know. Probably been calling." "Poor thing, we ought out of common courtesy ask her to ride home. I hate to see so pretty a girl walking with nothing better than a dog for company. Go ahead, be a gent; have a heart!" By this time the car had traveled a block or so beyond where they had passed Miss Smith, whose steps were bent in the opposite direction to that in which the boys were headed. Chalmers was finally convinced by the persuasive Codfish that the automobile should be offered to the young lady, and the driver was ordered to turn around. The pedestrian was soon overtaken, and, hat in hand, Chalmers sprang from the car and intercepted the young lady. "Miss Smith, I believe?" he said, advancing with a grin. "Oh, Mr. Chalmers, I'm so glad to see you. Your sister wrote me you were coming down, but I never thought you would remember me." "How could I ever forget?" said Chalmers, making his most elaborate, and what he considered fetching, bow. "This is my friend Mr. Gleason of Yale." "So glad to meet Mr. Gleason," chirped the young lady. "And you-all are down with the Yale team? Isn't that too lovely?" Neither of the boys could see just how it was "too lovely," but they took it for what it was worth. "Will you permit us to drive you home?" said the Codfish, waving his hand magnificently toward the blue motor car. "Chalmers says you live miles from here." "Oh, that would be too lovely," gurgled Miss Smith. "I just adore motoring, and it is such a nice day, too. I live only a mile from here, but it would be sweet to ride that far in your car." Miss Smith was escorted to the blue motor, and established in the middle of the rear seat while Chalmers and Gleason took seats on either side of her. The bull terrier, not nearly so much pleased with motoring as his mistress, spread himself over the floor and occasionally made frolicsome dashes at Gleason's Yale blue silk socks, a large expanse of which was showing. "Get out, you little beast," cried Gleason, alarmed for the welfare of his beautiful socks. "Chew Chalmers over there, he's much better chewing than I am." "O, don't mind him, Mr. Gleason, he just adores blue. I simply can't keep anything blue around the house. Always eats it up." "Well, he can't eat any of my blue stuff. He must be a Harvard dog; quit it, Fido," as the dog made another dash. A few minutes' drive brought them to Miss Smith's house. "O, I simply don't want to get out," she said. "Then why do you?" queried the Codfish. "It pains us to have you leave. We were just looking around, you know, and would like to have someone point out the sights of your gay and festive city." "That would be too lovely, and I'll be so glad if you'll take Cousin Mary." "Cousin Mary is on," said the Codfish. "Where does she live?" "O, just around the corner. She loves motoring, too, and we poor people down here can't have automobiles of our own." It was but a minute's trip to Cousin Mary's, and matters were facilitated by discovering the young lady in question standing in her doorway, hatted and gloved, with a camera in her hand. She was more than plump, she was decidedly fat and had red hair. The Codfish decided he wasn't for Cousin Mary. Introductions were quickly made and the call explained. Cousin Mary was willing to ride anywhere so long as it was in a motor. "Now where shall we go?" inquired the Codfish. "You tell us. This will be a personally conducted tour, you know." "O, it would be just too lovely to drive to Virginia Beach," gushed Miss Smith. Chalmers, who knew something of the geography of the territory, winced and tried to catch his companion's eye, but that individual failed to see the warning glance, and ordered--"Drive to Virginia Beach, James." "All right, sah," and the machine shot off for the Beach. Chalmers very generously took the seat alongside the driver, leaving the Codfish with the girls in the tonneau, which was a disposition highly satisfactory to the latter. But he took care to put Cousin Mary on the far side of the seat. As mile after mile was spun off, and still the destination was not reached, the Codfish began to wonder what the length of the drive might be, but his pride forbade him to ask. On and on went the car at an easy pace. They had been out nearly two hours from the hotel, and the Codfish began to make mental calculations. "Two hours, that makes eight dollars," he calculated, "another hour and a half back, that makes fourteen. That makes some little bill. I can readily see I'm busted already!" His conversation began to halt, but the lovely Miss Smith was concerned only in the beauties of the landscape which she pointed out to her companion on the seat, who was not so deeply interested as he might have been had things been different. At last the car drew up at the Beach. "How far do you call it down here, James?" inquired the Codfish, nonchalantly. He was still calculating. "I reckon about twenty-five miles," said the driver. "Kaint make much time on these here roads." "Yes, I noticed that," returned the Codfish dryly. The young ladies were overjoyed to be at the Beach. They walked on the sands and took photographs. "Cousin Mary just loves to take photographs," Miss Smith explained. Then the girls discovered they had a call to make--would Mr. Chalmers and Mr. Gleason mind? A very dear girl friend whom they hadn't seen for a whole month was at the Beach. Would they come? No, then they would only be gone a few minutes. It was "too lovely" to have such a chance to call. So the boys were left behind to wait impatiently. The minutes passed and then more minutes. "And there's that blooming motor sitting there at four dollars an hour," growled the Codfish. "Three hours and fifteen minutes gone already. I'm bankrupt now and twenty-five miles to go back. I'll be entirely insolvent by the time we turn up in Norfolk." Fifty minutes more passed and Miss Smith and Cousin Mary reappeared on the scene only to exhaust another reel of films photographing the car, the pavilion, a decrepit boat drawn up on the sands, and several sea views. "Cousin Mary is so artistic," explained Miss Smith. "You ought to see some of her sea views, they are just too sweet." "I've enough sea views to last me the rest of my natural life," muttered the Codfish under his breath. "I'm not much for sea views at four dollars an hour." When everything necessary and unnecessary that the girls could think of had been done, the motor was turned in the direction of Norfolk, and set off at, a leisurely pace much to the disgust of the Codfish. The longer the driver took to cover the distance, the more money he made. Time was money to him with a vengeance. On the outskirts of Norfolk, and just as dusk was beginning to settle, the rear shoe gave way with a loud explosion. "How long?" inquired the Codfish, laconically. "I reckon 'bout twenty minutes," replied the driver, at which Miss Smith set up a remonstrance. "We must be home. Mother will think something dreadful has happened. The trolley is only a few blocks from here. We can't wait that long for him to fix the old tire." "All right, then," said the Codfish. "We'll all go, and James, you see us at the hotel after you get fixed up again." He was glad of the opportunity to have the automobile white elephant off his hands, and saw a chance of getting to the hotel and preserving his dignity before the girls. He could get the money he needed as soon as he got back. But his luck was against him in the shape of the darky driver who was both obstinate and suspicious. "Kaint do dat, sah," the driver protested, "last time I do dat, I done get stung. We done been out five hours and a half, dat makes twenty-two dollars, not countin' little something you gwine to give James." "O, Mr. Gleason," cried Miss Smith. "I thought it was your own car." There was a note of reproach in her voice, and the speaker tossed her head. A ride in a hired car didn't seem so luxurious as in a private one. A hasty conference between the two boys resulted in the pooling of all their cash in hand, which amounted to just $16.25. This amount the Codfish offered the driver, who refused it and loudly argued for his rights before a gathering crowd. He would not let his passengers out of his sight, so it was finally arranged that Chalmers should see the young ladies home while he, the Codfish, held as a hostage, hung around for another half hour while the shoe was replaced. He reached the hotel late for dinner, where he borrowed sufficient money to pay the driver. Of course, the story got out, and the two participants never heard the last of it. It was even resurrected in the class day histories at the end of Senior year. CHAPTER XVIII. FOOTBALL IN JUNIOR YEAR. After college closed Frank Armstrong and Jimmy Turner joined a party of engineers and their assistants, whose work it was to survey a new railroad through the heart of New Brunswick, one of the Maritime provinces of Canada, and for two months they enjoyed the life of veritable savages in the open air. Following the pointing finger of the compass they burrowed through the tangled forests, sleeping sometimes rolled in blankets with a bunch of fragrant hemlock boughs for a pillow, and, only when the weather was bad, under the protecting service tents, several of which had been brought along for bad weather. Many nights, however, the tents were never set up at all, and the whole party of young men slept with only the stars for their roof. Frank made himself invaluable at river crossings, of which there were many, for bridges were few and far between. It was his duty to swim the barring river with the engineers' "chains" which he did with such success that he was nicknamed "the torpedo." Later he was followed by other members of the party on homemade catamarans. The life agreed with both the boys, and when the party finished its work and took train at the little station of Harcourt on the Intercolonial railroad, with clothing ragged from the rough caress of the tangled woods and shoes guiltless of blacking, they might well have been mistaken for young lumbermen instead of college students. Ten days later they were in football clothes on Yale field, obeying the call for early fall practice before college opened. Frank had put on ten pounds during the summer, and for the first time felt himself strong enough to withstand the punishing work of the game. He was hard as nails, in perfect condition and eager for any work the coach might set him at. Again he was placed at end in practice by Coach Hanley, and made such good progress that in the middle of the first game he was called in to play the position, where he acquitted himself with such credit that he earned a word of praise from Captain Baldwin. Through the long, hard grueling work of the fall he fought for his place, alternating between the 'Varsity and the second eleven, learning something every day under the tuition of this or that coach for the purpose of helping Yale turn out a winning team. Turner was firmly established at right halfback, and gave promise of becoming a great player. His irresistible smashes earned many yards for Yale in the minor games of the season, and it was a common prediction that he would be first choice for the place in the championship games. He succeeded not by any great speed but by his instinct for the opening his linemen made and his almost uncanny ability to keep his feet and burrow for a gain through the worst tangle of human bodies. It was Turner who was always given the ball down near the goal line to carry it across, and he rarely failed to accomplish his end. The uncertainty regarding who was to play right end was banished in the Brown game which preceded the Princeton game by one week. The game was a hard one, and neither side could score a touchdown. Frank was called in at right end to replace Saunders, and on the second line-up took a well delivered forward pass and scored with practically a free field. Twice again before the game was over he proved his ability in this particular play. His baseball helped him in the handling of the football, and his speed and elusiveness in an open field added to his chances. It was therefore no surprise to anyone in the college when he was slated to go in the first line-up against Princeton. "I'm putting you in, Armstrong," said Coach Hanley, "in spite of the fact that Saunders has had more experience. In other words, I'm taking a chance with you. Don't fall down. This Princeton team has a strong line and we've got to fox them with the forward pass. Keep cool, and use your head all the time." The instructions sounded easy enough, but when Frank took his place at right end on the day of the game, under the eyes of thirty thousand people, to say that he was nervous expressed only a small part of his feelings. While the big Yale center placed the ball at midfield for the kick-off he lived, like other high-strung players before him, what seemed a whole year of his lifetime. He was almost overcome by the sudden fear that he might not be able to do what was expected of him, and the barking cheers from the Yale side of the field added to his nervousness instead of encouraging him. Twice Biddle, the center, placed the ball, and twice the stiff breeze topped it over. Frank's heart was pounding, and he felt weak and ineffective, but at the shrill scream of the whistle, and as the ball rose in the air and soared off in the direction of Princeton's goal, his mind cleared like a flash. He regained his grip on himself, and sped off down the field like the wind, feeling a moment later the grim joy of shock and strain as his arms closed around the legs of the man with the ball, who came sweeping up the field, behind what seemed like a wall of interference. How he reached the runner, he never knew, but the fact that he had reached him seemed to give him the strength of ten men. Twice the Princeton backs were shot at his end. Once he got the runner, and the second time he spilled the interference, leaving Turner to take the man with the ball, which he did with a jolting tackle that jarred the Princeton man's very being. Up and down the field surged the tide of battle, while the stands under the urging of the cheer-leaders gave out on the one side or the other an almost steady roar of cheers. In spite of their volume they seemed strangely far away to the players whose energies were engaged entirely with the matter in hand. Once the new right end was drawn in, and a Princeton back slipped around him for fifteen yards. The sharp reprimand from the captain was not necessary for he was raging at himself, savage at being tricked. A moment later he was tricked again: the back made a feint at the end, went inside him and was stopped by Turner. "That's the place," yelled a Princeton coach, "put it there again!" It looked like a weak place indeed, and the Princeton quarter, after making his distance on the other side of the line, again shot his catapult at right end. This time Frank went through the interference, and tackled so viciously that there were hisses from a few in the Princeton stand. He was fighting mad, crazy to hurt and to be hurt. Again and again he hurled himself blindly against the Princeton onrush only to be borne backwards. Suddenly he realized what the matter was. The coach's words came to him: "Keep cool, play your game and keep your head working." It was like a dash of cold water, and he was immediately cool. He had a grip on himself in a moment, and he now smiled back into the mocking eyes of his opposing end where a moment before he had glared in hate. He had obtained the mastery over himself. Again the play swung around to his end, but this time he met it coolly and deliberately, and checked it without the gain of a foot, while the Yale stand announced its approval with a mighty and spontaneous shout. Time after time the Princeton attack at the right end was met and turned back, and Saunders, who had been told to get ready to replace Armstrong, sat down again at the motion of Coach Hanley, and wrapped his blankets around his shoulders. This much Frank saw out of the corner of his eye, and a thrill of satisfaction went through him. He had learned his lesson and was making good. It is not our intention to tell the story of Frank's baptism of fire, nor how the two evenly matched teams battled to a tie at the end of four desperately fought periods. Frank played through three of these periods, and although he played well and did all of his duty, he never had a clear chance at a forward pass. The ball was thrown either too far or not far enough on the half dozen tries at the pass, or the attempt to throw was spoiled by the eager Princeton forwards who crowded through the line. At the end of the third quarter he was taken out weak and staggering from his exertions, and Saunders went in. But the coach's "All right, Armstrong," was music to his ears as he came over to the side-line to be immediately wrapped in a big blanket by the trainer. That night, while the team was dressing in the Gymnasium, the coaches gave the men the benefit of some advice. "You fellows forgot most of the time," said Hanley, "that you were a team. You were playing every man for himself. You should have licked that Princeton team, and the only reason you didn't was that you were not a Yale team. We don't want brilliant individual stuff. One must help the other. If you get together before next Saturday we can beat Harvard. If you play as you did to-day, Harvard will lick you out of your boots, because she has a great team and it is together. You are just as good, but you are not together." It was straight talk, and it sank deep. Monday was a day of rest at the field, but on Tuesday the final preparation for Harvard began. Behind locked gates under the urgings of the half a score of coaches who had hurried to New Haven, the previous practice and even the Princeton game were like child's play. Armstrong was at right end, a position which he had fairly won, but Saunders on the Second eleven fought tooth and nail to displace him. It seemed to Frank that the Second eleven coaches had a particular grudge at his end, for he was called upon to stop more than his share of attacks. But he was able to do what was expected of him, backed up as he was by the sturdy and omnipresent Turner who withstood everything with a never-failing energy. Wednesday's practice, fiercer than the day before, if that could be, found Frank Armstrong still in possession of his place at right end, but it was with a sigh of relief that he heard the welcome "That's all," of Coach Hanley. He watched with interest the usual celebration of the Second eleven which marks the end of the year's practice. On Thursday the 'Varsity, with substitutes, a score of coaches and heelers, took the afternoon train to the north, and were quartered at a hotel just outside of Cambridge. A brief signal practice was held in the towering Stadium on Soldiers Field Friday, where the last instructions were given to the men. It would be too much to say, and not the truth, that the night was a peaceful one for most of the Yale eleven. Turner and Armstrong were quartered in separate beds in the same room. The former slept like a log, apparently free from all thoughts of the morrow. Frank, on the other hand, tossed and turned, got up in the night and sat at the window while his companion snored contentedly. In the early hours of the morning he finally dropped into a sleep which was disturbed by dreams of the Harvard runners slipping past just beyond his reach. How he got through the morning he never knew, but he did get through somehow, and finally found himself dressed for the fray and in the big 'bus with the rest of the eleven, headed for the Stadium. "There go the Yaleses!" sang out an urchin. "Dey won't look so nice as dat when de Harvards get through wit' dem," shouted his companion. Occasionally the 'bus passed Yale sympathizers, and then it got a cheer or: "Go to it, Yale, you're the boys who can do it!" From every direction throngs of people were heading toward the great concrete structure whose huge gray bulk seemed to fill the horizon. Already thousands swarmed in its arches, and even at this hour little black specks of human beings were seen outlined on its upper heights against the sky. Progress became slower as the 'bus neared the field, and it finally took the combined efforts of a squad of police to break the crowd sufficiently to let the Yale players through to the Locker Building within the shadow of the Stadium walls. The game was to be started at two o'clock, and at a quarter of that hour it would have been difficult to find a vacant place in all those towering tiers. Yale occupied the south and Harvard the north side of the field. The cheer-leaders were tuning up, as it were. Back and forth across the field were flung songs and cheers, and in this lull before the battle each applauded the other's efforts. Five minutes before the hour the Harvard captain, with his red-jerseyed and red-stockinged warriors at his heels, dashed through the gate at the northwest corner of the field. A great wave of crimson seemed to sweep the Harvard stand from end to end as the thirty thousand Harvard sympathizers rose to their feet, waving flags and red bandannas. A crackling cheer like musketry rolled across the field. While the Harvard cheer-leaders called for a cheer for the team, the Yale stand sat motionless. A minute later, however, it sprang into life as Captain Baldwin led his men onto the field through the same gate at a loping run. The Yale crowd was smaller, but what a noise it did make! After a few minutes of signal practice, the two captains with the officials met at the center of the field and tossed for choice of sides. The coin which was flipped in the air by the referee fell heads, which was the side Captain Randall of Harvard, had called, and he indicated with a sweep of his hand that he would take the west end of the field. What little wind was then blowing at his back was the only advantage he had. Both elevens quickly dropped into their places, the whistle shrilled and the game was on. That was a game which went down in history as one of the fiercest and hardest ever played between the two old rivals. It was clean and free from bad feeling which sometimes marks close games, but intense from the first line-up to the last. Harvard, after receiving the ball on the kick-off, cut loose a smashing attack through the line, reeling off the yards with terrible, tremendous force, a force that Yale did not seem to be able to meet successfully. Down over the white lines went the Harvard machine, plays timed to perfection and gaining wherever they struck, not much, but enough in three tries to carry them the necessary yards for a first down. A perfect roar of cheers boiled up from the Harvard side of the field while Yale seemed paralyzed. Only after the ball had been pushed well into Yale territory did her cheer-leaders begin to get something like a cheer of volume. But Yale was learning, and before Harvard had progressed to the danger zone the advance was stopped, and Yale took the ball, an act that was approved by a mighty cheer. Turner bored through for eight yards on the first play, and followed it up with enough to make a first down, but there the advance stopped. Porter, the Yale fullback, who was doing the punting, was hurried by the rush of the Harvard forwards, and his kick almost blocked. It traveled diagonally across the field for a bare fifteen-yards gain, and was Harvard's ball. "Now stop 'em right here! Take it away," commanded Captain Baldwin. "You can do it!" But Harvard was not to be stopped just then. Playing like red demons, they fought their way foot by foot into Yale's territory, and threatened the Yale goal. Turner and Armstrong were on the bottom of every heap when the play came at their side, but the best they could do was to keep the gains down. They could not entirely stop them. But the gallant Yale line rallied less than ten yards from their goal, and again checked the crimson attack. So determined were the Harvard team to make a touchdown that they scorned to try a field goal, and depended on a forward pass to make the necessary distance. Armstrong, alert for just such a move, intercepted the ball and again it was Yale's. Yale's rushing attack was stopped short and Porter was sent back to punt. "Block it! block it! block it!" yelled the Harvard partisans but although the red line tried desperately to do this, Porter succeeded in getting his kick off, but the ball went high, was held back by the wind which at that moment was blowing a stiff breeze, and it dropped into the Harvard quarter's hands a bare twenty yards back of his line of scrimmage. A groan went up from the Yale hosts as Harvard, for the third time, took up the march down the field. CHAPTER XIX. THE HARVARD-YALE GAME. Yale's defense stiffened and made her opponent's going become harder. With five yards to go for a first down, the Harvard quarter and his right end executed a neat forward pass which put the ball on Yale's twelve-yard line directly opposite the posts, and one smash at right tackle put it three yards nearer the goal line. "Touchdown! touchdown! touchdown!" begged the Harvard stand. "Hold 'em, hold 'em, hold 'em!" pleaded Yale, but the pleading was of no avail, for that splendid Harvard team, working like a well-oiled piece of machinery, drove on and over their opponents till the ball lay only three yards away from the goal. A touchdown seemed inevitable. Captain Baldwin drew his men together in a little group and exhorted them to such good purpose that the next charge was stopped dead in its tracks. Again the lines faced each other, again came the crash of body meeting body. The Harvard back with the ball tucked under his arm shot off to the left, slipped inside his own tackle and was clear of the first line of defense. But as he straightened up from his running crouching position, Turner met him with a bull-like rush, picked him clear off his feet and threw him with such violence that the ball flew from his grasp and bounced crazily along the ground in the direction of the goal. Man after man took a diving shot at it as it rolled until the turf was covered with sprawling figures. Finally the ball disappeared beneath a mass of bodies which the referee slowly dug apart and found--Frank Armstrong wrapped around the ball in a loving embrace! "Yale's ball," was the silent announcement of the scoreboard, but never was an announcement before or since greeted with such a yell. From that moment the tide of battle turned. Porter got off a long, low twisting punt which caught the Harvard backfield man napping. He made a desperate effort to reach it, but although he got his hands on the ball he could not hold it, and was swept away by a blue avalanche. When the smoke cleared away, Captain Baldwin was lying on the ball on Harvard's forty-yard line. Before the teams could line up again, the whistle blew to end the quarter and the teams changed ends of the field. Three minutes later the game was on again, this time with Yale the aggressor and Harvard on the defensive. Conditions of the first quarter were reversed and now it was Yale, the team fighting like one man, who was pushing her opponents steadily down the field. Held at the thirty-yard line with three yards to go for a first down, the Yale quarter sent a pretty forward pass to Armstrong who made a beautiful catch and was not downed till he was run out of bounds at the fifteen-yard line. Pandemonium reigned among the Yale hosts, and the cheer-leaders tried vainly to get a unison cheer. The crowd would not look but kept their eyes glued on the play. Now it was Yale's turn to call for a touchdown, and the tiered thousands did it right lustily, but unfortunately, for their hopes, a bad pass on the next play lost five yards and Turner was stopped on the next attempt. "Armstrong back!" cried the quarter. Frank left his place at end and took up his position fifteen yards back of the line of scrimmage, measuring carefully the distance to the goal posts, thirty-five yards away, while the crowd waited in breathless silence. The lines crouched tense and ready. The ball shot back from Biddle on a long pass to Frank but it came so low that he had almost to pick it from the ground. Quick as a flash he straightened up, dropped the ball to the ground, and drove his toe against it as it rose again. Away it spun on its course, while the eyes of forty thousand people strained after its flight. But luck was against Yale that day. The ball, traveling straight and true, had not been given quite enough power. It struck the cross-bar, bounced high in the air and fell back into the playing field where a Harvard back pounced upon it. Harvard punted on the kick-out over forty-five yards and after several exchanges without result, the half ended and the tired players tramped slowly off to the Locker House to be told by the coaches why they had not done their work just right. Fifteen minutes later the game was on again, but not with its first fierceness. No human beings could continue the pace set in that first half, and the play settled into a punting duel between Porter and his opponent, with neither team able to gain much by straight rushing. Both tried forward passes but with a few exceptions they failed for one reason or another. The quarter passed without either team threatening the other's goal, and predictions were beginning to be made that barring accidents the game would be a tie. Five minutes after the fourth period began, a fumbled punt by the Yale quarter and a recovery by an alert Harvard end shifted the battle with jarring suddenness into Yale territory, with Yale on the defensive. Again the Harvard machine began to work with its first smoothness and down, down they drove the ball in spite of a desperate defense. Held at the ten-yard line, the Harvard quarter, who in the early season had been heralded as a great drop-kicker but who had shown nothing of his ability in late games, dropped back ten or twelve yards behind his line and put the ball between the posts with neatness and dispatch. When the tumult, which the field goal had brought to pass in the Harvard stands, quieted down again Yale set out to win back the points lost. But it seemed like a hopeless task, for Harvard, with victory in sight met every effort, and stopped it. Time was flying, and many of the Harvard people, feeling assured of Harvard's victory, were filing out of the stands. Yale supporters stayed on, hoping against hope, for only five minutes were left to play. Suddenly the Yale quarter changed his tactics. Catching the Harvard backs in a favorable position for the play, he snapped a forward pass to Armstrong who caught it and made the middle of the field on a dodging run, where he was brought down from behind. The gain brought hope back to drooping Yale spirits, and a cheer rattled across the field. Immediately on the heels of this successful pass, which drew out the Harvard defense, he sent Turner into the line and added another eight yards. The tide of Harvard departure was suddenly checked by this hostile demonstration, and seeing that the defense did not close up, the heady little quarter tried Turner again with such effect that it was a first down. The Yale stands were cheering like mad, at this unlooked-for burst of speed when the team was supposed to be beaten. The captain himself, with Turner clearing the way, lunged forward five yards and added two more a moment later. Again the Harvard defense crept in and the Yale quarter, seeing his opportunity, drove another forward pass to Armstrong who caught it cleanly and was off like the wind. He sidestepped the tackle by the opposing end, ran obliquely toward the side-line, stopped and let the rush of tacklers pass him, slipped out of what seemed an impossible position, and with a clear field, with the exception of one man, cut straight for the goal line with friend and foe thundering behind. Straight at the tackler, who waited with outstretched arms, he ran. The muscles, which had been crying for rest a moment before, were now like steel. Now he was within two steps of the Harvard back. He appeared to be running straight to certain disaster, but as the Harvard tackler lunged forward, Frank swung his body to one side, brought his forearm down with all his force on the outstretched arm nearest him, and was past. The momentary check, however, brought a fleet Harvard end up to him, who, unwilling to take a chance at the Yale man's flying legs, sprang full upon his back. The force carried Frank off his feet, staggering headlong. Even with the burden on his back he managed to fall head-first toward the goal line, where he was instantly pinned to the ground by two tacklers with such force that he lay stunned. He required the services of the trainer with sponge and water bottle before the play could be resumed. The ball lay exactly ten yards from the goal and in the face of the known defensive strength of Harvard, it seemed an impossible task to put it over from there. Captain Baldwin took the ball two yards on the first try and then the red-headed Turner, like a maddened bull, drove through for four yards in a whirling mass of red and blue-legged players. Again Turner was called upon and when the pile untangled, he had laid the ball within two yards of the coveted white line which to cross meant glorious victory. Captain Baldwin drew his men back for a conference while the stands stopped their cheering long enough to speculate whether he would attempt a goal from the field or risk defeat on an attempt to carry the ball across for a touchdown. Doubts were soon set at rest for the Yale team sprang back into regular formation and crouched for the signal. You might have heard a pin drop in that vast crowd, so still they were as the two lines crouched, with swaying arms and tense bodies. Snappily came the signal, sounding high, clear and shrill in that amazing quiet, followed by the crash of meeting lines. Turner with his head down between his mighty shoulders, drove like a catapult into the struggling mass on the heels of his captain. There was a moment of squirming and grinding, then the whole mass fell in a sort of pyramid which refused to untangle itself even at the orders of the referee, and he was obliged to pull and dig to get at the bottom. And what he found at the bottom was Turner, bruised and bleeding, but joyfully happy with the ball hugged to his breast and across the goal line by four inches! It was of no account that the kick-out (for the touchdown had been made well toward the corner of the field) was bungled. Yale had scored a touchdown and the lead. Two minutes afterward the whistle ended the game, and the wildest sort of celebration began. Every member of the Yale team was seized, protesting, and carried by the half-crazed students in a whirling march around the field. Hats were thrown over the goal posts by the hundreds, the owners entirely indifferent as to whether they ever got their headgear back again. Many students went back to New Haven that night minus their hats, but little did it matter as Yale had won a glorious battle in the face of what seemed certain defeat. And the names of Turner and Armstrong were on every tongue. That night Turner was elected captain and Frank cast his vote for his old friend although he himself had been nominated as a candidate. CHAPTER XX. HOW ALL THINGS CAME OUT AT LAST. When the spring of Junior year came around, Frank Armstrong enrolled himself in the baseball squad. The rest of nearly a year had apparently completely cured his arm, and he became at once one of the leading candidates for pitcher. Coach Quinton had engaged the services of a professional pitcher from one of the big leagues for the early practice, and from this man Frank learned much about the art of pitching. Quinton was careful, however, not to work him in cold weather, fearing a return of the trouble in his pitching arm. The result of this careful handling was that he rounded into form in mid-season, and was the mainstay of the nine in the box. Turner was the receiving end of the battery, and together they became the terror of opposing nines. At the end of a season which was only partly successful, with a victory from Princeton and a defeat by Harvard, the latter caused by Yale's inability to hit the ball with men on bases, Frank Armstrong was unanimously elected captain for Senior year. "I think the way you two fellows are hogging the Ys and captaincies around here is disgraceful," complained the Codfish one night. "Armstrong ought to be ashamed. Turner is bad enough with football and baseball, but Armstrong is nothing short of a Y trust, with three different kinds of them. Why aren't you modest like I am?" Frank laughed. "Some are born Ys," paraphrased the Codfish, "some achieve Ys and some have Ys thrust upon them." "You ought to be put out for that," said Frank. "But I say, how would you like to score for us next year?" "To cover up your errors, eh?" "No, just to keep you quiet." "In that case, I'm on, but you need look for no favors in the scoring from me. I'm an impartial gink. No friends when I'm on the job. Do I get a southern trip?" "Sure, you do. But you must keep away from hired automobiles." "Forget it," said the Codfish, who didn't like to be reminded of the Norfolk experience. Frank and Jimmy spent their summer together at Seawall, and renewed old acquaintances. Many hours the two boys spent together going over plans for their teams, while with swimming and rowing they kept themselves in the pink of physical condition. "My ambition is to win both the Princeton and Harvard series," Frank said one evening as they sat on the veranda of the Armstrong cottage, their eyes wandering over the Bay with its twinkling lights. "And that's the reason I'm going to ask you to let me out of football work this fall." "I don't like it at all, Frank," returned the football captain. "I need you. You've had the experience and I, too, have ambitions." "Yes, but look at that bunch of Freshman material from last year's Freshman eleven. It would make a whole 'Varsity team in itself--Squires, Thompson, Williams, Weatherly and the rest. Great Scott, I wouldn't be in it with that bunch. You know you don't need me. I've got a lot of material to whip into shape, and with both of us out of the nine, Quinton wouldn't be pleased. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go out and work with my own team, and if you have to have me, I'll go over and take my medicine. But if you don't need me, then I'll keep on with my own work." That was the arrangement the captains made between themselves, and although it was something of a sacrifice, Captain Turner, fortunately well supplied with end material, went through his season with flying colors, ending with two glorious victories over Yale's dearest foes, and writing his name, in the doing of it, large on Yale's page of football history. When the spring of Senior year rolled around, it found Frank making progress with the team he hoped would be called a championship nine. The Easter trip was an unqualified success, with only one defeat recorded, and that by the Norfolk Leaguers. All the college games were won handily, and the nine returned to New Haven with a prestige for clever all-around play. Through the season of preliminary home games, the nine acquitted itself well. Besides himself, Captain Armstrong had two pitchers, a man named Read and of only ordinary ability, and another, Whittaker, a big, raw-boned westerner, who was a tower of strength in the box. On the latter Frank depended as his substitute in the championship series with Princeton and Harvard, for the games, owing to a combination of circumstances, ran so closely together that no one man could possibly pitch them all. Four days before the first championship game, evidence was handed to the captain which made him doubt the amateur standing of Whittaker. The testimony was that Whittaker had played professional ball in a western town. The captain and coach called the pitcher over to the former's room for an explanation. The westerner admitted at once that he had pitched ball for money for three seasons before coming to Yale, but since he had used the money to defray his expenses it was not plain to him that he was not eligible. "I'm mighty sorry," said Frank, "but you can't pitch any more for Yale. In any interpretation of the rules you are a professional, and not eligible for an amateur nine." "Yes, but no one knows it at Princeton or Harvard, do they?" "True, but that makes no difference. I say again, 'I'm mighty sorry but you can't pitch for Yale,'" and while he said it, his heart sank for he well knew that Read would never be able to stem the tide of a championship match, and besides Read there was no one but himself. To make matters worse he had recently felt a twinge in his pitching arm when delivering certain curves. It might be a recurrence of the old trouble! "That about settles us," said Frank after Whittaker had taken his departure, a sentiment which was echoed by the college men when it became known that Whittaker was ineligible. "We'll pitch Read in the first Princeton game and take a chance," was Quinton's advice. "It will be the second game that's the teaser." Fortune favored Captain Armstrong, for Princeton very kindly played away off-form, and allowed Yale to get such a lead in the early part of the game that even though Read began to weaken toward the end and was hit hard, Yale kept her lead without difficulty. Captain Armstrong played in right field, and was ready to go in at a moment's notice, but fortunately there was no need for it. Read, the second string man, had come through with credit, but the Princeton batters had given sufficient evidence in the last inning or two what would be likely to happen to him if he faced them again. "It seems to be up to you, Captain," said Quinton, "to clean this up at Princeton next Saturday. If you do, our chances are better for the Harvard series, for there will be a little time for rest. If you don't win, then there has to be a tie in New York, and that runs us right on top of the first Harvard game in Cambridge." "I've been thinking it over," said Frank, "and you're dead right. That game at Princeton must be taken, and I'm going to take it if I can. You put that down in the book." The college, well knowing the state of the pitching staff, but with great confidence in the hard-hitting and fast-fielding team and its captain, backed it loyally, and sent a thousand men to Princeton to cheer. The game was an exciting one from start to finish, with a great deal of hitting on both sides. Captain Armstrong, who was in the box, pitched wonderful ball throughout, and kept hits well scattered. But it was noticed that he used very little but a straight ball, his effectiveness being due to a continual change of pace which baffled the Princeton batters. Now and then in a critical moment, he put over a curve, but curves were the exception. Coach Quinton watching narrowly from the bench, knew the significance of the captain's action. It was the old trouble. Every man played his position like a veteran that day, and in spite of the strange ground and the boundless enthusiasm of the Princeton thousands back for Commencement celebration, Frank, before the sun went down, had accomplished half, at least, of his dearest ambition, a double championship for Yale, by beating Princeton with a margin of two runs. The night before the team left for Cambridge to play the first game of the Harvard series, there was a long conference in the captain's room as to the best way of disposing of Yale's forces. "I want to pitch Read in that first game," said Frank. "The chances are against us there anyway, and it would be better, I think, to let my arm rest for the second game in New Haven." "You might start the game," suggested Coach Quinton, "or be ready to jump in if Read shows signs of blowing up, but it will depend on how you feel that day." "I know how I'll feel," Frank replied, "and I know how this old wing of mine feels now. I know that if I pitch in Cambridge, that's the end of me. I can't throw a ball hard enough now to break a pane of glass, and I'll be lucky to be able to stay in the game at all." Quinton tilted back in the chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, then, Read it will be for the game on Thursday, and he'll have to go through it, win or lose," he announced. "You will play in right field and lob them in if they come in your direction." "I'd be glad to sit on the bench if you think Barrows could come through with a hit or two. He's a better fielder than I am. I want the strongest nine we can get in there on Thursday," said Frank. "Not on your life," said Quinton with determination. "With one arm you are better than Barrows with three. He can't hit anything." And so it was settled that the captain should play in the field and that Read should go into the box. It was the best thing to do under the circumstances. For three innings, Read held the Harvard batters hitless, and hope began to grow in the team and in the hearts of the team's supporters that he would last to the end. Turner's home run drive with a man on base put Yale in the lead with two runs, in the second inning. But in the fourth, Read, in trying to get a ball over the inside corner of the plate, hit a batter, and in the endeavor to retrieve his error by catching the man napping off first base, threw wild to the first baseman. The result was that before the ball was recovered the runner was perched, grinning, on third base. The double error unsteadied Read, who in his endeavor to strike out the next two batters who were both good waiters, passed them both. The bases were filled with none out. Then came Harvard's hard-hitting catcher with a three-base hit which drove in three runs. That ended Read's efficiency. In the same inning he was hit for a single and two doubles in succession. The net result of this slaughter, coupled with a base on balls and two infield errors, gave Harvard six runs before the side was retired. Yale added a run in the fifth, but Harvard, now hitting like demons, and with Read at their mercy, slammed the ball for three more runs. Yale continued to play with dogged determination against overpowering odds, striving to hold down the score as low as it might be. The fielders worked faithfully, but Read was now being hit at will and many of the balls went safely. "Let me go in and try to stop this," Frank suggested, as he came to the bench in the eighth inning. "No use now," said Quinton. "It's Harvard's day and the game is gone. Stay where you are and we'll take this back again next Tuesday." In the eighth and ninth, Read steadied down, but then it was too late, in spite of a dogged up-hill fight by Yale. The final score stood 14 to 5. Read had no appetite that night at the training table. "Never mind it, old fellow," said Frank, laying his hand on Read's shoulder. "That happens to the best of them once in a while; forget it; we'll get them next Tuesday. They had all the breaks of luck, anyway. It was their day." "Yes, they had me; I was the best man on they had; I'm disgusted with myself," and the big pitcher hung his head. "Forget it," said Frank, and nothing more was said; but in spite of the assumed cheerfulness it was a quiet lot of ball-players who took the train for New Haven. During the next four days, the captain's arm was a subject for the careful attention of the trainers, who rubbed and kneaded the strained member at every possible opportunity. Nearly every known remedy was tried, for well everyone knew that on Armstrong depended the next game--the great Commencement game--which drew back thousands of graduates. The worried coach spent most of his time with Captain Armstrong, and when he had exhausted his own knowledge of arm treatments, went to old Yale ball-players who were flocking back to give what assistance they could in the crucial game. The newspapers deprecated Yale's chances, but the college was behind its team to a man. "Armstrong has a glass arm," wrote the sporting writers in the daily prints. "Little hope for the Bull-dog; Harvard expects to clean up on Tuesday." "We may fool 'em yet," said Frank, as he threw down a paper he had been reading, "eh, Turner? This old wing feels better to-night and I'm dying to get a chance at them." "And we are with you," said Turner. "I want to get away from the memory of the fourteen to five business up at Cambridge." The great day came. Although the game was not called till three o'clock, the big wooden stands at the Field were filled an hour before that time. The spectators had gathered early to watch the antics of the returning uniformed classes of graduates, whose parade behind a score of bands is always one of the features of the day. Joyfully the long line of the parade wound around the field, the younger graduates capering to the ringing music of the bands, the older ones more sedate and garbed more soberly. Gradually the classes were ushered to their seats and half an hour before the game the grounds were cleared. Harvard had a fast and snappy practice. When Armstrong led his men on to the diamond for the Yale practice, the cheer-leaders led the packed thousands in a tremendous ovation. "They seem to be with us, anyway," said Frank, who was standing with Coach Quinton by the home plate. "You can bet everything you own, they are," returned Quinton, "and we must give them what they are looking for--a victory." "I'd give my arm to do it," said Frank. And he meant it. All the preliminaries over, there was a hush as the captains at the plate with the two umpires talked over ground rules. It was Harvard first to bat, and as the Yale team trotted to their positions in the field and the captain took up his place in the box, a roar swept the stands, while the cheer-leaders bawled through their megaphones: "Make more noise, you fellows, we can't hear you." That was a game long to be remembered. The very first of the red-stockinged batters met squarely the first ball Captain Armstrong delivered, and drove it between left and center for three bases. "Same old story," sang out the Harvard cheer-leader. "Give them a cheer; we'll make a dozen the first inning." But he was mistaken. The next two batters, the strongest of the team, fell before Frank's shoots, and the third put up a foul fly which Turner captured close to the stand. This gave the Yale men a chance to let loose some enthusiasm. In Yale's half of the inning, a single and an error put two men on bases with one out. But the necessary hits were not forthcoming, and although the men reached third and second, the side was retired before a runner crossed the plate. Nip and tuck, the teams played for five innings with no runs scored on either side. Armstrong was pitching brilliant ball. No one in the stands and but few on the team itself, knew the price he was paying. Slow and fast he mixed them up, with an occasional curve which sent twinges of pain from finger tips to shoulder. In tight places, he steadied his team and was always the Captain, inspiring and resourceful. Coach Quinton well knew what Frank was going through. "Can you stick it out?" he said, when the game was more than half over. "I don't know. I'm pitching and praying at the same time," was the answer. The break came in the sixth, and it was in Harvard's favor. With one out, Kingston, the big Harvard first baseman, hit a liner to the pitcher's box, which Frank partly blocked with his gloved hand. The ball bounded to the left and fell dead twenty feet behind him, and before the second baseman, who had come in with all possible speed, could field it, Kingston had crossed first base. The next man up singled over second. With two on, Captain Armstrong tightened up and struck out the following batter, while the stands roared their approval; but the next man hit a low liner to left field, which scored Kingston. Frank was pitching now slowly and deliberately. His arm was numb, but somehow he got over the third strike on the last man and saved more runs. Yale fought hard to win the run back and got a man to third, but a stinging liner to short-stop was perfectly handled and the side was out. Nothing happened in the eighth for either side, and Harvard began the ninth, one run to the good, steady and confident. Armstrong was pitching now on nerve alone. His arm, subjected to a hard strain through the preceding eight innings, was what the newspapers had called "glass," but the brain that directed it was cool and calculating. Fortunately for him, the first man fouled out to the third baseman on the second ball pitched, but the second batter caught one of the Yale pitcher's slow lobs and made a safe hit. The third bunted down the third base line and was also safe. It was now or never, and gathering up his fast waning forces, Frank struck out the next man, while the shooting pains in his arm brought the cold sweat out on his forehead. Confidently the last Harvard batter faced him, swinging his bat. Frank tried a curve which went outside the plate. A foul followed, and then a strike. Twice he threw high to tease the batter, and then with all the vigor he had left, he snapped over a straight ball, close to the knees. The batter swiped desperately at it. "You're out," came the sharp tones of the umpire; and as the batter threw his bat wickedly towards the bench, the Yale stands rose _en masse_ and yelled their approval. "We've got to win it now," commanded Captain Armstrong at the bench. "It's our last chance. I can't pitch another ball." At that command the team galvanized into action. The first man up bunted the ball of the hitherto invincible pitcher down the first base line, and was safe. Then came the reliable Turner, gritting his teeth and pawing the ground at the plate. Twice he let the ball pass on strikes, and then the Harvard man pitched one to his liking--a swift, straight ball at about the shoulder. Turner met it with all the force of his vigorous young body, well towards the end of the bat, full and square. The ball started low, like a well-hit golf ball from the tee, rising as it traveled. Out and up it went, while the runner on first, after one look, scudded for home. Just what became of that ball, no one ever knew. It was never found. Some say it struck an automobile on the far side of the outfield fence, and some even say it continued its flight on down to the river. But it did not matter. It was a clean home-run, Turner following his galloping teammate more leisurely, trotting across the plate with the winning run. Down from the stands poured the thousands. They dashed on the field and swept up Captain Armstrong and his gallant warriors. Then when the first transports of joy were over, the classes broke into the zigzag step, arms on shoulders, to the crash of a score of bands. And no one thought the outburst extravagant, for Yale had won. Four days later, after almost superhuman efforts to improve Captain Armstrong's arm, Yale again met Harvard on neutral grounds and again won, thus clinching the championship. Thus was Frank Armstrong's hope of a double championship realized. His name is still pointed to by admiring aspirants for pitching honors in the old college, and his skill and pluck are part of the traditions of baseball. There is little left to tell of our story. The day after Captain Armstrong's great baseball victory at New Haven he joined in the imposing exercises of Commencement day. With others of the Senior class, he marched in solemn academic procession through the historic Campus and city common, and later took his degree from the hands of the President of the college on the broad platform of Woolsey Hall, crowded with black-robed dignitaries. Undergraduate life was a thing of the past, and as our three friends walked slowly back to their room to begin packing for their departure, there was little joy in their bearing. Even the irrepressible Codfish was temporarily subdued. "Well, was it worth it, eh, Frank?" said Turner as he began throwing things into his trunk. "Was it worth it? Why, Jimmy, it is worth half a man's life to be here four years." "My sentiments, too," broke in the Codfish. "And mine," said a deep voice at the door. It was David Powers, one of the big forces in the undergraduate world, who had won his way to prominence in literary work while his friends were climbing athletic heights. "Let's pledge ourselves, then, to old Yale," said Frank, and the four boys grasped hands. "We may never meet like this again, fellows, but let us not forget that wonderful old line---- "'For God, for country and for Yale.'" THE END. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. Obvious punctuation errors repaired. pg. 112, "de-demands" => "demands" (demands a Junior) pg. 166, "campanionway" => "companionway" (in the companionway) pg. 243, "Charlotteville" => "Charlottesville" (Charlottesville, Va.) 
36179	----	[Illustration: THE ARRIVAL AT THE BARLOW FARMHOUSE.] THE ROVER BOYS ON A TOUR OR _LAST DAYS AT BRILL COLLEGE_ BY ARTHUR M. WINFIELD (Edward Stratemeyer) AUTHOR OF THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL, THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN, THE PUTNAM HALL SERIES, ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ [Illustration] NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS Made in the United States of America BOOKS BY ARTHUR M. WINFIELD (Edward Stratemeyer) THE FIRST ROVER BOYS SERIES THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN THE ROVER BOYS IN THE JUNGLE THE ROVER BOYS OUT WEST THE ROVER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES THE ROVER BOYS IN THE MOUNTAINS THE ROVER BOYS IN CAMP THE ROVER BOYS ON LAND AND SEA THE ROVER BOYS ON THE RIVER THE ROVER BOYS ON THE PLAINS THE ROVER BOYS IN SOUTHERN WATERS THE ROVER BOYS ON THE FARM THE ROVER BOYS ON TREASURE ISLE THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE THE ROVER BOYS DOWN EAST THE ROVER BOYS IN THE AIR THE ROVER BOYS IN NEW YORK THE ROVER BOYS IN ALASKA THE ROVER BOYS IN BUSINESS THE ROVER BOYS ON A TOUR THE SECOND ROVER BOYS SERIES THE ROVER BOYS AT COLBY HALL THE PUTNAM HALL SERIES THE PUTNAM HALL CADETS THE PUTNAM HALL RIVALS THE PUTNAM HALL CHAMPIONS THE PUTNAM HALL REBELLION THE PUTNAM HALL ENCAMPMENT THE PUTNAM HALL MYSTERY 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, New York COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER, _The Rover Boys on a Tour_ INTRODUCTION MY DEAR BOYS: This book is a complete story in itself, but forms the twentieth volume in a line issued under the general title, "The Rover Boys Series for Young Americans." As I have mentioned in other volumes, this line was started a number of years ago with the publication of "The Rover Boys at School," "On the Ocean," and "In the Jungle." These stories were so well received that there was an immediate cry for more, and so, year by year, they were followed by the publication of "The Rover Boys Out West," "On the Great Lakes," "In the Mountains," "In Camp," "On Land and Sea," "On the River," "On the Plains," "In Southern Waters," "On the Farm," "On Treasure Isle," "At College," "Down East," "In the Air," "In New York," "In Alaska," and finally, "In Business," where we last left our heroes. The Rover boys have, of course, gradually been growing older. Dick and Tom are both married and doing what they can to carry on their father's business in New York City. Sam, the youngest of the boys, is still at Brill College. The particulars are given of some winter sports around that institution of learning, and then of a great baseball game in which the youngest Rover distinguishes himself. Then Sam graduates from college, and all the boys, with some others, go on a long automobile tour, during which a number of exciting adventures occur. The party is caught in a storm on the mountains, and later on are caught in a great flood. What the Rover boys did under such trying circumstances I leave for the pages which follow to disclose. Once more I wish to thank all my young friends for the many gratifying things they have said about my books. I trust that the present volume will fulfil all their expectations, and that the reading of the same will do them good. Affectionately and sincerely yours, EDWARD STRATEMEYER CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE SNOWBALL FIGHT 1 II SOMETHING ABOUT THE ROVER BOYS 14 III WHAT HAPPENED TO SONGBIRD 25 IV THE CHASE 35 V AT THE RAILROAD STATION 46 VI AT THE SANDERSON HOME 57 VII SAM AND GRACE 67 VIII SOMETHING ABOUT BLACKIE CROWDEN 78 IX IN WHICH TOM ARRIVES 90 X THE FEAST 100 XI TOM FREES HIS MIND 111 XII OLD GRISLEY COMES TO TERMS 121 XIII SAM ON THE ROAD 133 XIV DAYS OF WAITING 143 XV BASEBALL TALK 154 XVI THE OPENING OF THE BALL GAME 166 XVII HOW THE GAME ENDED 176 XVIII GOOD-BYE TO BRILL 187 XIX GETTING READY FOR THE TOUR 201 XX A MOMENT OF PERIL 211 XXI NEWS OF BLACKIE CROWDEN 221 XXII ON THE TRAIL 232 XXIII BACK AT ASHTON 242 XXIV AT THE FESTIVAL 252 XXV A CALL FOR ASSISTANCE 262 XXVI SAM FREES HIS MIND 272 XXVII A TELEGRAM FROM NEW YORK 282 XXVIII CLOUDBURST AND FLOOD 292 XXIX THE RESCUE ON THE RIVER 304 XXX MRS. SAM ROVER--CONCLUSION 314 THE ROVER BOYS ON A TOUR CHAPTER I THE SNOWBALL FIGHT "Now then, boys, are you ready?" "I am!" "Been ready for the last five minutes!" "Sure you've got all the snowballs you can carry?" "I couldn't carry any more if I tried," came from Sam Rover, with a grin. "Just see how I am loaded up," and he glanced down at both hands, which were filled with snowballs, and at the snowballs held under either arm. "I've got some dandy hard ones," put in Spud Jackson. "Oh, you can't use soakers, Spud!" cried Stanley Browne, who was the leader of the snowballing contingent. "That's against the rules." "They are not soakers, Stanley," was the reply. "They are only good and hard, that's all." "Hi, you fellows! When are you going to start things?" came a cry from behind a snow wall up the slope of a hill. "We can't waste the whole afternoon waiting for you." "We're coming, don't fear," answered Stanley Browne. "And when we arrive you won't know what's struck you," announced Sam Rover gaily. "It's all vell enough to brag, but you'd chust better start dot fight," came in German-American accents from behind the snow wall, and a merry face appeared in sight for an instant and a fist was shaken playfully at those beyond. "Sound that bugle, Paul!" yelled the leader of the attacking party, and an instant later the mellow notes of a bugle floated out on the crisp, wintry air. It was the signal for the attack, and with merry shouts the students at the foot of the hill charged upward through the snow toward the wall above. The occasion was the annual snowball fight at Brill College. Snow fights there were, of course, without number, but each year there was one big contest in which the freshmen and sophomores attempted to hold a snow fort located on the hill back of the institution against the attacks of the juniors and seniors. According to the rules, three charges were allowable, all of which must be made inside of two hours, and if all of these failed to take the fort, then the victory went to the defenders, and they were permitted to crow over their success until the following winter. A little over an hour and a half had been spent in the sport and two attacks had been made and repulsed, much to the chagrin of Stanley Browne, the senior in charge of the attacking army. Juniors and seniors had fought nobly, but the freshmen and sophomores outnumbered them, and, being strongly intrenched behind the snow wall of the so-called fort, had succeeded in forcing a first, and then a second, retreat. "Say, fellows, we've got to do it this time, sure!" cried Sam Rover, as, side by side with Stanley, he led the attack. "If we don't oust them they'll never get done talking about it." "Right you are, Sam!" answered Bob Grimes, who also had hands and arms full of well-made snowballs. "Remember what I told you," came from Stanley, as he turned slightly to address his followers. "Don't throw any snowballs yet. Do as the soldiers did in Revolutionary days--wait until you can see the whites of their eyes." "And then make those whites blacks!" burst out Spud Jackson, gaily. "Come ahead, and no turning back." Up the snowy hillside sped the crowd of students, while a number of professors and visitors watched the advance from a distance. "Get ready for 'em! Don't let them come too near!" came in a rallying cry from behind the snow wall. And then, as the attacking party came closer, a volley of white spheres came flying through the air into the faces of the juniors and seniors. It was a sharp and heavy volley, and for the instant the air seemed to be filled with flying snowballs. Many of them, of course, went wild, but others landed on the heads and bodies of the attacking party, and for the moment the advance was checked. "Wow!" came from one of the juniors who had been hit in the ear. "Why can't we do some throwing ourselves?" "That's the talk! Give it to 'em!" came from another student who had had his cap knocked off by a snowball. "No, no," answered Stanley. "Save your snowballs until we get closer." "Come on, we'll soon be up there," put in Sam Rover. "Only a hundred feet more, fellows!" There was a yell of assent, and forward the charging party went again in the face of another volley of snowballs. By bending low the juniors and seniors protected themselves as much as possible from the onslaught, but many were hit, two so stingingly that they had to retire to the rear. "Hurrah! We've got 'em on the run!" came from the leader of the fort contingent, who had mounted a tree stump located behind the wall. "Give it to 'em, fellows! Give it too 'em hot!" "Now, then, boys, all together!" yelled Stanley at the top of his voice, and then the eager juniors and seniors launched their snowballs with all the swiftness and accuracy of aim at their command. The two previous attacks which had been repulsed had taught the advancing students a lesson, and now in this third attack scarcely a snowball was wasted. Those in the front ran directly up to the wall of the fort, while those farther back spread out, as directed by their leader, to the right and to the left, sending in cross fires at points where the fort was supposed to be weakest. It was a thrilling and spirited fight, but, although the students were greatly excited, there was little more actual roughness than there would have been at a football or other athletic contest. "Over the wall, boys! Over the wall!" burst out Sam Rover, and the next instant he was up on the wall of the fort, quickly followed by Stanley, Bob, Spud, and several others. "Back there, you rebels! Back!" came in a yell from the interior of the fort, and then a wild fusillade of snowballs struck Sam and his chums in various parts of their bodies. "Jumping hambones!" spluttered Spud, as a snowball took him directly in the chin. "What do you think I'm built of, iron?" "Get back or you'll get worse!" was the cry from the fort, and then another snowball took Spud in the ear. In the meantime, Sam Rover had dodged a ball which was coming directly for his face, and now he returned the fire with a hard one that took the sophomore below him in the ear. Then Sam jumped down into the fort, quickly followed by eight or ten others. "Clear them out! Don't let them stay here!" was the wild cry. "Everybody around the flagpole!" was the command of the fort leader. The flagpole was a small one located in the center of the enclosure, and from it fluttered the banners of the freshmen and the sophomore classes. Those making the attack would have to haul those banners down before they could claim a victory. Snowballs were now flying in all directions, and it was quite probable that in the excitement many of the students let fly at their friends instead of at the enemy; but it was all good, clean sport, and everybody enjoyed it greatly. "Now, then, fellows, for a center rush!" came from Stanley, when he and Sam and about twenty others had forced their way to within ten yards of the flagpole. "Avalanche them, boys! Avalanche them!" came suddenly from one of the sophomores, and then without warning huge chunks of loose snow were sent flying through the air on the heads of those who were battling to get to the flagpole. "Great Cæsar's ghost!" spluttered Bob, as some of the snow went down inside his collar. "What is this; a snowslide?" "Oh, you mustn't mind a little thing like that," answered Sam Rover. "Come ahead, everybody! Push!" There was a wild scramble, with many yells and shouts. Student after student went down in the mêlée, a few to be trampled upon, but fortunately nobody was seriously hurt. There was such a congestion that to make or throw more snowballs was out of the question, and the most a fighter could do was to snatch up a handful of loose snow and thrust it down the neck of the student opposing him. Sam and Stanley, with four others close by them, had now managed to get within a few feet of the flagpole. Here, however, the freshmen and sophomores had planted themselves in a solid mass, and it looked for the moment as if nothing could budge them. "Only six minutes more, boys! Only six minutes more!" came from one of the sophomores who had been detailed as a timekeeper. "Save those banners for six minutes and we'll win." "Hit 'em, fellows, hit 'em!" roared Stanley. "We've got to get those banners this year." "And we're going to do it," added Sam. He turned to Bob and Spud. "Boost me up, fellows, and I'll walk right over their heads to the pole." "All right, if you want to take the chance," answered Spud, and in a twinkling Sam was shoved up into the air onto the shoulders of the boy in front of him. This student let out a cry of alarm, but before he could do anything Sam made a leap forward, landing on the shoulders of two students close to the pole. "Fire him back! Don't let him reach the pole!" came in a yell from several throats. "Hold him by the ankles! Don't let him jump!" cried out the leader of the fort defenders. Several students turned to clutch at the ankles of Sam Rover, but he was too nimble for them, and with another leap he reached the flagpole and clutched it tightly. "Hurrah! Rover has reached the pole!" "Get those banners, Sam! There is no time to spare!" "Hold him!" "Pull him down!" "Maul him!" cried the fort defenders. "Don't let him climb up the pole!" Several turned to clutch at Sam's legs and feet, but he thrashed out wildly and all but one fell back, fearing injury. The undaunted student caught Sam by a heel and held on very much as might a bulldog. "Let go there," came from Spud, and the next instant he raised a chunk of snow and shoved it directly into the open mouth of the boy who had the grip. This was too much for the student, and he fell back among his fellows. "Only two minutes more!" yelled the timekeeper. "Two minutes more!" "We won't need more than fifteen seconds," came triumphantly from Sam, and as he spoke he commenced to climb the pole. A sophomore followed, clutching again at one of his feet, but now the Rover boy had his hand on the first of the banners, and down it came in a twinkling, and the second quickly followed. "Here you are, boys; catch them!" Sam cried and, wadding the banners into something of a ball, he hurled them out into the midst of a group of seniors. "Hurrah! we've got 'em!" was the triumphant cry. "We've got 'em!" "Time's up!" yelled the timekeeper. A cheer arose from the juniors and seniors, who quickly held the captured banners aloft. The freshmen and sophomores were, of course, keenly disappointed, and a number of them showed it. "Let's drive them out of the fort, anyway!" was the sudden cry. "Give it to 'em! Send 'em flying!" "Wait, wait, this contest is at an end," said a professor who was one of the umpires. "Never mind, let's have some fun anyway." This cry was taken up on every side, and while some of the seniors retired with the two captured banners, the other students continued the contest, those who had held the fort doing all they possibly could to overcome and expel their enemies. As soon as he had thrown the banners Sam slid down the pole, and was now trying his best to make his way out of the crowd of freshmen and sophomores. These students were very bitter against the Rover boy, and several did all they could to trip him up and cover him with snow. "Say, Sam, that was great!" cried Spud. "Best I ever saw!" "Out with 'em! Out with 'em!" was the yell. "Don't let 'em stay in the fort even if they did get the banners." "Come on!" cried Sam quickly. "Now we have the banners let us drive them clean down the other side of the hill." This suggestion received instant approval and, in spite of all that some of the professors could do to stop it, the fight went on as furiously as ever. Some of the students who had retreated to a safe distance came back with a fresh supply of snowballs, and the air was once more filled with the flying missiles. "Come on, let us teach them a lesson," cried Bob Grimes. "They should have stopped fighting as soon as the banners were captured. Let us give the sophomores and freshmen all they want." This cry was taken up on all sides, and around and around the enclosure which had been designated the fort went the various crowds of students. The blood of the juniors and seniors was now up, and slowly but surely they forced the younger students to retreat. Then came a break and something of a panic, and a few minutes later the fort defenders were retreating down the other side of the hill, which led through some brushwood to a road that ran to Ashton. "After 'em! After 'em! Don't let 'em get away!" cried Sam, and was one of the first to go down the hill after the retreating students. On the way he paused only long enough to make several snowballs. Having reached the road which led to the town, the freshmen and sophomores divided, some going behind a barn and others taking to the woods beyond. Not knowing exactly what to do next, Sam and several with him halted to consider the matter. "There they go!" was the cry a moment later, and a number of students were seen speeding around a corner of the road. "That's Bissel, the fellow who hit me in the ear," cried Sam. "I'm going after him." "And, yes, there is Dutz, who filled my mouth with snow," cried Spud. "Come on!" Sam was already on the run, and, coming to the turn in the road, he let fly several snowballs. "Here! Here! What do you mean by such actions?" came suddenly from behind some brushwood which lined the roadway and then, as the students advanced still further, they were surprised to find themselves confronted by a tall man wearing a heavy, fur-lined overcoat. He had likewise been wearing a beaver hat, but the tile now lay in the snow. "Belright Fogg!" exclaimed Sam in dismay. "That lawyer who tried to get the best of us! And I thought he was one of the students!" "Ha! so it is you," snarled the man in the fur overcoat harshly. "What do you mean, Rover, by attacking me in this fashion?" CHAPTER II SOMETHING ABOUT THE ROVER BOYS "Say! that isn't one of the students." "Not much! Why, that's the lawyer who used to do business for the railroad company--the man the Rovers had so much trouble with!" "Who knocked his hat off?" "I don't know--Sam Rover, I guess." Such were some of the remarks made as a number of the juniors and seniors began to congregate around Sam and Mr. Belright Fogg. All of the students could readily see that the lawyer was very much put out over what had occurred. "I say, Rover, what do you mean by attacking me in this fashion?" repeated Belright Fogg, with a savage look at the youth before him. "If I knocked your hat off, Mr. Fogg, I am sorry for it," answered Sam, as soon as he could recover from his surprise. "Knocked my hat off?" roared the lawyer. "You hit me a hard one on the head; that is what you did!" "Let me see if you are hurt," put in Stanley, stepping forward. "Where did the snowball hit you?" "You keep your hands off me," returned Belright Fogg. "I've a good mind to have the law on such loafers as you." "We are not loafers, Mr. Fogg," answered Sam, the color coming quickly to his face. "We were having our annual snowballing contest, and we did not know that any outsider was on this back road. If I hit you and hurt you I am very sorry for it." "Humph! I think you will be sorry for it if I bring a suit for damages," muttered the lawyer. "I don't know why Dr. Wallington permits such rowdyism." "This isn't rowdyism, nor are we loafers," put in Stanley, somewhat sharply. "You seem to forget, Mr. Fogg, that this road runs through the property belonging to Brill College, and we have a perfect right to hold our snowballing contest here. If you want to report the matter to Dr. Wall----" "Bah! I know you students, and I wouldn't expect any sympathy from your teacher. He's too afraid of losing any of his students." Belright Fogg snatched his beaver hat from the hands of Spud, who had picked it up. "I'll settle with you for this later, Rover," he added, and then turned on his heel and hurried down the road. "I wonder what brought him on this back road on foot?" observed Bob. "He isn't on foot. He has his horse and cutter beside the barn," answered another student. "There he is now, picking up a robe out of the snow. It must have fallen out of the cutter and he walked back to get it." Which surmise was correct. "This looks like more trouble for me," said Sam, soberly. "I'm mighty sorry it was Mr. Belright Fogg I hit with that snowball." "You can wager he'll make out a case against you if he possibly can," remarked Spud. "Lawyers of his calibre always do." "Well, this settles the snowball fight for us," put in Stanley, as he looked up and down the road. "The freshies and sophs are clear out of sight. Let us go back to the campus and celebrate our victory;" and then, as Belright Fogg drove away in his cutter, the students walked over the hill in the direction of Brill. To my old readers the youths already mentioned in these pages will need no special introduction. For the benefit of others, however, let me state that Sam Rover was the youngest of three brothers, Dick being the eldest and fun-loving Tom coming next. They were the sons of one Anderson Rover, a rich widower, and had for years made their home with their Uncle Randolph and their Aunt Martha at a beautiful farm called Valley Brook. From the farm, and while their father was in Africa, the three Rover boys had been sent by their uncle to school, as related in the first volume of this series, entitled "The Rover Boys at School." This place was called Putnam Hall Military Academy, and there the lads made many friends, and likewise several enemies, and had "the time of their lives," as Tom Rover often expressed it.* * For particulars regarding how Putnam Hall Military Academy was organized, and what fine times the cadets there enjoyed even before the Rover boys came on the scene, read "The Putnam Hall Series," six volumes, starting with "The Putnam Hall Cadets."--PUBLISHERS. The first term at school was followed by an exciting trip on the ocean, and then another trip into the jungles of Africa, where the boys went looking for their parent. Then came a trip to the West, followed by some grand times on the Great Lakes and in the Mountains. Then the boys returned to Putnam Hall, to go into an encampment with their fellow-cadets. This term at Putnam Hall was followed by a never-to-be-forgotten journey on Land and Sea to a far-away island in the Pacific. Then they returned to this country, sailing down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. After leaving the Father of Waters, they took an outing on the Plains, and then went down into Southern Waters, where they solved the mystery of a deserted steam yacht. After so many exciting adventures the three brothers had been glad to journey to the home farm for a rest, after which they returned to Putnam Hall, settled down to their studies, and graduated with considerable honor. "Now for college!" Dick Rover had said. But before setting out for Brill, a fine institution of learning located in the Middle West, the boys had become involved in a search for a fortune left on Treasure Isle. During their days at Putnam Hall the Rover boys had become well acquainted with Dora Stanhope, who lived near the school with her widowed mother, and also with Nellie and Grace Laning, Dora's two cousins, who resided a short distance farther away. It had not been long before Dick and Dora showed a great liking for each other, and at the same time Tom often paired off with Nellie and Sam was frequently seen in the company of Grace. A few miles away from Brill College was located Hope Seminary, an institution for girls, and when the Rover boys went to Brill, Dora, Nellie and Grace went to Hope; so that the young folks met almost as often as before. A term at Brill College was followed by an unexpected trip Down East, where the Rovers brought to terms a rascally ex-schoolteacher, named Josiah Crabtree, who had given them much trouble while at Putnam Hall. In those days the art of flying was attracting considerable attention and, through the indulgence of their father, the Rover boys became the possessors of a biplane and took several thrilling trips through the air, their experiences in that line coming to an abrupt finish when the flying machine was one day wrecked on the railroad tracks. This had brought on a sharp contest between the Rover boys and the railroad lawyer, Mr. Belright Fogg. The Rovers had claimed all that was coming to them, and the railroad had been made to pay up, much to Belright Fogg's disgust. Later, the lawyer had been discharged by the railroad from its services. About this time Mr. Anderson Rover, who was not in the best of health, was having much trouble with brokers in New York City who were trying to swindle him out of some property. The brokers were Pelter, Jackson & Company, and it was not long before the Rover boys discovered that Pelter was in league with Josiah Crabtree. In a struggle poor Tom Rover was hit on the head by a wooden footstool thrown by Pelter and knocked unconscious. This had so affected his mind that he wandered off to Alaska, and Sam and Dick had many adventures trying to locate him. When he was found he was brought home and placed under the care of a specialist, and soon was as well as ever. Dick Rover was now growing older, and, with his father in such poor health, it was decided that the youth should leave Brill, become married to Dora, and settle down in charge of the office in Wall Street, New York. This plan was carried out, as related in detail in the volume preceding this, entitled "The Rover Boys in Business." At that time, Sam and Tom still remained at Brill, but an urgent message from Dick brought them quickly to the metropolis. A large number of unregistered bonds belonging to the Rovers had mysteriously disappeared, and all the boys went on a hunt to recover the securities. In the end it was learned that their old enemy, Jesse Pelter, was the guilty party, and he was brought to justice. Then it was felt that Dick needed assistance in the office, and it was decided, much to Tom's satisfaction, that he might get married to Nellie Laning and move to the city. "That will leave me all alone at Brill," said Sam Rover at that time. "Well, you shouldn't mind that so much," Tom Rover had replied. "Remember, Grace will still be at Hope," at which words the youngest Rover had blushed deeply. When the Rovers had gone to Brill College they had been accompanied by their old-time school chum, John Powell, always called "Songbird" on account of his propensity for writing doggerel which he insisted on calling poetry. At the same time there came to Brill from Putnam Hall one William Philander Tubbs, a very dudish student with whom the boys often had great fun. It did not take the three Rover boys long to make a number of friends at Brill. These included Stanley Browne, a tall, gentlemanly youth; Bob Grimes, who was greatly interested in baseball; Will Jackson, always called Spud, because of his unusual fondness for potatoes; and Max Spangler, a German-American youth, who was still struggling with the language, and who had failed to advance in his studies, so that at the present time he was only in the sophomore class. They had also made several enemies, but these had for the time being left Brill. "You'll be the hero of this occasion, Sam," remarked Stanley, as the students tramped in the direction of the college campus. "Hero of the occasion, I suppose, for hitting Mr. Fogg in the head," returned Sam, with a slight grin. "Oh, forget that!" burst out Spud. "I don't think he'll do a thing. Remember the affair occurred on the college grounds, just as Stanley said." "Say! where is Songbird to-day?" asked Paul Orben. "He ought to have been in this fight." "He wanted to come very much," answered Sam, "but he had a special errand to do for Mr. Sanderson, who is laid up with a broken ankle." "Was he doing the errand for Mr. Sanderson or for Minnie?" questioned Stanley; and then a short laugh went up, for it was well known among the young collegians that Songbird Powell and the daughter of Mr. Sanderson, a prosperous farmer of that vicinity, were much attached to each other. As Sam Rover and his friends reached the college campus, a great cheer arose. "There he is!" "Here the conquering hero comes!" "Let us put him up on our shoulders, fellows!" and a rush was made towards the youngest Rover boy. "Not much! Not to-day!" returned Sam, and slid back behind some of his friends. "Aw! come on, Sam!" cried one of the students. "You are the hero of the occasion, and you know it." "Forget it, Snips," answered Sam. "What did the fellows do with those banners?" "Lentwell has them. He is keeping them for you. I suppose you'll nail them up in your den?" "Surest thing you know!" "Maybe the freshies and sophs will want them back," put in another youth in the crowd. "Not much! They can have them back after I graduate next June," answered Sam. "They have got to understand---- Stop it, fellows, stop it! I don't want to---- Well, if you've got to, I suppose I'll have to submit." And an instant later Sam found himself hoisted up on the shoulders of several stalwart seniors, who tramped around and around the college campus with him while all the other seniors, and also the juniors, cheered wildly and waved their caps. "Doesn't that make you feel proud, Sam?" asked Spud, during a lull in the proceedings. "It sure does, Spud," was the quick reply. "I've only got one regret--that Dick and Tom aren't here to share this victory with us." "Yes, it's a shame. And just to think of it, after next June, when we graduate, we'll all be scattered here, there, and everywhere, and the good old times at Brill will be a thing of the past." "Don't mention such things," put in Stanley. "It makes me sick clean to the heels every time I think of it. But I suppose college days can't last forever. We've got to go out into the world, just as our fathers did before us." "Yes, and I've got to get into business," answered Sam. "I want to help father, as well as Dick and Tom, all I can." "Hi, fellows!" was the unexpected cry from the lower end of the campus. "Here come the freshies and the sophs back! Line up and be ready to receive them!" "That's it! Line up, line up, everybody!" ordered Stanley. "Give them our old song of victory!" CHAPTER III WHAT HAPPENED TO SONGBIRD It was fully half an hour later before Sam Rover could break away from his college chums and run up to room Number 25, which he had formerly occupied with his brother Tom and which he now shared with Songbird Powell. Nearly a week before, the youngest Rover had made a date with Grace Laning, inviting her, if the snow remained on the ground, to a sleighride that afternoon and evening. At that time Sam had forgotten completely that this day was the date set for the annual snowballing contest. "I think I'll go anyway," he had remarked to Songbird, the day before. But then had come word to his roommate that Mr. Sanderson wanted him on a matter of importance, and Stanley, as the leader of the seniors, had insisted upon it that he could not spare both of his chums. "All right, then," Sam had answered finally; "you can go, Songbird, and do what Mr. Sanderson wants you to, and I'll put off my sleighride with Grace until after the contest;" and so it had been settled. There were no public turnouts at the college, but Sam had arranged with Abner Filbury, who worked around the place with his father, to obtain for him a first-class horse and cutter from the Ashton livery stable. "That horse is some goer, believe me!" remarked Abner, when he came to the door of Sam's room, to tell him that the turnout was in readiness. "You'll have to keep your eye on him, Mr. Rover." "All right, Ab. Trust me to take care of him," returned Sam lightly. "Don't forget that I was brought up on a farm, and my Uncle Randolph had some pretty spirited animals." "Have a good time, Sam!" cried Spud, who was present to see his chum depart. "Wish I was going to see such a nice girl." "Oh, your time will come some day," answered Sam. "Are you going directly to Hope?" "Yes." "Alone?" "I expect to unless you want to ride along that far." "Say! I'd like that first-rate," returned Spud, eagerly. "I know some of the girls up there, and I'd like to call on them. I wouldn't mind walking back later on." "Then come on if you are ready. I haven't any time to wait." "Oh, I'm always ready," came from Spud; and he lost no time in bestowing himself beside Sam. The latter gathered up the reins, gave a slight chirp to the horse, and away they sped out of the college grounds and on to the highway leading past Hope Seminary, which was about two miles distant. The air was cool and bracing, and the snow on the highway well packed down, so that the cutter slid over it with ease. As Abner Filbury had said, the steed was a mettlesome one, and soon Sam found he had all he could do to hold the horse in. "Some goer, that!" remarked Spud, as he pulled his cap down tighter to keep it from flying off. "Puts me in mind of a race horse." "Yes, I shouldn't wonder but what he could make a mile in almost record time," responded Sam, as they flew along past the trees, bushes and occasional farm buildings which lined the roadway near Brill. "You want to watch yourself with a horse that goes as fast as that," returned Spud, with a chuckle. "If you don't, you'll get a mile or two past Hope before you know it;" and at this little joke Sam grinned. Early in the ride they passed one or two cutters and several farm wagons. Then they reached a turn in the road, and to their surprise saw ahead of them a sign resting on a large wooden horse: ROAD CLOSED "Hello! What does this mean?" queried Sam, as he brought his horse to a standstill. "I didn't know this road was shut off." "Oh, yes, I heard something about this, come to think of it," returned Spud. "They are going to move that old Jackson barn from one side of the road to the other, and they must have closed the road for that purpose. You'll have to take the old road on the left, Sam." "I suppose so," grumbled the other. "Too bad, too, for this road was just about perfect for sleighing. But never mind, I suppose I can get through on the other road well enough." They turned back a distance of less than two hundred feet, and then took to the side road which Spud had mentioned. This was more hilly than the other, and ran through a long patch of timberland on which no houses were located. "Hark! Don't I hear another sleigh coming?" questioned Spud, a minute later. "Something is coming, that's sure," answered Sam. "Gracious me! Look at that!" Coming to another bend of the woodland road, the youngest Rover had barely time to pull his steed well toward the right hand and almost into some bushes when another cutter hove into sight, coming along at a furious rate. The horse was on a gallop, and the man driving him, a fellow wrapped up in a heavy overcoat and with a fur cap pulled far down over his forehead, was using his whip freely. "Wow! That fellow must be in some hurry," observed Spud, as the other turnout flashed past. "He isn't sparing his horse any." "It's a lucky thing for me that I pulled in here as I did," returned Sam, and his tone of voice showed his anger. "If I hadn't done it he would have run into us, sure pop." "You're right, Sam. That fellow had no right to come along in that fashion. He ought to be arrested for reckless driving. But maybe he wants to catch a train at Ashton or something like that." "No train he could catch for an hour and a half, Spud. And he could walk to the station in that time;" and thus speaking, Sam chirruped to the horse, and they resumed their ride. A little farther on the woodland road made another turn, and here the way was uphill. The numerous rains of the summer previous had washed the rocks bare of dirt, and often the cutter bumped and scraped so badly that Sam was compelled to bring his steed down to a walk. "Well, one satisfaction, we'll be back to the main road before long," observed Spud, as they finally reached the top of the hill and could get a view of the surroundings. "There is the other road just below us." "Hello! What's that ahead?" cried Sam, pointing with his left hand. "Looks to me like somebody lying in the snow." "It is somebody!" exclaimed his chum. "Say! do you suppose that other horse was running away, and this fellow fell out?" "Not much, with that other fellow using the whip as he was!" returned Sam. "This fellow ahead probably had nothing to do with that other cutter. Excepting he may have been knocked down by the horse," he added suddenly. "That's what the trouble is! That rascal knocked this fellow down and then hurried on, Sam! Poor fellow! I wonder if he is much hurt?" By this time the cutter had reached a point opposite to where the person in the snow rested. All the boys could see was some person, wrapped in an overcoat, lying face downward. A cap that looked strangely familiar to Sam lay close at hand. Stopping the horse, Sam leaped from the cutter, and Spud did the same. "Say, Sam!" burst out the latter, "it looks like----" "Songbird!" burst out the Rover boy. "It's Songbird, Spud, and he's badly hurt." It was indeed poor Songbird Powell who rested there in the snow by the roadside. He had on his overcoat and his fur-lined gloves, but his head was bare, and from a cut on his left temple the blood was flowing. The boys turned their college chum over, and at this Songbird uttered a low moan. "He has either had an accident or been attacked," was Spud's comment. "I wonder how badly he's hurt?" "I'm afraid it's pretty bad," answered Sam, soberly. "That's a nasty cut. And say! his chin is all swelled up as if he had been hit there with a club!" The two boys knelt beside their unconscious chum and did what they could to revive him. But Songbird did not open his eyes, nor did he make any other sound than a low moan. "We'll have to get him somewhere out of this biting, cold air," observed Sam. "There is a farmhouse just below here on the main road. Let us put him in the cutter and carry him there." When they picked Songbird up he uttered another moan and for an instant his eyes opened; but then he collapsed as before. They deposited him on the seat of the turnout, and Sam picked up his cap and several books that lay scattered around. With sober faces the boys led the mettlesome horse down the slope to the main road. Both kept their eyes on their chum, but he still remained insensible. "Maybe he won't get over it," suggested Spud. "Oh, don't say that!" cried Sam in horror. "It can't be as bad as that." And then he added: "Spud, did you notice the looks of that horse when he dashed past us?" "I didn't have time to notice much," was the reply. "Did he wear white stockings?" "What? Oh! I know what you mean--white feet. Yes, he had white feet. I know that much." "And did he have any white under his neck?" "Yes, I think he did. Do you think you know the horse, Sam?" "I know Mr. Sanderson has a horse with white feet and a white chest--a dark horse, just like that one was." "Then it must have been Mr. Sanderson's horse and cutter!" cried Spud. "If it was, do you think that man was running away with the outfit?" "I don't know what to think, Spud. To my mind it's a mighty serious piece of business. But our first duty is to do all we can for poor Songbird." Arriving at the nearest farmhouse, Spud ran ahead and knocked on the door. A woman answered the summons, and as she happened to know the youth, she readily consented to have Songbird brought in and laid on a couch in the dining-room. Hardly had this been done when the sufferer slowly opened his eyes. "Don--don't hit m-m-me again!" he murmured. "Ple-please don't!" "It's all right, Songbird. Don't you know me?" said Sam, quietly. The injured collegian opened his eyes again and stared at the youth before him. "Sam! Wh-where did you co-come from?" "Spud and I found you on the road, face down in the snow," answered Sam. "What happened? Did you fall out of the cutter, or were you attacked?" "I--I---- Oh! how my head spins!" muttered Songbird. He closed his eyes again and was silent for a moment. Then he looked once more at Sam. "I was attacked," he mumbled. "The man--he hit me--with a club--and hauled me out of the cutter." "It must have been the fellow we saw on the road!" exclaimed Spud. "Songbird, why did he do it?" "I--I--do-don't know," mumbled the sufferer. "But maybe I do!" he suddenly shouted, in a strangely unnatural voice. Then with a sudden strength born of fear, he raised his left hand and dived down into the inner pocket of his coat. "The package! It's gone!" "The package! What package?" queried Sam. "The package belonging to Mr. Sanderson!" gasped poor Songbird. "The package with the four thousand dollars in it! It's gone!" and with another groan Songbird lapsed once more into unconsciousness. CHAPTER IV THE CHASE It must be confessed that Sam and Spud, as well as the woman of the house, were very much surprised over the statement made by Songbird. "Attacked and robbed!" murmured Sam. "What an awful thing to do!" "He said he had been robbed of four thousand dollars!" broke in Spud. "Where in the world would he get that much money? He must be dreaming, Sam." "I hardly think so, Spud. I know he was to go on a very important errand for Mr. Sanderson, who is laid up at home with a sprained ankle." "Well, if Songbird was robbed, it's more than likely the fellow we saw in the cutter did it." "Exactly! And the chances are he will get away just as fast as he possibly can," added Sam, bitterly. "What do you think we ought to do?" "I think we ought to notify the authorities, Spud." "Hadn't we better wait until we get some particulars from Songbird?" "Not much! The quicker we get after that fellow the better. Remember he is running away not only with the money but also with Mr. Sanderson's horse and cutter. Many people living in this vicinity know Mr. Sanderson's animal, and that may help us to locate that rascal." Sam turned to the woman of the house. "Have you a telephone?" "No, we haven't any; but the folks in the next house up the road have one." "Then I'll go there and telephone," said Sam. "You do what you can for Songbird, Spud. I'll try to get a doctor, too, while I'm at it." In a few seconds more Sam was on the way, using his horse and cutter for that purpose. Arriving at the next farmhouse, he readily received permission to use the telephone, and at once got into communication with the authorities in Ashton, and asked the official in charge to send word around to the various towns and villages within the next ten or fifteen miles, and he also sent word to a physician at Ashton. Then he managed to get Grace on the wire. "I'm afraid I'll be late," he told the girl. "And maybe I won't be able to get there at all," he added. "Songbird has been knocked down on the road and robbed, and he is in pretty bad shape." "Oh, Sam! isn't that too bad!" was Grace's reply. "Do you mean that he is seriously injured?" "We can't tell yet, Grace. I have just telephoned for the doctor, and now I am going back to the Bray farmhouse, where Songbird is, to wait for him." And after that Sam gave the girl as many details of the affair as he deemed necessary. "Oh! I hope he gets over it, Sam," said Grace. "And to think he was robbed of all that money! If they can't get it back, what ever will Songbird and the Sandersons do?" "I don't know," he returned. "It certainly is a bad piece of business. But now I've got to go back, so I'll say good-bye." "Good-bye, Sam, and you stay with Songbird just as long as you please. We can have our sleighride some other time." When Sam returned to the Bray farmhouse he found that Spud and the lady of the house had washed Songbird's wound and bound it up. The lady had also brought forth some simple home remedies, and these had been so efficacious that Songbird was sitting on the couch, propped up by numerous pillows. "Did you catch him?" asked the sufferer eagerly, as Sam entered. "I've sent word to the police, Songbird, and sent word for a doctor too. Now you had better take it easy until the doctor comes." "But how can I take it easy with that four thousand dollars missing?" groaned the youth on the couch. "Why, I can't make that amount up, and Mr. Sanderson can't afford to lose it." "How does your head feel?" "It feels sore all over, and sometimes spins like a top. But I wouldn't care about that if only I could get that money back. Can't you and Spud go after that rascal?" "I'm willing if you want us to, Songbird; but you'll have to promise to stay here until the doctor comes. We don't want you to attempt to do anything while you are in your present condition." "Oh, I'll stay here, don't fear," answered Songbird, grimly. "I just tried to stand up, and I went in a heap, and Spud and the lady had to put me back on this couch." "Let's take that horse of yours and go after that fellow, Sam," burst out Spud, eagerly. "That horse is a goer, as we know, and we ought to be able to catch that man sooner or later." "Providing we can follow his trail, Spud," answered Sam. "You must remember there are a good many side roads around here, and he can take to any one he pleases." "But we might be able to find the footprints of the horse in the snow." "Possibly, although I doubt it, with so many other horses using the highway. However, come on, we'll do the best we can." Sam turned again to the sufferer. "Now, Songbird, you keep quiet until the doctor comes, and then you do exactly as he orders." "Maybe Mrs. Bray will see to that," ventured Spud. "I will if you want me to," responded the woman of the house. "That cut on his head is a nasty one, and if he doesn't take care of himself it may make him real sick." In a moment more Sam and Spud were out of the house and into the cutter, which was then headed up the side road where they had found Songbird. Here they stopped for an instant to take another look around, and picked up two more books which had escaped their notice before. "Books of poetry, both of 'em," remarked Spud. "Songbird thinks more of a poem than he does of a square meal," and he smiled a bit grimly. It did not take long to reach the spot where the other cutter had passed them. They went straight on, soon reaching the point where the woodland road joined the main highway. "Now, you see, here is where we are going to get mixed up," announced Sam, as they moved in the direction of Brill. "Did the fellow go straight to Ashton, or did he turn off to one of the other places?" "The folks traveling along the road must have seen him," returned Spud. "Let us make some inquiries as we go along." This was a good suggestion, and was carried out. They found a farmer who had seen the strange man in the cutter drive toward Ashton, and a little later they met two ladies in a sleigh who declared that the fellow had turned into a side road leading to a hamlet known as Lester's Corners. "If he went there, we ought to have a chance to catch him," cried Spud. "This road I know doesn't go beyond the Corners." "Yes. But he could take a road from there to Dentonville," answered Sam, "and you know that is quite a railroad station." "But if he went to Dentonville and to the railroad station, couldn't you telephone to the operator there to have him held?" "Maybe, Spud, providing there is any telephone at the Corners." Onward they went once more, through some heavy woodland and then over several small hills, finally coming in sight of the Corners, where were located a general store, a blacksmith's shop, a chapel, and about a dozen houses. "Did I see a feller in a cutter goin' as fast as he could?" repeated the storekeeper, when questioned by Sam. "You just bet I did. Gee whiz! but he was goin' to beat the band!" "And which way did he head?" questioned the Rover boy, eagerly. "Headed right straight for Dentonville." "And how long ago was this?" put in Spud. "Oh, about quarter of an hour, I should say. Say! he nearly skeered old Mrs. Rasley to deth. She was a-crossin' the road comin' to my store when he swung aroun' that corner yonder, and he come within a foot of runnin' over her. She wanted to git Joe Mason, the constable, to arrest him, but, gee whiz! there wasn't no arrestin' to it--he was out o' sight before you could say Jack Robinson." "Have you any telephone connection with Dentonville?" questioned Sam. "Ain't got no telephone here at all. The telephone fellers promised to put a line through here three years ago, but somehow they hain't got around to doin' it. You see, Squire Buzby owns some of their stock, and he don't think that we ought to----" "That's all right, Captain," broke in Sam, hastily. "Then if we want to catch that fellow, all we can do is to go after him, eh?" "Thet's about the size on it," returned the storekeeper. "Now you see if we had thet telephone here, we might be able to----" "That's so, we might. But as the telephone is missing, we'll go after him in our cutter," broke in Sam; and a few seconds later he and Spud were once more on their way. The road to Dentonville was not much traveled, and for a mile and a half they met no one. Then, just as they reached a crossing, they came in sight of an old farmer driving a box-sled filled with milk cans. "Did you meet a man driving a horse and cutter very rapidly?" questioned Sam, after he drew up. "A dark horse with a white breast and white feet?" "I jest guess I did!" replied the farmer. "He come pretty close to runnin' into me." "Which way was he headed?" "Headed straight for Dentonville." "Can you tell me when the next train stops there?" "The train is due there in about fifteen minutes, and she won't stop more'n long enough to put my milk cans on board. I jest left 'em there, and got these empty ones," explained the farmer, pointing to the cans behind him. "Fifteen minutes!" cried Spud. "And how far is it from here?" "Nigh on to three miles." "Is it a good road?" queried Sam. "Pretty fair. It's some washed out on the hills, but the snow has covered the wo'st of the holes. Want to ketch that feller?" "We certainly do. That horse and cutter belongs to Mr. Sanderson." "By gum! You don't say! Did he steal the turnout?" "He certainly did," answered Spud, "and nearly killed a young fellow in the bargain." "Then I hope you ketch 'im," answered the farmer, and stood up in his sled to watch Sam and Spud as they sped once more along the highway leading to Dentonville. The boys had a long hill ahead, and before the top was gained the horse attached to the cutter was glad enough to settle down to a walk. But once the ridge was passed, he did not need much urging, and flew along almost as rapidly as ever. "This horse must have been in the stable for quite some time," remarked Spud. "He evidently enjoys the outing thoroughly." "Listen!" cried Sam, a little later. "Isn't that the whistle of a locomotive?" "It sure is, Sam! That must be the train coming into Dentonville!" They were passing through a small patch of timber, and directly beyond were the cleared fields and the buildings of a tidy farm. As the boys came out of the woods they looked over the fields in the direction of Dentonville and saw a mixed train, composed of several passenger coaches and a string of freights, entering the station. "There she is!" cried Sam. "Oh, if only we can get there before she leaves!" He spoke to the horse and did what he could to urge the steed forward at a greater rate of speed than ever. Much to the astonishment of several onlookers, they dashed into the outskirts of Dentonville and then along the main street leading down to the railroad station. "Hi! Stop!" roared a voice at them, just as they were crossing one of the side streets, directly in front of a sleigh and two wagons. "Hi! Stop, I tell you! You ain't got no right to drive that fast here in town," and a blue-coated policeman, one of the four of which the place boasted, shook his club at the boys and ran out in front of their cutter. [Illustration: A BLUE-COATED POLICEMAN SHOOK HIS CLUB AT THE BOYS.] "Say! officer, you are just the man we want," cried Sam, hurriedly. "Come on with us. We want to have a man arrested down at the depot before he has a chance to get away on the train." "What's that? Want a man arrested?" queried the bluecoat. "What has he done?" "A whole lot of things," broke in Spud. "Jump in; we haven't any time to explain now--that train may pull out at any moment." "That's so; so it might," replied the officer; and then, as Spud made room for him, he sprang into the cutter, sitting on the boy's lap. "But you look out that you don't kill somebody," he added to Sam, who was now using the whip lightly to urge the horse to greater efforts. They were still two blocks away from the railroad station when there came a whistle, followed by the clanging of a bell, and then they saw the train moving away. "There she goes!" groaned Spud. "But she isn't moving very fast." "Maybe we can catch her yet," returned Sam; and then the race continued as before. CHAPTER V AT THE RAILROAD STATION "See anybody, Sam?" "Nobody that looks like that man, Spud, but there is Mr. Sanderson's horse with the cutter." "Yes, I spotted those right away. Look how the poor nag is heaving. He must have been driven almost to death." "That may be. Although we got here almost as quickly as he did. But he may have been used quite some before this trip," returned Sam; and this surmise was correct. The two boys, with the policeman, had done their best to catch the departing train and have it stop, but without avail. When they had reached the depot the last of the cars was well down the line, and soon the train had disappeared around a curve of the roadbed. "What's the matter, Ike? What are you after?" queried the freight agent, as he came up to the policeman. "We are after the man who was driving that cutter yonder," explained Sam. "Did you see him--a big fellow with a heavy overcoat and with a fur cap pulled down over his forehead?" "Why yes, I saw that fellow get aboard," answered the freight agent. "I was wondering what he was going to do with his horse. He didn't even stop to put a blanket over the animal." "That fellow was a thief," explained Sam. "I wonder if we can't have him captured in some way? What is the next station the train will stop at?" "Penton." "How far is that from here?" "About six miles." "And after that?" "She'll stop at Leadenfield, which is about six miles farther." "Then I'll send a telegram to Penton and another to Leadenfield to have the train searched and the man arrested if he can be spotted," said Sam; and a few minutes later he was in the telegraph office writing out the messages. He described the man as well as he could, but realized that his efforts were rather hopeless. "Maybe Songbird could give us a better description," he said to his chum; "but as Songbird isn't here, and as we can't get him on the telephone, we'll have to do the best we can." The policeman was, of course, anxious to know some of the details of what had occurred, and when the boys told him that their college chum had been knocked senseless and robbed of four thousand dollars he was greatly surprised. "It's too bad you didn't get here before the train started," he observed. "If you had we might have nabbed that rascal and maybe got a reward," and he smiled grimly. "We don't want any reward. We simply want to get that four thousand dollars back," returned Sam. "And we would like to put that fellow in prison for the way he treated our college chum." "What will you do with the horse and cutter?" "If there is a livery stable handy, I think I'll put the horse up there," answered Sam. "He is evidently in no condition to be driven farther at present. I'll notify Mr. Sanderson about it." And so it was arranged. A little while later, after the two boys had walked around to the police station with the officer and given such particulars as they were able concerning the assault and robbery, Sam and Spud started on the return to the Bray farmhouse. When they arrived there, they found that Dr. Havens and Dr. Wallington had come in some time before. By the directions of the head of Brill the physician from Ashton had given Songbird a thorough examination and had treated him with some medicine from his case. "The cut on his head is rather a deep one," said the doctor to the boys, "but fortunately it is not serious, nor will there be any bad effects from the blow on his chin. He can thank his stars though that the crack on his head did not fracture his skull." "We are going to take him back to Brill in a large sleigh," said Dr. Wallington, "and then I think the best he can do will be to go to bed." "Oh, I can't do that!" broke in Songbird, who was still on the couch, propped up by pillows. "I've got to get to Mr. Sanderson's and explain how the thing happened." "You had better let me do that, Songbird," answered Sam, kindly. "I can drive over there and Spud can go with me. You just let us know exactly how it occurred." This, of course, was after the boys had related the particulars of their failure to catch the fleeing criminal at Dentonville. "It happened so quickly that I hardly realized what was taking place," answered the would-be poet of Brill. "I was driving along from Knoxbury, where I had been to the bank for Mr. Sanderson, when I came to the spot where I suppose you found me. Just as I reached there a man in a heavy overcoat, and with a thick fur cap pulled over his face so that I could hardly see him, stepped in front of the cutter. "'Say! can you tell me where these people live?' he asked me, and thrust a sheet of paper towards me. 'I've lost my eye-glasses, and I can't see to read without them.' "I took the paper he handed out and started to look at some writing on it which was very indistinct. As I bent over the paper the man swung a club or something in the air and struck me on the head. Then, as I tried to leap up and defend myself, he hit me another blow on the chin. That seemed to knock me clean out of the cutter; and that is all I know about it." "Then you don't know where that fellow came from?" queried Spud. "No more than that he came from the bushes beside the road." Songbird seemed to meditate for a moment. "Now I come to think of it though, maybe that's the same fellow that watched me go into the bank at Knoxbury and get the money for Mr. Sanderson!" he cried, suddenly. "It was a very unwise move on Mr. Sanderson's part to have you get that money for him in cash," observed Dr. Wallington. "I do not understand why he could not have transacted his business with a check, especially if it was certified." "I don't know much about that part of it," answered Songbird, "excepting he told me that the old man with whom he was doing business was something of a crank and didn't believe in banks or checks, and said he wanted nothing but solid cash. It's a pity now that Mr. Sanderson didn't use a check," and Songbird heaved a deep sigh. "But what did you just say about a man watching you when you went into the bank?" questioned Sam. "Oh, I noticed that fellow hanging around the building just as I went in," returned Songbird. "He was asking the janitor about the trains out of town, and the reason I noticed him was because he had a peculiar stutter and whistle when he talked. He went like this," and Songbird imitated a man who was stuttering badly, ending in a faint whistle. "Great Scott! A fellow ought to know a man who talked like that anywhere," was Spud's comment. "Should be able to pick him out in the dark," and at this sally even Dr. Wallington smiled faintly. "Of course I'm not sure that that man had anything to do with it," went on Songbird. "But he was the only fellow around who seemed to notice me when I got the money. When the bills were passed over to me, there were forty one-hundred-dollar bills. I took them to a little side stand, to place them in a wallet Mr. Sanderson had lent me, and then I wrapped the wallet in a piece of paper with a stout string around it. As I did this I noticed the man who stuttered and whistled peering at me hungrily through a side window of the bank." "And the fellow wore a heavy overcoat and a fur cap?" questioned Sam. "Yes, I am sure of that." "Then it is more than likely he was the guilty party," remarked Spud. "But hold on a minute!" broke in Sam. "You got the money at Knoxbury, and this attack took place on the road above here, which is at least seven miles from that place. Now, if the man who did the deed was at the bank when you drew the money, how did he get here in time to hold you up?" "I don't know about that, Sam; but I didn't leave Knoxbury immediately after getting the money. I had an errand to do for Minnie. She wanted me to pick out a--er--a necktie for my birthday, and I--well, I looked around two or three stores, trying to find something nice to take back to her. I bought two books of poetry, but I don't know where they are now." "We found them on the road, and they are out in the cutter," answered Sam. "Spud, you might bring them in and give them to Songbird." "The errands kept me in town for about half an hour after I was at the bank," continued the youth who had been attacked. "And where had you left Mr. Sanderson's cutter in the meantime?" "Right in front of the bank building, the horse tied to a post." "That would give the man time to get another turnout in which to follow you," said Sam. "But if he did that, I don't see how he got ahead of you." "Well, maybe he didn't, and maybe it was some one else who did the deed," returned Sam. "You had better not worry your head too much about this affair, Mr. Powell," said Dr. Havens. "That crack on the head might have been more serious, but at the same time you ought to take care of yourself for a day or two at least." "Then you don't think I ought to go to Mr. Sanderson's?" queried the would-be poet of the college. "Not just yet. If you feel stronger you might go there to-morrow, or the day after." "Then will you go, Sam, and try to explain matters?" questioned Songbird, eagerly. "Of course I'll go, Songbird." "And I'll go with him," added Spud. A large sleigh had been brought to the farmhouse by Dr. Wallington, and Songbird was placed in this and made as comfortable as possible among the robes and blankets which it contained. Mr. Bray, the owner of the farm, had been up in the timber bringing down some firewood, and now, when he approached, the others saw that he had tied behind his sled an extra horse. "Hello! Where did that horse come from?" cried Sam. "Is it yours?" "No, 'tain't mine," said Timothy Bray. "I found it up in the woods right near the road yonder," and he pointed with his hand as he spoke. "Found that horse in the woods!" cried Spud. "Then that explains it." "It sure does," returned Sam. "Explains what?" demanded Timothy Bray. "What's goin' on down here anyway?" he continued, looking at his wife and then at the others. "Oh, Timothy! an awful thing has happened!" cried Mrs. Bray, and then she and the others gave the farmer a few of the particulars. He listened with mouth wide open, and then looked at the horse which he had found. "I guess you are right!" he exclaimed. "That feller got this horse in Knoxbury. It's one that belongs to Hoover, the livery stable man. I know him on account of this brand on his left flank. It's a horse Cy Tamen used to own and swapped for a bay mare." "Then I think that explains it," declared Sam. "That rascal saw Songbird get the money, and he at once went to the livery stable and hired the horse and followed Songbird to the spot where the attack was made. More than likely he passed Songbird on the road." "That's just what he did!" cried the youth who had been struck down. "I remember now! I was busy composing some poetry when I noticed a fellow on horseback go past me and disappear around a turn in the road, and that was just a few minutes before that fellow came up with a sheet of paper, and knocked me senseless." "I believe you have made out a pretty clear case," was Dr. Wallington's comment. "Now if we can only reach that man who stuttered and whistled, I think we shall have the culprit." "We telephoned ahead from Dentonville. If they can only locate him on the train it will be all right," answered Sam. "But you must remember we didn't have very much of a description to go by." "Yes, and that fellow may be fixed to change his appearance a good deal," added Spud. "A man isn't going to get his hands on four thousand dollars without doing all he possibly can to get away with it, especially when he knows that if he is caught he will be sent to prison." "What am I going to do with this horse?" questioned Timothy Bray. "You had better keep that animal in your stable until the livery man from Knoxbury calls for him," answered Dr. Wallington. "He'll have to pay me for doing it," was Mr. Bray's reply. "Every time I go to Knoxbury, Hoover charges me an outrageous price for putting up at his stable, and now I can get even with him," and he chuckled over the thought. CHAPTER VI AT THE SANDERSON HOME It was just about supper time when Sam, accompanied by Spud, drove into the lane beside the Sanderson farmhouse, which was lit up from end to end. Evidently Minnie Sanderson, the pretty daughter of the farmer, had been on the watch, for as they approached the house she came out on a side piazza to meet them. "Why, Songbird! what kept you so long?" she cried, and then added: "Who's that with you?" "It isn't Songbird, Minnie," answered Sam, after he sprang out of the cutter, followed by Spud. "We've got some news for you." "Oh, Sam Rover!" exclaimed the girl. "And Will Jackson! Whatever brought you here? Where is Songbird--do you know anything about him?" "Yes, we do; and that is what brought us here," answered Sam. "Oh, Sam! you don't mean that--that something has happened to John?" faltered the girl, turning pale. "Yes, something did happen, Minnie, but don't be alarmed--he isn't hurt very much. Come into the house and we'll tell you and your father all about it." "Hurt! Oh, are you sure it isn't serious? Now please don't hold anything back." "I'll give you my word, Minnie, it isn't serious. The doctor said he would be as well as ever in a few days, but he is rather knocked out, and the doctor said he had better not try to come here. So then he asked Spud and me to come." While Sam was speaking he and Spud had led the girl back into the house. She was very much agitated and her manner showed it. "But what was it, Sam? Do tell me. Did that horse run away with him? I know John isn't much of a driver, and when he gets to composing poetry he doesn't notice things and becomes so careless----" "No, Minnie, it was not that. Where is your father? We'll go to him and then we'll tell you the whole story." "What's this I hear?" came from the dining-room, where Mr. Sanderson rested in a Morris chair, with his sprained ankle perched on a footstool. "Where is John? And what about that money he was to get for me?" "Good evening, Mr. Sanderson," said Sam, coming in and shaking hands, followed by Spud. "We've got some bad news for you, but please don't blame Songbird--I mean John--for I am sure he was not to blame." "That's right!" broke in Spud. "What happened might have occurred to any of us. I think we ought to be thankful that Songbird--that's the name we all call John, you know--wasn't killed." "Oh, but do tell me what did happen!" pleaded Minnie. "And what about my money--is that safe?" demanded Mr. Sanderson. "No, Mr. Sanderson. I am sorry to say the fellow who attacked Songbird got away with it." "Gone! My four thousand dollars gone!" ejaculated the farmer. "Don't tell me that. I can't afford to lose any such amount. Why! it's the savings of years!" and his face showed his intense anxiety. "Oh, so John was attacked! Who did it? I suppose they must have half killed the poor boy in order to get the money away from him," wailed Minnie. "We might as well tell you the whole story from beginning to end," answered Sam, and then, after he and Spud had taken off their overcoats and gloves, both plunged into all the details of the occurrence as they knew them. "And he was hit on the head and on the chin! Oh, how dreadful!" burst out Minnie. "And are you positive, Sam, it was not serious?" "That is what Dr. Havens said, and he made a close examination in the presence of Dr. Wallington." "He ought to have been more careful," said Mr. Sanderson, bitterly. "But, Pa! how could he have been?" interposed the daughter. "Oh, in lots of ways. He might have placed that money inside of his shirt," answered the father. "It don't do to carry four thousand dollars around just as if it was--a--a--book of poetry or something like that," he added, with a touch of sarcasm. "Pa, I think it's real mean of you to talk that way!" flared up Minnie. "John told me that he didn't much like the idea of bringing that four thousand dollars in cash from the bank, but he undertook the errand just to please you." "Humph! Well, I was foolish to send him on the errand. I should have got some man who knew how to take care of such an amount of cash." "Mr. Sanderson, I don't think it's fair for you to blame Songbird," broke in Spud. "He did the best he could, and, of course, he had no idea that he was going to be attacked." "It's all well enough for you to talk, young man," broke out the farmer, angrily; "it wasn't your four thousand dollars that was stolen. I wanted that money to pay off the mortgage on this farm. It's due to-morrow, and the reason I wanted cash was because old Grisley insisted on cash and nothing else. He lost a lot of money in the bank years ago, and that soured him, so he wouldn't take a check nohow. Now what I'm going to do if I can't pay that mortgage, I don't know. And me down here with a sprained ankle, too!" he added with increasing bitterness. "You'll have to tell Mr. Grisley to wait for his money," said Sam. "When he learns the particulars of this affair he ought to be willing to wait." "If I could only walk I'd get on the trail of that thief somehow," muttered Mr. Sanderson. "It's a shame I've got to sit here and do nothin' when four thousand dollars of mine is floatin' away, nobody knows where." "We have notified the police and sent telegrams ahead, just as I told you," answered Sam. "I don't see what more we can do at present. Songbird was attacked so suddenly that he isn't sure that the fellow who did it is the same fellow he saw around the Knoxbury bank or not. But if he is the same fellow, we have a pretty fair description of him, and sooner or later the authorities may be able to run him down." "Oh, I know the police!" snorted the farmer. "They ain't worth a hill of beans." "Well, Songbird told me to tell you that if the money is not recovered, he will do all he can to make good the loss," continued Sam. "Make good the loss? Has he got four thousand dollars?" questioned the farmer, curiously. "Oh, no! Songbird isn't as wealthy as all that. He has only his regular allowance. But he said he'd work and earn the money, if he had to." "Humph! How is he going to earn it--writing poetry? They don't pay much for that kind of writing, to my way of thinking." "Now, Pa, please don't get so excited," soothed the daughter. "Let us be thankful that John wasn't killed. If he had been, I never would have forgiven you for having sent him on that errand." "Oh, now, don't you pitch into me. Minnie!" cried the father. "I've lost my four thousand dollars and that's bad enough. If I can't pay that mortgage, Grisley may foreclose and then you and me will be out of a home." "Nothing like that will happen, Mr. Sanderson," said Sam. "I don't know why." "The mortgage is on this farm, isn't it?" "Yes." "Is it the only mortgage you have, if I may ask?" "It is." "And what do you consider the farm worth?" "Well, I was offered eight thousand dollars for it last year, and I refused to sell." "Then I think it will be an easy matter to arrange to have the mortgage taken up by somebody else. Possibly my father or my uncle will do it." "Will they?" demanded Mr. Sanderson, eagerly. "Well, of course, that would be some help, but, at the same time, it wouldn't bring my four thousand dollars back," he added glumly. After that Minnie demanded to know more concerning Songbird's condition, and the two youths gave her every possible detail. "If I had a telephone here I might send word to Ashton to find out if they had tracked that rascal yet," said Mr. Sanderson. "But they asked so much money to put a telephone in over here I didn't have 'em do it." "Where is the nearest telephone?" questioned Spud. "Nothin' closer nor the railroad station at Busby's Crossing." "That's only half a mile away," put in Sam. "We might drive over there now and see if there is anything new." "You wait until you have had your supper," interposed Minnie. "It's all ready. I was expecting John, you know," and she blushed slightly. "But if your father is anxious to get word----" began the Rover boy. "Oh, I suppose you might as well wait and have somethin' to eat first," said the farmer. "That will give the authorities time to do somethin', if they are goin' to." In the expectation of having Songbird to supper, Minnie, with the aid of a young hired girl, had provided quite an elaborate meal, to which it is perhaps needless to state the young collegians did full justice. Then the youths lost no time in driving off in the cutter to Busby's Crossing, where they were lucky enough to find the station agent still in charge, although on the point of locking up, for no more trains would stop at the Crossing that night. The boys first telephoned to the college and to Ashton, and then to Dentonville and the railroad stations up the line. To get the various connections took considerable time, and to get "information that was no information at all," as Spud expressed it, took much longer still. The sum total of it was that no one had been able to trace the man in the heavy overcoat and with the heavy fur cap, and no one had the slightest idea about what had become of that much-wanted individual. "It's going to be like looking for the proverbial pin in the haystack," remarked Spud. "It's too bad," returned Sam, gloomily. "I did think we'd have some sort of encouraging word to take back to Mr. Sanderson." "Say! he's pretty bitter over the loss of that money, isn't he, Sam?" "You can't blame him for that. I'd be bitter too." "It looks to me as if he might make Minnie break with Songbird if that money wasn't recovered." "Possibly, Spud. Although he ought to know as well as we do that it was not Songbird's fault." "I'm glad to see Minnie sticks up for our chum, aren't you?" "Oh, Minnie's all right and always has been. She thinks just as much of Songbird as he does of her. Once in a while she pokes a little fun at his so-called poetry, but Songbird doesn't mind, so it doesn't matter." When the boys returned to the farmhouse Minnie ran out to meet them, and from their manner saw at once that they had no news worth mentioning. They could see that the girl had been crying, and now it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears again. "Oh, Minnie, you ought not to take it so hard," said Sam, kindly. "Of course, to lose four thousand dollars is a terrible blow, but maybe they'll get the money back some way, or at least a part of it." "It isn't the money, Sam," cried the girl, with something like a catch in her voice. "It's the way papa acts. He seems to think it was all John's fault. Oh! I can't bear it! I know I can't!" she suddenly sobbed, and then ran away and up the stairs to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. CHAPTER VII SAM AND GRACE "This whole affair is certainly a tough proposition," remarked Sam, when, about half an hour later, he and Spud were on their way back to Brill. The time had been spent in telling Mr. Sanderson how they had failed to obtain any satisfaction over the telephone, and in listening to the farmer's tirade against poor Songbird. "Old Sanderson certainly pitched into Songbird," returned Spud. "I declare if anybody called me down that way, I think I'd be apt to get into a regular fight with him." "He is very much excited, Spud. I think when he cools down he will see matters in a different light. Just at present the loss of the four thousand dollars has completely upset him." "I suppose he pitched into Minnie even more than he pitched into us." "Maybe he did. I must say I am mighty sorry for that poor girl." "What are you going to tell Songbird?" "I suppose we'll have to tell him the truth, Spud, although we'll have to smooth over Mr. Sanderson's manner as much as we can. There's no use in hurting Songbird's feelings, especially now when he's broken up physically as well as mentally." When they reached the college they found that Songbird had insisted upon it that he be taken to the room he occupied with Sam instead of to the sick ward. He was in bed, but wide awake and anxious to hear all they might have to say. "Of course I knew Mr. Sanderson would blame me," he said, after asking a great number of questions. "Four thousand dollars is a heap of money." He knitted his brows for a moment, and then cast an anxious glance at Sam. "How did Minnie really seem to take it?" he continued. "She sided with you, Songbird, when her father talked against you," answered Sam. "She did, did she? Good for her!" and Songbird's face lit up for an instant. "She's true blue, that girl is!" "Now, the best thing I think you can do is to try to go to sleep and get a good night's rest," went on Sam. "This worrying about what can't be helped won't do you any good." "Yes, but, Sam, what am I going to do if that money isn't gotten back? The Sandersons can't afford to lose it, and even if I went to work right away, it would take me a long, long time to earn four thousand dollars." "I have been thinking that over, Songbird, and as the money was to be used in paying off a mortgage, I think I can arrange the matter, providing the holder of the present mortgage won't extend the time for it. I think I can get my father or my uncle to take the mortgage." "Very good, Sam, so far as it goes. But that wouldn't be getting the money back. If it isn't recovered, I'll feel that I am under a moral obligation to earn it somehow and give it to Mr. Sanderson." "We'll talk about it later. Now you've got to go to sleep," were Sam's concluding words, and after that he refused to say any more. He undressed and threw himself on his bed, and was soon asleep. But poor Songbird turned and twisted, and it is doubtful if his eyes closed until well along in the early morning hours. On the following day Sam had several classes to attend, as well as to work on a theme; but as soon as these tasks were over he obtained permission to leave the college to find out, if possible, if anything had been done in the matter of the robbery. He visited Ashton and had an interview with the police, and then used the telephone in several directions. But it was all of no avail; nothing whatever had been seen or heard of the rascal who had made the attack upon Songbird. "I'm afraid it will be one of those mysteries which will never be explained," mused the youngest Rover boy, as he jumped into the cutter which he was using and drove away from Ashton. "It's too bad! Oh! how I'd like to get my hands on that rascal, whoever he may be!" It was not until two days later, when Songbird was once more able to be about and had insisted on being driven over to the Sanderson place, that Sam had a chance to go on the sleighride with Grace Laning. He drove over to Hope Seminary about four o'clock in the afternoon, having sent word ahead that he was coming. Grace was waiting for him, and the pair speedily drove away, wistfully watched by a number of the girl students. "It's so nice of you to think of me, Sam, when you've got so much to think about on poor Songbird's account," said Grace, as they were speeding out of the seminary grounds. "How is he?" "Oh, he's doing better than we expected, Grace. He insisted on being driven over to the Sandersons this afternoon. Stanley took him over, because none of us thought Songbird was strong enough to drive himself." "I want you to give me all the particulars of the attack," said the girl, and this the youth did readily. "It must have been the man who stuttered and whistled--the fellow Songbird saw at the Knoxbury bank," declared the girl, positively. "Wouldn't it pay to get a detective on his track?" "Perhaps so, Grace. I think Songbird is going to mention that to Mr. Sanderson." Sam did not want the girl to worry too much over what had occurred and so soon changed the subject. They talked about college and seminary matters, and then about affairs at home, and about matters in New York City. "I just got another letter from Nellie to-day," said Grace. "She says that the apartment she and Tom have rented is perfectly lovely--every bit as nice as the one occupied by Dick and Dora." "I'm glad they like it, Grace. But, believe me, it will be some job for Tom to settle down and be a staid married man! He was always so full of fun." "Why, the idea, Sam Rover! Don't you think a man can be married and still keep full of fun?" "Well, maybe, if he got such a nice girl as Nellie. Just the same, I'll wager Tom sometimes wishes he was back in good old Brill." "Indeed! And do you think you'll wish you were back at Brill if ever you get married?" she asked slyly. "Oh, I didn't say anything about that, Grace. I--I----" "Well, it's just about the same thing," and Grace tossed her pretty face a trifle. "Oh, now look here, Grace! You haven't any call to talk that way. I suppose when I get married I'll be just as happy as Dick or Tom. That is, providing I get the right girl," and he gazed at the face beside him very ardently. "Sam Rover, you had better watch where you are driving, unless you want to run us into the rocks and bushes," cried the girl, suddenly. For, forgetting the steed for a moment, Sam had allowed the horse to turn to one side of the somewhat rough highway. "I'll attend to the horse, never fear," he answered. "I never yet saw the horse that I couldn't manage. But speaking of letters, Grace, I had one from Dick day before yesterday and he made a suggestion that pleased me very much." "What was that?" "He suggested that if I graduate from Brill this coming June, as I expect to do, that we make up a party to occupy two or three automobiles and go off on a regular tour this summer, taking in the Middle West and maybe some other points." "Oh, Sam, how grand! Of course he was going to take Dora along?" "Yes. His idea was that if matters could be arranged at the offices in New York, that he and Dora, as well as Tom and Nellie, would go along and that we would go too, along with some others--say enough to make at least two automobile loads." "Oh, I'd love an auto tour like that! Couldn't we have just the best times ever?" and Grace's pretty eyes sparkled in anticipation. "When I got the letter I thought the same, and I also thought we might ask Songbird and Minnie--Dora and Nellie could chaperon her, you know. But now I don't know what we'll do about them. Most likely Songbird wouldn't feel like going if that money wasn't recovered, and more than likely Mr. Sanderson wouldn't let Minnie go." "Oh, dear! I suppose the loss of that money will hang over Songbird like a big cloud forever," pouted the girl. "It's too bad! I don't see why Mr. Sanderson couldn't have paid that mortgage with a check." "Just exactly what we all say now, Grace. But that doesn't do any good." "Are you sure you are going to graduate, Sam?" "I certainly hope so. I am going to try my best not only to graduate, Grace, but to get as close to the top of the class as possible. Dick and Tom had to leave before they had a chance to graduate, so I want to make a good showing for the Rover family." "It's the same with me, Sam. Nellie left to get married, and so did Cousin Dora, so I've got to do the best I can for our family next June." "Then you hope to get through too?" "Of course." "How are the teachers treating you these days? Have you had any more trouble with Miss Harrow, or the others?" "Not the least bit. They are all perfectly lovely, and Miss Harrow is so sorry that she ever thought Nellie had taken that diamond ring." "Well, she ought to feel sorry," responded Sam. "It certainly put Nellie to a lot of trouble. Did that gardener who put the diamond ring in the inkwell ever come back to work at the seminary?" "Andy Royce? Yes, he is working there. I have seen him several times. He is quite a changed man, and I don't think he drinks at all." "Well, that's one good job done, Grace. That man's worst enemy was liquor." Sam had arranged that they might remain out until nine o'clock that evening, and so drove Grace over to Knoxbury, where they went to quite a fashionable restaurant for dinner. Here they met several young men and girls they knew, and all had a most delightful time during the repast. When Sam went outside to get his horse and cutter, which had been placed in a livery stable near by, he was surprised to encounter the very man he had mentioned but a short while before, Andy Royce, the gardener who had once been discharged from Hope Seminary for not attending properly to his duties and who, through the intercession of the Rovers and the Lanings, had been reinstated in his position. "Good evening, Mr. Rover," said Andy Royce, respectfully, as he touched the cap he wore. "Hello, Royce! What are you doing here?" asked the youth. "Oh, I just drove over to Knoxbury to get some things for the seminary," replied Royce; and then stepping closer he added in a lower tone: "I saw you going into Meeker's restaurant a while ago and I stayed here to see you when you came out. I'd like to talk to you a bit." "All right. What have you to say?" returned Sam, briskly. "I haven't got much time to waste." "I wanted to ask you about the young fellow who was knocked down and robbed the other afternoon," went on Andy Royce, as the two walked away, out of the hearing of the others in the livery stable. "Somebody told me that the fellow who was robbed said a man did it who stuttered and whistled." "Well, we rather think that man did it, but we are not certain," answered Sam. He glanced sharply at the gardener. "Do you know anything of that fellow?" "I think I do, Mr. Rover. You see it's this way: Several years ago I used to live out West, in Denver and Colorado Springs, and I used to know a man out there who went by the name of Blackie Crowden. He used to stutter fearfully and had a funny little whistle with it." "Out in Denver, you say? That's a long way from here." "I know it is, sir, but after I left I heard that this Blackie Crowden had come to Center Haven, and that's only twenty miles from here. And that ain't all," continued Andy Royce, earnestly. "I was in this town about a week ago and I am almost certain I saw this same Blackie Crowden on the street. I tried to reach him so as to speak to him, but he got away from me in a crowd that had come up to see a runaway." "This is interesting," returned Sam. "Tell me how this Blackie Crowden looks," he went on. And then as Andy Royce described the individual he added slowly: "That seems to tally with the description Songbird gave of the fellow who looked at him through the bank window when he was placing the money away. More than likely that fellow was that same Blackie Crowden." "Well, if it was Blackie Crowden, why don't you have him locked up?" queried the gardener. "Perhaps I will, providing he is still in Center Haven," answered Sam. CHAPTER VIII SOMETHING ABOUT BLACKIE CROWDEN When Sam returned to Brill late that evening, after having spent a most delightful time with Grace, he found that Songbird had returned from the Sandersons' homestead some time before. The would-be poet of the college was working hard over some of his lessons, and it was plainly to be seen that he was in anything but a good humor. "Sanderson treated me like a dog--like a regular dog!" he burst out, in reply to Sam's question. "Why! to hear him talk you would almost think I was in league with the fellow who attacked me!" "It's too bad, Songbird; but you shouldn't take it so much to heart. Remember, Mr. Sanderson is a very hard-working man and one who has probably never allowed another fellow to get the best of him in any kind of a deal. The amount that was lost represents probably the savings of a good many years, and to lose it so suddenly and in such an underhanded way has completely upset him. When he has had time to think it over calmly he'll probably see that you were not to blame." "I don't think so--he's not that kind of man, Sam. He was very bitter and he told Minnie that she wasn't to see me any more. Minnie was dreadfully upset, of course, and she rushed off to her room, so I didn't have any chance to say good-bye to her." "As bad as that, eh? Well, you can write her a letter anyway." "So I can; but maybe her father will see to it that she never gets it," responded the smitten youth, gloomily. "I've got a little news that may prove encouraging," pursued Sam after a slight pause; and then he related the particulars of his meeting with Andy Royce, and what the Hope gardener had said regarding Blackie Crowden. "Say! that's great!" burst out the would-be poet. "If I could see this Crowden I'd know at once if he was the man who watched me when I was at the Knoxbury bank, and if it was it would certainly pay to put the authorities on his trail." "I was thinking the same, Songbird. I wonder if we couldn't get permission from Dr. Wallington to drive over to Center Haven to-morrow and find out what we can about this Blackie Crowden?" "Oh, he'll have to give us permission--at least he'll have to let me go," returned Songbird. "I can't settle down to any lessons until something is done, one way or another. Here I am, trying to study, and I hardly know a word of what I'm reading." "Let us go to the doctor at once if he is still up and ask him," said Sam. Permission to leave the college was readily granted by Dr. Wallington, who, however, cautioned Songbird about overexerting himself while he was still suffering from the attack that had been made upon him. "I'll depend upon you, Rover, to look after him," said the head of Brill, kindly. "And let me add, I wish you every success in your search for the offender. I certainly would like to see you get Mr. Sanderson's money back." The two young collegians had breakfast as early as possible, and by eight o'clock were on their way to Center Haven in the automobile belonging to the Rovers, and which had now been left in Sam's care. Heavy chains had been put on the wheels so that the automobile made its way over the snowy roads without much trouble. Of course in some spots where the frozen highway was uneven, the boys got some pretty hard bumps, but this they did not mind, their one thought being to get to Center Haven as soon as possible and learn all they could concerning Blackie Crowden and his doings. Center Haven was a town about the size of Knoxbury, and among other things boasted of a large hotel which was generally well patronized during the summer months. Andy Royce had said that Crowden had been seen at this hotel and probably had some sort of position there. When the boys arrived there they found that the main building of the hotel was completely closed. The only portion that was open was a small wing with an equally small dining room used for the accommodations of the few transients who came to Center Haven during the winter months. "We came here to find a man named Blackie Crowden," said Sam to the proprietor of the hotel, who came forward to meet them when they entered. "Can you tell me anything about him?" "You won't find him here," returned the hotel man, brusquely. "I discharged him two weeks ago." "Discharged him?" queried Songbird, and his tone showed his disappointment. "Any trouble with him?" "Oh, yes, lots of trouble. Are you friends of his?" "We certainly are not," answered Sam. "But we'd like to find out something about him." "I'm glad you are not friends of his," continued the hotelkeeper. "I feel very sore over that man. I took him in and gave him a good job, and paid him a good deal more than he was worth. But he wouldn't work--in fact he was the laziest man I ever saw--and so I had to discharge him. I paid him all that was coming to him, and when he got out he was mean enough to sneak off with some of my clothing, and also a pair of my gloves and my rubbers. If I could lay my hands on him, I'd be strongly tempted to hand him over to the police." "Did he take an overcoat of yours and a fur cap?" demanded Songbird, quickly. "He certainly did. A heavy, dark-gray overcoat and one of these fur caps that you can pull down over your ears and over the back of the head." "He must have been the same fellow," remarked Sam. "And the fact that he robbed this man here goes to prove what sort of rascal he really is." "Did he steal anything from you people?" asked the hotelkeeper, curiously. "I think he did," answered Songbird. "Did you hear anything of the attack that took place a few days ago on the road near Ashton, in which a young fellow was robbed of four thousand dollars in cash?" "Oh, yes, I heard about that from the police captain here." "Well, I am the fellow who was robbed," continued Songbird. "And I'm strongly inclined to think now that it was this Blackie Crowden who was guilty--in fact I am almost certain of it. When I was at the Knoxbury bank getting the money and putting it away in my pocket I saw a man watching through a window of the bank. He had on a dark-gray overcoat and a fur cap pulled far down over his face. Then, later on, just after I was attacked, my friend here with a chum of ours came driving along and saw this same man with the heavy overcoat and the fur cap drive off with the horse and cutter that I had had--and he was the same fellow who had knocked me senseless." "Is that so! Well, I think you've hit the nail on the head, and if you catch this Blackie Crowden you'll have the right fellow. Anybody who would run off with my things as he did after he had been treated as well as I treated him wouldn't be above committing such a crime. But the question is, where did he go? Have you any idea?" "We know he got on the train at Dentonville," said Sam. "That's as far as we've been able to trace him so far. But now that we know that this criminal is Blackie Crowden, maybe the authorities will be able to run him down sooner or later." "This Crowden was very friendly with one or two of the men around the stables," went on the hotelkeeper. "Maybe you can find out something about him from them." "A good idea!" answered Songbird. "We'll see what they have to say." The hotel man took the two youths to the stables, and there they talked with several men present who had known Crowden. From these they learned that the man had been very much dissatisfied with the work assigned to him, and had frequently spoken about the good times to be had in such large cities as New York, Chicago and Denver. "He said he thought he would go back to New York first," said one of the stable men, "and then he thought he would go on to Chicago and after that visit some of his old places and cronies in Denver. But, of course, where he really did go to I haven't the least idea." "What you say is something of a clue anyway," returned Sam. "Now if we only had a photograph of this Crowden, it might help the police a great deal." "We've got a picture of him," said one of the men present. "It was taken by one of the visitors at the hotel this fall. He came out here to take a picture of some of the horses and we helped him, so all of us got into the picture, Crowden with the rest. I'll get it," he added, and disappeared in the direction of his sleeping quarters. The photograph was a fairly large one, showing three men and as many horses. The man in the center was Blackie Crowden, and the stable man and the hotelkeeper declared that it was an excellent photograph of that individual. "Will you let us have this photograph?" asked Songbird. "I would like to have that picture of Crowden enlarged, and then you can have it back." "Sure you can have it," answered the stable man. "As that fellow is a thief, you might as well tear that picture up afterward, because I don't want to be in no photograph with a criminal," and he grinned sheepishly. "All right then, I won't take the trouble to return it," answered Songbird. "Suppose you accept this dollar for it," and he passed over a banknote, which the stable man took with thanks. A little later the two youths started on the return to Ashton. "Well, that's one step nearer the solution of this mystery," announced Sam. "Now I think we had better stop at Knoxbury and find out about that horse which belonged to Hoover, the livery stable man." They reached the banking town about noon, and went directly to the livery stable. As they did so a man in a cutter drove in, leading a horse behind him. "There is the horse now!" cried Sam. "He must have just gotten the animal back from Mr. Bray." "Are you Mr. Hoover?" questioned Songbird of the man in the cutter, as he came to a halt near them. "That's my handle, young man. What can I do for you?" "I would like to know something about that horse, and who hired him from you;" and then he introduced himself and Sam. "I don't know who got the animal," answered Mr. Hoover. "I was away at the time, and a stable boy let him out. He declares the fellow said he was a friend of mine, and that it would be all right." "And was the fellow dressed in a heavy, gray overcoat and a heavy fur cap?" asked Sam. "Yes, that was the description the stable boy gave. When he found I didn't know anything about the man he was scared to death, because I told him that if the horse didn't come back I'd make him pay for the animal." "Then that's all we want to know, Mr. Hoover," answered Songbird. "I'm pretty sure now I know who it was that knocked me down and robbed me." "He was a rascal, all right," answered the livery stable man. "I had to pay old Bray four dollars to get my own horse back," he added, sulkily. As the long ride in the open air had made them hungry, the two youths went to the restaurant in Knoxbury for dinner. Then the automobile was turned once more in the direction of Ashton. "I'll have that photograph enlarged by Clinger," said Songbird, referring to a photographer in the town who did a great deal of work for the Brill and Hope students. "Then I'll have copies sent to the various police stations, even to New York, Chicago and Denver, along with a description of Blackie Crowden." "That's the talk, Songbird. Oh, I am sure we'll get on his trail sooner or later," said Sam. But though he spoke light-heartedly for his chum's benefit, he knew that to trace the criminal would be by no means easy. With the four thousand dollars in his possession, Blackie Crowden would probably make every effort to keep from being discovered. As they sped along the road, Songbird could not help becoming poetical, and despite his blueness he managed to concoct the following doggerel: "The engine hums--advance the spark, Turn on the throttle--what a lark! Away we go like a flash of light Over the hill and out of sight." "Not so bad, Songbird," was Sam's comment. "That's right--keep it up and maybe you'll feel better." But that was the only verse to be gotten out of the would-be poet for the present. Arriving at Ashton, they went immediately to the photographer's shop and told him what was wanted, and he agreed to re-photograph the picture of Crowden and then enlarge the same and make as many copies as Songbird desired. "I'll do it this afternoon," said Mr. Clinger, "and you can have a dozen or more copies by to-morrow morning. I'll make the head of the fellow about as large as a half dollar, and that ought to make a picture for any policeman or detective to go by;" and so it was arranged. While the youths were at the photographer's an express train had come into Ashton and now quite a few people were coming away from the railroad station. As the boys walked towards the automobile, Songbird suddenly uttered a cry. "Look, Sam! Look who's here!" "Why, it's Tom! My brother, Tom!" exclaimed Sam, as he rushed forward. "What in the world brought him here to-day?" CHAPTER IX IN WHICH TOM ARRIVES Tom Rover, tall and broad-shouldered, looked the picture of health as he came toward his younger brother and Songbird. He smiled broadly as he shook hands with them. "Why, Tom! What brings you here?" remarked Sam. "You didn't write about coming on." "Oh, I thought I'd just drop in and surprise you," returned Tom. "You know I can't quite get used to being away from Brill," he continued, with a grin. "Want to get back to your studies, I suppose," was his brother's dry comment. "Well, come ahead; you can help me on a theme I am writing on 'Civilization in Ancient Central America.'" "Wow! that sounds as interesting as a Greek dictionary!" cried Tom. "Thank goodness! I don't have to worry my head about themes any more. But just the same, Sam, don't make any mistake. I am as busy these days as I ever was in my life, trying to help Dick and dad to put our new organization on its feet." "And how is that getting along?" "Fine. We incorporated this week and have our papers, and now I am the secretary of The Rover Company," and Tom strutted around with his thumbs under his arms. "Some class to me, eh?" "And what is Dick?" questioned Songbird, curiously. "Oh, Dick is treasurer," answered Tom. "Dad, of course, is president, but he expects to hold that position only until Sam comes in. Then Dick is to become president; myself, treasurer; and Sam, secretary." "Say! that's all right," responded the youngest Rover, his face showing his satisfaction. "That is, provided you want to come in, Sam. Dad doesn't want you to give up your idea of becoming a lawyer unless you want to." "Oh, I might become a lawyer and remain secretary of the company too," was the answer. "One thing is sure, if you and Dick are going to remain in that company you'll have to take me in." "Well, what's the news?" went on Tom. "Had any fun lately? How is Grace?" and he looked rather sharply at his brother. "Oh, Grace is all right," answered Sam. He hesitated a moment. "I suppose you didn't get the letter I sent to you and Dick yesterday--the letter about Songbird here?" "Why no. I left the office night before last." "Songbird is in trouble, Tom," returned the brother. "Are you going up to the college? If you are you can go with us in the automobile and we'll tell you all about it on the way." "Yes, I'll go up, and I might as well take my grip with me, for maybe I'll stay over until to-morrow if they have room for me," and thus speaking Tom turned back to the railroad station to get his dress-suit case. The three youths were soon on their way to Brill, and as Sam manipulated the car he and Songbird gave the new arrival the details concerning the attack. Tom, of course, listened with deep interest. "That's a rank shame, Songbird!" he cried, at the conclusion of the narrative. "I know just how you feel. If I could get my hands on that Blackie Crowden, I think I'd put him in the hospital first and in prison afterward." "I told Songbird not to worry as far as the money was concerned," went on Sam. "If that old fellow who holds the mortgage won't wait for his money, I told Songbird that I thought we could get our folks to advance the cash." "Sure thing!" responded Tom, promptly. "You give me the details and I'll see about the money when I go back." "Mr. Sanderson said he would know about it early next week," answered Songbird. "He expects a visit from old Grisley and Belright Fogg." "My gracious! You didn't tell me anything about Fogg being connected with this," burst out Sam. "I forgot all about it," answered Songbird. "It seems that as soon as old Grisley heard the money was stolen and that it wasn't likely the mortgage would be paid, he hired Belright Fogg to take the matter up for him. He is an old man and very excitable, and he somehow got the notion that Mr. Sanderson would try to swindle him in some way. So he got Belright Fogg in the case, though as a general thing he has no more use for lawyers than he has for banks." "Well, he's very foolish to put his case in the hands of such a fellow as Belright Fogg. Tom, I guess you'll remember the trouble we had with that fellow." "I sure do, Sam!" "And Sam had more trouble with him," cried Songbird. "Don't forget how you hit him in the head with a snowball." "That's right. In the excitement of the attack on you, Songbird, I forgot all about that," answered the youngest Rover. "I suppose he is laying back to bring that up against me." They soon reached the grounds surrounding Brill, and Tom looked at the college buildings with interest. "Looks almost like home to me," he said somewhat wistfully. "My, but I had some good times here! I wish I had been on deck for that snowballing contest." "Sam was the hero of that occasion, according to all accounts," answered Songbird. "He captured the banners of the freshies and sophs, you know." As the automobile rolled into the grounds a number of students recognized Tom and waved friendly greetings to him. Leaping out, he was soon surrounded by a number of his old chums, all of whom wanted to know where he had been keeping himself and how long he was going to stay with them. "Can't stay longer than to-morrow noon," he announced. "You know I'm a business man now," and he puffed up and grinned in a manner that made all of the others smile. "You just came in time, Tom," cried Spud. "Your old friend, William Philander Tubbs, who has been away on business to Boston, got back here this morning." "What! My old friend Tubby here? I'll be glad to shake his flipper," announced Tom, and grinned more than ever as he recalled the practical jokes that had been played at different times on the dudish student who had been mentioned. Of course the students present wanted to know what had been learned by Sam and Songbird on the trip to Center Haven, and many were the speculations regarding Blackie Crowden. "The authorities ought to be able to catch that fellow now that you have his photograph and a good description of him," remarked Stanley. "It would be a good idea to send that description and photograph broadcast." The boys reported to Dr. Wallington, and Tom went with them. The head of Brill was glad to see his former student, and readily consented to allow Tom to remain with the others that night, an extra cot being put into room No. 25 for that purpose. "Are those the banners you captured, Sam?" questioned Tom, when the boys entered the room, and as he spoke he pointed to two banners which were nailed up on the wall. "Yes, Tom, those are the ones we captured," was the reply of the youngest Rover, with considerable pride. "The freshies and sophs wanted them back the worst way, but I told them there was nothing doing, that I intended to keep them at least until I graduated. They sent a committee to me to get the banners, and I can tell you that committee was pretty sore when they went away without getting them." "You watch out that they don't take those banners on the sly, Sam." "Oh, Songbird and I are looking out for them. Didn't you notice we had the door locked? We always lock up now, and no one has a key but the janitor, and we have cautioned him not to let any one in here without our permission." "I'll tell you what I'd like to do to-night," said Tom. "I'd like to smuggle something to eat into this room and give some of our crowd a spread, just for the fun of it." "All right, I'm willing, Tom," answered his brother. "Of course you'll have to keep rather quiet about it, because I don't want to get into the bad graces of any of the monitors or of Dr. Wallington. I want to graduate next June with the highest possible honors." It was arranged that while Songbird and Sam studied some necessary lessons, Tom was to return to Ashton in the automobile and bring back a number of things which would be needed for the proposed spread. Tom took Spud and Stanley with him. Out on the campus the three came face to face with William Philander Tubbs. "Hello, Tubblets, old boy!" cried Tom cordially, as he caught William Philander by the hand. "How are you making it these days?" "I--er--er---- How do you do, Rover?" stammered the dudish student. "Why, I am--er--am quite well, thank you. I thought you had left college?" "Oh, I couldn't leave it for good, you know, Tubby, my dear. They wouldn't be able to get along without me." "Why--ah--why--ah--somebody told me you were going into business in New York." "That's right, Tubbette." "Oh, Rover! please don't call me by those horrid nicknames any longer," pleaded William Philander. "You promised me long ago you wouldn't do it." "Only a slip of my memory, my dear Philander Williams. I really----" "No, no! Not Philander Williams. My name is William Philander." "That's right! so it is. It's always been Philander William--No, I mean Willander Philiams--no, that isn't it either. My gracious, Tubblets, old boy! what have you done with the front handles of your cognomen, anyway? You twist me all sideways trying to remember it." "Really, how odd! My name is William Philander Tubbs. That's easy enough." "If I had it engraved in script type on a visiting card and looked at it daily, maybe I would be able to remember it," answered Tom, mournfully. "You know my head was never very good for history or anything like that. However, now that I know that your name is Philander Tubblets Williams, don't you think you'd like to ride down to Ashton with us? We are going to have a little spread to-night, and I want you to help me pick out the spaghetti, sauerkraut, sweet potato pie, Limburger cheese, and other delicacies." "Oh, by Jove! do you really mean you are going to have those things for a spread?" gasped William Philander. "That is, if they are just the things you like," returned Tom, innocently. "Of course, Stanley here suggested that we have some fried eel sandwiches and some worm pudding. But I don't know about such rich living as that." "Eel sandwiches! Worm pudding!" groaned William Philander, aghast. "I never heard of such things! Why don't you get--er--er--some cream puffs and chocolate éclares and er--and--er--and mint kisses and things like that, you know?" "Not solid enough, my dear Willie boy. The boys love substantials. You know that as well as I do. Of course we might add a few little delicacies like turnips and onions, just for side dishes, you know." "I--I--really think you had better excuse me, Rover!" exclaimed William Philander, backing away. "I am not feeling extra good, and I don't think I want to go to any spread to-night," and William Philander bowed and backed still farther. "Oh, all right, Philly Willy," responded Tom, dolefully. "Of course if you don't want to participate you don't have to, but you'll break our hearts if you stay away. Now you just come to room twenty-five to-night and we'll give you the finest red herring and mush ice cream you ever chewed in your life," and then he and his chums hurried away in the automobile, leaving William Philander Tubbs gazing after him in deep perplexity. CHAPTER X THE FEAST When Tom came back accompanied by Stanley and Spud, all had their arms full of the things purchased in Ashton. "And this is only the half of it," announced the fun-loving Rover to his brother, in answer to a query. "We've got to go back and get the rest out of the automobile." "We'll bring that stuff up," said Stanley. "You stay here with your brother. Come on, Songbird, I see you are doing nothing, so you might as well give us a lift," and off the three boys trooped to bring up the rest of the things purchased for the feast. "I'm mighty glad you are going to give this, Tom, on Songbird's account," announced Sam, when he and his brother were left to themselves. "Songbird is about as blue as indigo. You see, it isn't only the money--it's Minnie. Her father won't let him call on her any more." "Tough luck, sure enough," responded Tom. "Well, let us do all we can to-night to make Songbird forget his troubles." Tom took a walk up and down the room, halting in front of a picture of Grace which was in a silver frame on a chiffonier. "Pretty good picture, Sam," he observed. "Yes, it is." "Did you say that you had been out with Grace lately?" "Oh, yes. We had a fine sleighride only the other day." "She's made quite a friend of a Miss Ada Waltham at the seminary, a rich girl, hasn't she?" "She has mentioned Miss Waltham to me. I didn't know that they were particularly friendly," answered Sam. "You know this Miss Waltham is very rich." "So I heard, Sam. She is worth about a quarter of a million dollars, so somebody said. But she has a brother, Chester, who is worth even more. An uncle died and left nearly his entire estate to the brother." "Is that so? Lucky young fellow! But I don't see how that interests me, Tom," and Sam looked at his brother inquiringly. "You act as if you had something on your mind." "So I have, Sam; and that is one of the reasons I came here to-day," announced Tom. "I'll tell you about it in the morning," he added hastily, as a tramping was heard in the hallway; and the next moment the door burst open and in came Stanley, Songbird, Spud and one or two others, all loaded down with bundles and packages. "Make way for the parcels post and the express company!" proclaimed Spud, as he dropped several packages on one of the cots. "Say, Tom, you must have bought out half of Ashton." "Only three-eighths, Spud," answered the fun-loving Rover, gaily. "You see I knew what an awful appetite you had, and as I had an extra twenty-five cent piece in my jeans I thought I'd try to satisfy that appetite just once." "Twenty-five cents! Wow!" commented Stanley. "I'll wager this spread costs you a good many dollars." Word had been passed around to a number of Tom's old friends, and they were all requested to be on hand by ten o'clock. "Tubbs says he begs to be excused," announced Paul Orben when he came in. "He says he has got some studying he must do." "Nonsense! He's afraid we'll treat him to some sauerkraut pie and some pickled pastry," returned Tom. "I don't want him to stay away and miss a good time. What room is he in?" "Number eighteen." "Then come along, some of you, and we'll bring him here," announced the fun-loving Rover, and marched off, followed by Spud and Bob. In the meanwhile, Sam, Songbird and Stanley brought the things from the closet and began to prepare for the feast. Tom and his friends found William Philander busy folding and putting away half a dozen gorgeous neckties. He was rather startled at their sudden entrance, and did his best to hide the articles. "Hello! I thought you were boning away on trigonometry or mental science," was Tom's comment. "Say, old boy, that's a gorgeous necktie," he added as he picked up a creation in lavender and yellow. "Did you buy this to wear at the horse show, or at a meeting of mothers' helpers?" "Oh, my dear Rover, please don't muss that up!" pleaded William Philander, snatching the necktie from Tom's hands. "That is one that was--er--made--er--a--a present to me." "Oh, I see. That's the one that blind young lady gave to you. I admire her taste in picking it out." "Blind lady? I--er--have no blind lady friend," returned William Philander. "Oh, yes, I remember now, Tubby, she was deaf--not blind. It's a wonder she didn't pick out something a little louder." "Oh, Rover, I really believe you are poking fun at that necktie," returned the dudish student. "We came to get you to come to the feast, Willie," announced Spud. "We don't want you to miss it." "We wouldn't have you miss it for a peck of shelled popcorn," put in Bob. "Yes, but really, I've got some studying to do, and----" "You can study after the feast is over, my dear boy," broke in Tom, as he caught William Philander by the arm. "You'll be surprised how much quicker you can learn on a full stomach than on one that is half vacant. Come on!" "Yes, but I----" "We haven't any time to spare, Tubblets. You are going to the feast, so you might as well make the best of it. Come on, fellows, help him along. He's so bashful he can't walk," and thus urged, Spud took William Philander's other arm while Bob caught him by the collar and in the back, and thus the three of them forced the dudish collegian out of his room and along the hallway to Number 25. By this time something like fifteen students had gathered in the room, and the advent of Tom and his chums with the somewhat frightened William Philander was greeted with a roar of approval. The dudish student was marched in and made to take a seat on a board which had been placed on two chairs. On the board sat several students, and William Philander was placed on one end. "Now, then, everybody make himself at home," announced Tom, as soon as a look around had convinced him that his brother and the others had everything in readiness for the feast. "I believe you'll find everything here except toothpicks, and for those we'll have to chop up one of Sam's baseball bats later on." "Not much! You're not going to touch any of my bats," announced the younger brother, firmly. "Sam wants to keep them to help bat another victory for Brill this spring," put in Spud. "My! but that was one great game we had last season." "So it was," put in another student. "And don't forget that Tom helped to win that game as well as Sam." While this chatter was going on various good things in the way of salads and sandwiches had been passed around, and these were followed by cake and glasses of root beer, ginger ale and grape juice. "Why, this is perfectly lovely," lisped William Philander Tubbs, as he sat on the end of the board-seat, his lap covered with a paper napkin on which rested a large plate of chicken salad and some sandwiches. In one hand he held an extra large glass of grape juice. "Everybody ready!" announced Stanley, with a wink at several of the boys. "Here is where we drink to the health of Tom Rover!" "Tom Rover!" was the exclamation, and at a certain sign all the boys seated on the board except William Philander leaped to their feet. The result was as might have been expected. The dudish pupil had been resting on the end of the board, which overlapped the chair, and with the weight of the others removed, the board suddenly tipped upward and down went William Philander in a heap, the chicken salad jouncing forward over his shirt front and the glass of grape juice in his hand being dashed full into his face. [Illustration: THE BOARD SUDDENLY TIPPED AND DOWN WENT WILLIAM PHILANDER.] "Hi! Hi! What--er--did--er--you do that for?" he spluttered, as he sat on the floor, completely dazed. "Say! why didn't you tell me you were going to get up?" and then he started to wipe the grape juice from his eyes and nose. "Hello! Salad's going down!" cried one student gaily. "Say, Tubbs, there is no use of throwing such nice food as that away even if you don't want it," chimed in another. "Don't you know enough to stand up when a toast is to be drunk?" queried a third. "I--I--didn't quite understand," stammered William Philander, and then with an effort he extracted himself from the mess on his lap and slowly arose to his feet. "My gracious! I believe I have utterly ruined this vest and trousers!" he added mournfully, as he gazed down at the light gray suit he wore. "Oh, a little gasoline will fix that up all right," said Spud. "Don't let a little thing like that interfere with your pleasure, Tubbs. Come on--here's another glass of grape juice. No use of crying over spilt milk--I mean juice," corrected the youth. "Tom Rover! Everybody up!" came the call, and then amid a subdued murmuring of good luck the boys stood around Tom and drank his health. "Thank you, fellows, very much," answered Tom, and there was just a suspicion of huskiness in his voice. "Speech! Speech! Give us a speech!" came from several. "Speech? Great guns! I never made a speech in my life," announced Tom, and now for the first time he looked a bit confused. "Oh, you've got to say something, Tom," cried Stanley. "What shall I talk about--earthquakes in India, or the spots on Tubbs' pants?" queried Tom, with a grin. "Never mind what you talk about so long as you say something," came from Bob. "All right then--here goes!" announced Tom after a little pause. "Catch this before it's too late. I'm glad to be here, otherwise I wouldn't be here. I'm glad you are here, otherwise you wouldn't be here. I think Brill College is the best college any fellow could ever go to, if that hadn't been so I'd never have gone to Brill. I'm sorry I couldn't stay here to graduate, but I've left the honor to Sam here, and I trust he'll get through and make a record for the whole family. Boys, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And here's wishing you all success at graduation and success through life," and thus concluding his little speech, Tom took a generous drink of ginger ale, while the others applauded vigorously. "Very good!" cried Sam, but then added quickly: "For gracious sake! don't make too much noise or you'll have one of the monitors here and we'll get some black marks." "That's right, fellows," announced Stanley. "After this we'll have to be as noisy as a mouse in a cheese factory." "Now that I have been called on to make a speech," announced Tom, after quietness had been restored, "I am going to call on Songbird for one of his choice bits of poetry." "Oh, now, Tom! please don't do that," pleaded the would-be poet of Brill. "You know I'm in no humor for writing poetry now." "All the more reason why you should write some," announced Sam. "Come on now. You must have something tucked away in your system--I mean something brand new." "Well--er--I've got something new, but I hardly think it is appropriate for this occasion," answered Songbird slowly. "Never mind; give it to us no matter what it is," cried one of the students. "Let her flutter!" "Poetry for mine!" "Let her flow, Songbird!" "That's right. Turn on the poetry spigot, Songbird;" and thus urged the would-be poet of Brill began: "The world is black and I feel blue, I do not know what I'm to do, That fellow hit me in the head And left me in the road for dead. I go around from hour to hour And I am feeling mighty sour. I am consumed with helpless woe----" "Because I lost that heard-earned dough," completed Tom, rather suddenly, and this abrupt ending caused a general laugh. CHAPTER XI TOM FREES HIS MIND The party in Number 25 did not break up until some time after midnight, and all present declared that they had had the time of their lives. Only one interruption had come, made by a good-natured monitor who had begged them to make less noise, and this fellow, well known to Tom, had been bought off with several sandwiches and a bottle of ginger ale. "And how do you fellows feel this morning?" asked Tom, who was the first to get up after a sound sleep. "Oh, I'm first rate," announced his younger brother. "I thought I'd dream, with so much chicken salad and sandwiches and cake in me, but I slept like a log." "I didn't sleep extra well," came slowly from Songbird. "But I don't think it was the feast kept me awake." Tom walked over to where the would-be poet of Brill sat on the edge of a cot and dropped down beside him. "Songbird, you take the loss of that money too much to heart," he said kindly. "Of course we all know it was a great loss. Yet it won't do to grieve over it too much. And besides, there is hope that some day the authorities will catch that Blackie Crowden and get at least part of the money back." "It isn't the money alone, Tom; it is the way Mr. Sanderson has treated me. And besides that, I'm worried over that mortgage. I'd like to know just what old Grisley and his lawyer are going to do." "I'll tell you what I'll do, Songbird. If you wish me to, I'll call on Mr. Sanderson and tell him what we are willing to do, so that he can rest easy about paying the mortgage off if he has to." "I wish you would go, Tom--and put in a good word for me, too," cried Songbird, eagerly. "Oh, I'll do that, never fear. I'll go this morning before I start back to New York;" and thus it was arranged. "You said that you had something to tell me, Tom," remarked Sam, as the three were going downstairs to breakfast. "What was it?" "Oh, it may not amount to much, Sam. I'll tell you about it as soon as we can get by ourselves," answered Tom. The morning meal was quickly disposed of, and then Tom and Sam returned to Number 25, the former to repack his dress-suit case before leaving for the Sandersons' place and for New York. "I don't exactly know how to get at this, Sam," began his brother, slowly, when the pair were in the bedroom and the door had been closed. "It is about Grace and the Walthams." "About Grace?" and Sam showed his increased interest. "What about her?" "Well, as I mentioned last night, this Ada Waltham is very rich, and she has a brother, Chester, who is older than she is and much richer. In fact, I've heard it said that he is a young millionaire." "Well?" queried Sam, as his brother paused. "Oh, I really don't know how to get at this, Sam," burst out Tom, and his face showed his worry. "Maybe there is nothing in it at all; but just the same I thought I had better bring it to you at once. I knew you would rather have it come from me than from some outsider." "But what in the world are you talking about, Tom?" "I'm talking about the attentions this Chester Waltham is bestowing upon Grace. It seems that his sister, Ada, introduced him to Grace a couple of months ago, and since that time I've heard that he has been up to Hope several times, ostensibly to call on his sister, but really to see Grace. I understand he has taken both of them out riding several times." "Taken Grace out riding!" cried Sam, and his face flushed suddenly. "Are you sure of this? Grace never mentioned it to me." "I think it's the truth, Sam. You see, ever since Nellie left Hope she has kept corresponding with several of the girls there, and one of these girls knows Ada Waltham quite well, and she mentioned the fact of the sister and Grace going out with Chester. She said that she quite envied Grace being invited to ride out with a young millionaire. Then Nellie spoke to Dora about it, and Dora said she had heard practically the same thing from another one of the seminary students. Now I don't like to butt in, Sam, but at the same time I thought you ought to know just how things were going." "I don't understand it at all," returned the younger brother, and for the moment he looked rather helpless. "If Grace received an invitation to go out with this Chester Waltham, I am quite sure she would mention it to me." "Perhaps she merely went as a companion of Ada's," suggested Tom, "and she might have thought it wasn't necessary to mention it." "Have you heard anything more than that, Tom?" "Not much, except that in one of the letters this girl said that she would envy Grace all the nice flowers and boxes of candy she might expect from such a wealthy young man as Waltham. Now, as I said before, Sam, it's none of my business, but I just couldn't help coming out here to put a flea in your ear. We--Nellie and I--know just how you feel about Grace, and both of us would like nothing better than to have you double up with her after you graduate." "Thank you, Tom; it's fine for you to talk that way, and it's fine to have Nellie on my side. But I don't understand this at all. If Grace has been going out with this Chester Waltham, why hasn't she said something to me about it? She has spoken to me about Ada a number of times, but I never heard this Chester mentioned once." "Well, I can't tell you any more than I have told you," returned Tom. "If I were you, I'd see Grace and find out just what this fellow has been doing. You know a fellow who is worth a million dollars is some catch for any girl." "Yes, I know. It's a good deal more than I'll be able to offer Grace." "True, but money isn't everything in this life, Sam. I didn't look for money when I married Nellie, and I don't think she cared a rap how much I was worth." "That's the way it ought to be done----" "I always supposed that you and Grace had some sort of an understanding between you," went on Tom, after rather an awkward pause. "Of course, Sam, you haven't got to say a word about it if you don't want to," he added hastily. "We did have some sort of an understanding, Tom. But you know how it was with you and Nellie--Mrs. Laning wouldn't think of your becoming publicly engaged until after you had left college. She has told Grace that she will have to wait. So she is free to do as she chooses." There was but little more that could be said on the subject, and so Tom turned to pack his suit case while Sam got ready to attend one of his classes. The youngest Rover heaved a heavy sigh, which showed that he was more disturbed than he cared to admit. A little while later Tom had said good-bye to his brother and to his numerous friends at Brill and was on his way in a hired turnout to the Sanderson homestead, which he had promised to visit before leaving on the train at Ashton for New York City. Tom went on his errand alone, none of the others being able to get away from the college that morning. The Sandersons had heard nothing about his arrival at Brill and, consequently, were much surprised when he drove up. Minnie greeted him with a warm smile, and even Mr. Sanderson, considering his great loss, was quite cordial. "Ain't comin' back to complete your eddication, are you, Mr. Rover?" questioned the farmer, with a slight show of humor. "No, Mr. Sanderson. I'm through with Brill so far as studying goes," answered the youth. "I just took a run-out to see how Sam and the others were getting along. They told me all about your loss, and I'm mighty sorry that the thing happened. Poor Songbird is all broke up over it." "Humph! I reckon he ain't half as much broke up as I am," retorted the farmer. "This has placed me in a fine pickle." "Now, Pa, please don't get excited again," pleaded Minnie, whose face showed that she had suffered as much, or more, as had her parent. "Ain't no use to get excited now. The money is gone, and I suppose that is the last of it. What I'm worryin' about is how I'm goin' to settle about that mortgage. Grisley at first said he would put it off, but yesterday he sent word that he was comin' here to-day with his lawyer to settle things." "And here they come now!" interrupted Minnie, as she glanced out of a window. The others looked and saw two men drive up the lane in a cutter. They were old Henry Grisley, the man who held the mortgage on the farm, and Belright Fogg. The girl went to the door to let the visitors in. Old Henry Grisley paid scant attention to Tom when the two were introduced to each other. The lawyer looked at the visitor in some astonishment. "Huh! I didn't expect to see you here, Mr. Rover," said Belright Fogg, coolly. "Are you mixed up in this unfortunate affair?" "I may be before we get through," answered Tom. "You weren't the young man who lost the money?" "No." "I've got an account to settle with your brother," went on Belright Fogg, rather maliciously. "He took great pleasure the other day in hitting me in the head with a snowball, almost knocking me senseless. I've had to have my head treated by a doctor, and more than likely I'll sue him for damages." "I reckon you'll do what you can to make it hot for him," returned Tom. "It's your way, Mr. Fogg. But just let me give you a word of advice--you take care that you don't get your fingers burnt." "Ha! Is that a threat?" "Oh, no. It is only a word of advice. Please to remember that we know all about you, and we won't stand any nonsense from you. If my brother really hurt you, he'll be willing to do the fair thing; but if you think you can gouge him in any way, you've got another guess coming." "Looky!" came in a shrill voice from old Henry Grisley. "I thought we come here fer my money on that er mortgage," and from under a pair of heavy gray eyebrows he looked searchingly into the faces of Mr. Sanderson and the lawyer. "Yes, Mr. Grisley, that's what we came for," returned Belright Fogg, "and the sooner we come to business perhaps the better." "As I've told you before, the money is gone--stolen," said Mr. Sanderson. "I can't pay--at least not now, and I'd like an extension of time." "Mr. Grisley isn't inclined to grant any extension," said Belright Fogg, somewhat pompously. "The mortgage is too big for this place anyway, and he feels that he ought to have his money." "And if Mr. Sanderson can't pay, what then?" questioned Tom, before the farmer could speak. "Why, we'll have to foreclose and sell the place," answered the lawyer, quickly. "That's it! That's it!" came shrilly from old Henry Grisley. "I want my money--every cent of it. If I don't git it, I'm goin' to take the farm," he added in tones which were almost triumphant. "But see here----" began Mr. Sanderson. "Oh, Pa, don't let them sell the farm!" burst out Minnie, and as she spoke the tears started to her eyes. "You won't sell the farm, Mr. Grisley," said Tom, coolly. "Why not, if the money isn't paid?" cried the old man. "The money will be paid--every cent of it," answered Tom. CHAPTER XII OLD GRISLEY COMES TO TERMS All in the room looked at Tom in some surprise because of the plain way in which he had spoken. "Mr. Rover, you are sure of what you are saying?" questioned Mr. Sanderson, quickly, in a low voice. "Yes, Mr. Sanderson, we'll take care of this mortgage. Don't you worry a bit about it." "Did you say you would pay off this mortgage?" demanded Belright Fogg, glaring at Tom. "I didn't say I'd pay it off personally. But my folks will take care of it." "The money is due now--has been due for several days." "Yes, sir, that's right!" came shrilly from Henry Grisley. "And I want you to know that I want the full amount with interest up to the day when it is paid. I ain't goin' to lose nothin'--not a cent." "Mr. Grisley, I have an offer to make to you," went on Tom addressing himself directly to the old man and utterly ignoring Belright Fogg. "You don't know me, but let me say that my father and my uncle are worth a good deal of money. I am in business in New York with my father, and our concern has a great deal of money to invest. Now, if you will agree to hold this mortgage for thirty days, I will guarantee to have it paid in full at that time with every cent of interest. And in addition to that I will pay you twenty-five dollars for your trouble and for your lawyer's fees." "Ha! What do you think I am? What do you think I work for?" demanded Belright Fogg, with a scowl. "My fee will be more than twenty-five dollars in this case." "What? What?" shrilled Henry Grisley, turning his beadlike eyes on the lawyer. "Twenty-five dollars? Not much! I'll give ye ten dollars and not a cent more." "That's the way to talk, Mr. Grisley. You give him ten dollars and you keep the fifteen dollars for your own trouble," cried Tom. "So far as I can see he hasn't done anything for you excepting to come here to see Mr. Sanderson, and certainly such a trip as this isn't worth more than ten dollars." "My services are worth a good deal more!" exclaimed Belright Fogg. And thereupon ensued a war of words between him and Henry Grisley which lasted the best part of a quarter of an hour. The lawyer saw the case slipping away from him, and at last in deep disgust he said he would have no more to do with the affair. "Don't want ye to! Don't want ye to!" piped out Henry Grisley. "Lawyers are a useless expense anyway. I'll settle this case myself, and for what you've done I won't pay more'n ten dollars, jest remember it!" and he shook a long, bony finger in Belright Fogg's face. "I won't be insulted in this manner!" cried the lawyer, and then in a dudgeon he stormed from the house, leaped into the cutter, and drove away. "A good riddance to him," murmured Mr. Sanderson. But then he added hastily: "Was that your horse, Grisley?" "No, it wasn't," was the answer. "And how I'm to git home now, I don't know," added the old man, helplessly. "Where do you live?" questioned Tom. "The other side of Ashton, on the Millbury road." "All right, then, I'll take you there when I go down to the depot," answered Tom. "That is, if you want to ride with me." "I want to know jest how we stand on this mortgage question first," announced Henry Grisley. "I want your offer down in black and white." "You shall have it, and the others can be witnesses to it," answered Tom, and in the course of the next quarter of an hour a paper was drawn up and duly signed by which Tom agreed that the mortgage should be taken over by the Rovers within the next thirty days, with all back interest paid, and that Henry Grisley should be paid a bonus of twenty-five dollars for his trouble and for his lawyer's fees. To bind the bargain Tom handed the old man a ten-dollar bill on account, which Henry Grisley stowed away in a leather wallet with great satisfaction. "Oh, Tom! it's just splendid of you to help us out in this manner!" said Minnie, after the transaction had been concluded and while old Grisley and Mr. Sanderson were talking together. "I'm glad to be of service to you," answered the youth. "I only hope for your sake, and for the sake of Songbird, that the money that was stolen is recovered. Songbird is going to get on the trail of that rascal if it is possible to do so." "I hope they do locate that fellow, Tom. If they don't I'm afraid pa will never forgive poor John." "Oh, don't say that, Minnie. 'Never' is such a long word it should not have been put in the dictionary," and Tom smiled grimly. Now that he felt fairly certain that he was to get his money, Henry Grisley was in much better humor. "I suppose I might as well have left that mortgage as it was," he mumbled. "It was payin' pretty good interest." "Well, that was for you to decide, Grisley," returned Mr. Sanderson. "Personally I don't see how you are going to make any better investment in these times." "Well, I've got thirty days in which to make up my mind, ain't I?" queried the old man. "If I don't want to close out the mortgage I ain't got to, have I?" "Certainly you've got to sell out, now that you have bargained to do so," put in Tom. "You can't expect us to pull our money out of another investment to put it into this one and then not get it." "Hum! I didn't think o' that," mused old Grisley. He thought hard for a moment, pursing up his lips and twisting his beadlike eyes first one way and then another. "Supposin' I was to say right now that I'd keep the mortgage? What would you do about it?" "Do you really mean it, Grisley?" asked Mr. Sanderson, anxiously. "Depends on what this young man says, Sanderson. One thing is sure; I ain't goin' to give up that ten dollars he give me--and Fogg is got to be paid somehow." "Look here! if you want to keep the mortgage just say so," declared Tom. "It's a good mortgage and pays good interest. You can't invest your money around here to any better advantage." "All right, then, I'll keep the mortgage," announced Henry Grisley. "But understand, young man, I'm to keep that ten dollars you give me too," he added shrewdly. "Well, I don't see----" began Tom, when Mr. Sanderson interrupted him. "All right, Grisley, you keep the ten dollars, and you settle with Fogg," announced the farmer. "And it's understood that you are to make out the mortgage for at least one year longer." "Can't ye give me more'n the ten dollars?" asked Henry Grisley. "Mebbe I might have to pay Fogg more'n that." "Don't you pay him a cent more," said Tom. "His services aren't worth it." "I won't pay him nothin' if I can git out of it," responded the old man, shrewdly. "If I keep the mortgage, then what has he done for me? Nothin'. Mebbe I'll give him half of the ten dollars. I've had jest as much trouble as he has." Following this discussion the paper formerly drawn up was destroyed and a note written out and signed by Henry Grisley, in which the old man agreed to renew the mortgage for one year from the date on which it had been due. "To tell ye the truth, I wouldn't have bothered about this," explained old Grisley, in a burst of confidence; "but, you see, Fogg knew the mortgage was due and he come to me and asked me what I was goin' to do about it. And then when word come that your money had been stolen, he told me that I'd better foreclose or otherwise I might git next to nothin'." "The underhanded rascal!" was Mr. Sanderson's comment. "That's just what he is," answered Tom. "You know we had a lot of trouble with him last year--and evidently we are not done with him yet," he added, as he thought of what Belright Fogg had said concerning the snowball thrown by Sam. Tom wanted to say a good word for Songbird, and the opportunity came when, a few minutes later, and before their departure, Minnie invited them to partake of some cake and hot coffee. While Grisley sat down in the dining-room, the youth talked to the farmer. "Now, Mr. Sanderson, I have done what I could for you," he said, coming at once to the point; "and now I want to say a word or two about poor Songbird. He feels awfully bad over this matter, and he thinks that you are doing him an injustice. And let me say I think so too," and Tom looked the farmer squarely in the eyes as he spoke. "Yes, I know, Rover, but----" "Now, Mr. Sanderson, supposing you had been in Songbird's place and had been knocked down and nearly killed; what would you say if you were treated as you are treating him? Wouldn't you be apt to think that it was a pretty mean piece of business?" At these plain words the farmer flushed and for the instant some angry words came to his lips. But then he checked himself and turned his eyes away. "Maybe you are right, and maybe I was a bit hasty with the lad," he said hesitatingly. "But you see I was all worked up. It took me a good many years to save that four thousand dollars, and now that I am getting old it won't be no easy matter for me to save that amount over again." "You won't have to save it over again, Mr. Sanderson. Songbird insists upon it that just as soon as he gets to work he's going to pay you back dollar for dollar." "Did he tell you that?" "He did. And he told the others the same thing. He'll make that loss up to you if it takes him ten years to do it. I've known him for a good many years now. We went to Putnam Hall Military Academy together before we came to Brill--and I know he is a fellow who always keeps his word. He's one of the best friends we Rover boys have. He's a little bit off on the subject of poetry, but otherwise he's just as smart and sensible and true-blue as they make 'em," went on Tom, enthusiastically. "And not only that, he comes from a very nice family. They are not rich, but neither are they poor, and they are good people to know and be connected with," and Tom looked at the farmer knowingly. "I see, Rover." Mr. Sanderson drew a deep breath, and then looked through the doorway to where Minnie was pouring out the coffee. "If I was too hasty I--I--am sorry." "And you will let Songbird come here and call on your daughter?" "I--I suppose so, if Minnie wants him to come." "Thank you, Mr. Sanderson. I am sure you won't regret your kindness," said Tom, and insisted upon grasping the farmer's hand and shaking it warmly. Then he went in to have some cake and coffee before taking his departure with old Grisley. "So you are going back to New York, are you, Tom?" said the girl while he was being served. "Yes, I am going to take the train this afternoon," he answered, and then continued: "I've got a loose button here on my coat, Minnie. Will you fasten it before I go?" "Sure I will," she returned, and a few minutes later led the way to a corner of the sitting-room, where was located a sewing basket. "I wasn't worrying much about losing the button, Minnie," he whispered. "I wanted to tell you about Songbird. I have just spoken to your father about him, and he says he can come to see you the same as he used to." "Oh, Tom! did he really say that?" and Minnie's eyes brightened greatly. "Yes, he did. And as soon as I get to Ashton I am going to send Songbird a telephone message to that effect," returned Tom. "Oh, Tom! will you?" and she looked at him pleadingly. "Surest thing you know, Minnie. And believe me, Songbird, when he gets that news, will be the happiest fellow in Brill." "I don't think he'll be any happier than I'll be," answered the girl; and then of a sudden blushed deeply and finished sewing on the button without another word. Ten minutes later Tom bade the Sandersons good-bye, and, accompanied by Henry Grisley, drove away in the direction of Ashton. Old Grisley was left at his home, and then Tom took himself to the depot, where, from a telephone booth, he sent a message to Songbird telling the would-be poet of Brill how it had come about that Grisley had agreed to renew the mortgage for one year, and how Mr. Sanderson had said that Songbird could renew his calls upon Minnie if he so desired. "Tom, you're a wonder!" said Songbird over the telephone, "you're a wonder, that's all I can say!" "Never mind what I am," returned the fun-loving Rover, kindly; "you just see if you can get on the trail of that fellow who stole the four thousand dollars, and at the same time you get busy and make up for lost time with Minnie. Good-bye!" and then he hung up the receiver, and a few minutes later was on board the train bound for the metropolis. CHAPTER XIII SAM ON THE ROAD The next few days were very busy ones for Sam because he had a number of important classes to attend, and he was hard at work finishing his theme on "Civilization in Ancient Central America." It was impossible to call on Grace, and so he did nothing to find out the truth about Chester Waltham because he did not wish to ask the girl about this over the telephone, nor did he see his way clear to expressing his thoughts on paper. Sunday came and went, and Monday morning brought a letter to the youngest Rover which he read with much interest. It was from Belright Fogg, a long-winded and formal communication, in which the lawyer stated that he had been under medical treatment because of being hit in the head by a snowball thrown by Sam, and he demanded fifty dollars damages. If the same was not paid immediately, he stated that he would begin suit. "Anything wrong, Sam?" questioned Songbird, who was present while Sam was reading the letter. "You look pretty serious." "Read it for yourself, Songbird," was the reply, and Sam passed the communication over. "Well, of all the gall!" burst out the would-be poet of Brill. "Fifty dollars! Of course you won't pay any such bill as this?" "Not so you can notice it," returned Sam, sharply. "If he had sent me a bill for five dollars or less I might have let him have the money just to shut him up. But fifty dollars! Why, it's preposterous!" "What do you propose to do?" "I won't do anything just yet. I want time to think it over and to talk it over with some of the others and, maybe, with Dr. Wallington." When they heard of this demand for money from the rascally lawyer, Stanley and Spud were as angry as the others. "I don't believe he's entitled to a cent," came from Stanley. "We were having that snowballing contest on the college grounds, and while the highway runs through that end of the grounds, I believe Fogg passed through there at his own peril, as a lawyer might put it. If I were you, Sam, I'd put the whole case up to Dr. Wallington, and I'd remind the doctor of your former trouble with Fogg, and let him know just what sort of an underhanded rascal he is." "All right, Stanley, I'll do it," answered Sam. "I'll go to the doctor immediately after classes this afternoon. Will you go along?" "Of course, if you want me to." Four o'clock found them at the door of the doctor's study. He looked at them rather curiously as they entered. "Well, young men, what can I do for you?" he questioned pleasantly. "I've got into some trouble over that snowballing contest," answered Sam; and, sitting down, he gave the head of Brill the particulars of the occurrence, and then produced the letter received from Belright Fogg. "Hum!" mused the worthy doctor, as he knitted his eyebrows. "He must have been pretty badly hurt." "I don't think he was hurt at all, Doctor," interrupted Stanley. "I was present, and so were a number of the other students. Mr. Fogg had his hat knocked off, and that was about all. He wasn't stunned or anything like that. He talked to Sam just as rationally as I am talking to you, and all those standing around heard him. Of course, he was very angry, not only because he had been hit but because the fellow who had thrown the snowball was Sam Rover. He, of course, remembered how the Rovers foiled his plot to do them out of what was coming to them when their flying machine was wrecked on the railroad, and also how they got the best of Fogg and a company of brokers in New York City." "Yes, yes, I remember about the wrecked flying machine," returned Dr. Wallington. "I know nothing about this affair in New York." "Well, it was a very serious matter, and Fogg came pretty close to going to prison," answered Sam, and gave a few details, as already related in the volume entitled "The Rover Boys in New York." "Very interesting, Rover, very interesting indeed," murmured the head of Brill. "But even that did not excuse your hitting this man in the head with a snowball and hurting him." "There is another point I would like to mention," said Stanley. "We were having the contest on the college grounds, and Mr. Fogg was struck on the roadway where it runs through our grounds." "Ah! I see. That might make a difference. The highway is more or less of a public one, it is true, but it has never been turned over to the county authorities, so it really forms a part of our grounds still. But of one thing I wish to be sure, Rover--did you aim at Mr. Fogg, or was the snowballing unintentional?" "I didn't see him at all," answered Sam. "Some of the fellows rushed behind the bushes and I simply let drive along with a number of others. Then Fogg appeared and claimed that I had hit him in the head. I rather think he tells the truth, although I am not positive." "In that case he would have to prove that you were guilty. Besides that, if it came to a matter of law, he would have to prove actual damages, and I do not see how he could claim fifty dollars if he was not hurt more than you say. If you wish, you can leave the whole matter in my hands and I will have it investigated." "Thank you very much, Doctor Wallington," returned Sam, warmly. "This lifts a load off my mind. Of course I will pay whatever you settle on;" and so the matter was allowed to rest. A thaw had set in and the snow began to disappear rapidly from the roads and fields around Brill. There was a good deal of slush, which rendered some of the highways almost impassable, so that it was not until a week later that Sam had an opportunity to visit Hope. In the meantime, however, he had sent a nice little note to Grace in which no mention was made of the Walthams. He had looked for an answer but none had come. "Where bound, Sam?" questioned Songbird, when he saw his roommate getting ready to use his automobile. "I'm going for a run to Hope. Do you want to come along?" and Sam's eye had a twinkle in it. "You might run me around to the Sanderson place. It won't take long in the auto," returned the would-be poet. "If I can get there, I won't mind walking back this evening. I've been wanting to go for a long while, but the roads have been so poor I couldn't make it." "All right, Songbird, come ahead," was Sam's answer; and a little later found the pair on the road. It did not take long to reach the Sanderson farm, and as they entered the lane Sam tooted his horn loudly. "I've brought you a visitor, Minnie!" cried the Rover boy, as he brought the machine to a standstill. "Here is somebody I know you won't want to see, but I'm going to leave him here nevertheless," and he grinned broadly. "Oh, John!" burst out the farmer's daughter, and blushed deeply. She came forward and shook hands with both youths. "I am more than glad to see you." "I am on my way to Hope, so I won't come in," went on Sam. "How is everything, Minnie?" "Oh, about as usual," answered the girl, and then went on: "Of course you know all about what Tom did for us? It was splendid!" "You haven't heard anything more regarding the money?" "Not a thing, Sam. I thought maybe you had something to tell," and the girl turned from Sam to Songbird. "We have sent out the photographs and the description of Blackie Crowden," answered the latter. "They are going to the police in all the large cities, so if Crowden turns up at all he'll be arrested sooner or later." After a few more words Sam left the Sanderson place and headed directly for Hope. Although he would not admit it even to himself, the youngest Rover was a good deal worried. What Tom had told him concerning Grace and the Walthams had been continually in his mind, and time and again he had wondered how he should broach the subject to Grace and what the answer of the girl would be. "Of course she's got a right to go out with whom she pleases," he told himself. "But still I thought--well I thought it was all fixed between us, that's all." Sam was so occupied with his thoughts that he paid scant attention to the running of the automobile. As a consequence he went over a number of sharp stones, and a minute later there came a loud report from the rear of the machine. "A blowout! Confound the luck!" he exclaimed, as he brought the automobile to a standstill. "And just when I was in a hurry to get to Hope!" There was nothing else to do, so, stripping himself of his overcoat and donning a jumper, Sam got out, taking with him some of the tools from under the automobile seat. It was a tire on one of the rear wheels which had blown out, and this wheel he now jacked up for the purpose of putting on a new shoe and inner tube. As luck would have it, the tire that had been cut fit very tightly, so that it was all the Rover boy could do to get it off the rim. He tugged and twisted, perspiring freely, but it was some time before he could even get the injured shoe started. "If I can't get it off, what ever am I to do?" he mused. "I must be at least half a mile from even a telephone, and the nearest garage is at Ashton. At this rate I'll never get to Hope." He continued to work over the tire, at last doing his best to pound it off with a bit of iron and a hammer. Then he gave a final wrench, which brought the tire off so suddenly that Sam was sent flat on his back in the dirt and slush of the road. It was an occurrence to try anybody's patience, and Sam arose in anything but a happy frame of mind. His back was covered with mud, and a good deal of the slushy water had penetrated to his skin. "Ugh! of all the rank luck!" he muttered, as he shook himself. "If I ever get this wheel mended I'll be a fine sight to present myself at a fashionable ladies' seminary. Why in the world didn't I look where I was driving, instead of rushing right over such a prime collection of rough stones?" But finding fault with himself did not mend matters, and so, casting the cut tire aside, Sam unstrapped one of the extra shoes he carried and got out another inner tube. As if everything was to go wrong that afternoon, the new shoe proved to be as small as that which had been taken off, and as a consequence Sam had to work like a Trojan for the best part of half an hour before he finally got it into place. "And now I've got to pump it up by hand," he observed to himself, grimly, as he remembered that the power pump which had been installed on the engine was out of order and could not be used. Then he brought out the hand pump and set to work to fill the new tire with air. Sam had the tire about three-quarters pumped up and was working away as vigorously as his somewhat exhausted condition would permit when he heard a honking of an automobile horn, and the next moment a machine came in sight around a turn of the highway. The car was a large and powerful one of foreign make, and was driven by a young man stylishly dressed, in a full suit of furs, and wearing automobile goggles. Behind him were two young ladies, also wearing furs, and with veils covering their faces. "Tough luck!" sang out the young man at the wheel of the passing car, and he waved one hand pleasantly towards Sam. The youth had been bending over the hand pump, but now, as the other automobile swept by, he straightened up suddenly and stared with open eyes after the vanishing turnout. He had not recognized the young man who was running the machine, but he had recognized the two young ladies in the tonneau of the car. "Ada Waltham! And that was Grace with her!" he murmured. "And if that's so, it must have been Chester Waltham who was running the car!" CHAPTER XIV DAYS OF WAITING As Sam gazed after the vanishing automobile a pang of bitterness swept through his heart. He remembered all that his brother had told him concerning Chester Waltham, and he also remembered that Grace had never mentioned the young millionaire. "And she knew I was coming over to Hope just as soon as the roads made it safe and pleasant for automobiling," he murmured to himself. Neither of the young ladies in the tonneau of the car had looked back, so it was more than likely they had not recognized him as he was bending over the hand pump, inflating the new tire. "But maybe she saw me after all and did not want to let on," he thought dismally. "Maybe she thought I wouldn't recognize her." What to do next was a problem for the young collegian. If Grace was not at the seminary he had no desire to call there. He continued to work over the tire, and soon it was properly inflated, and he put away the tools he had used. His face was a study, for he was doing some hard thinking. "Well, I'll go to Hope anyway, and if she isn't there I'll leave my card, so she'll know I called. Then I'll see what she has to say about matters," he told himself; and setting his teeth somewhat grimly he started up the automobile and continued his trip. At the door of the seminary he was met by a maid, who brought him the information that Miss Laning was out. Then several girls who knew Sam came up, and one of them explained that Grace had gone automobiling. "She went with Ada Waltham and her brother, Chester," explained the girl student. "You see, Chester has a brand new foreign car--a beauty--and he was very anxious to give his sister and Grace a ride. We thought he might have asked some of us to go along, but he didn't," and the girl pouted slightly. "You don't suppose they were going to stop at Brill?" questioned Sam, struck by a sudden thought. "I don't think so, Mr. Rover. Ada said something about riding to Columbia and having dinner there this evening. That, you know, is quite a distance, and the road doesn't run past your college." "Then I suppose they won't be back till late?" "They had permission to stay out until ten o'clock," put in another of the girls who were present. "Oh! I see." As the girls were looking at him rather sharply, Sam felt his face begin to burn. "Well, I hope they have a good time," he added somewhat hastily. "Good-evening," and then turned and walked quickly towards his automobile; and in a minute more was on his way back to Brill. "I'll wager Grace Laning has got herself into hot water," was the comment of one of the girls, as they watched Sam's departure. "I don't believe he likes it one bit that she went off with the Walthams." "Humph! You can't expect a girl to hang back when she is asked to take a ride in a brand new automobile, and with such millionaires as Chester Waltham and his sister," broke in another girl. "I just wish I had the chance," she added rather enviously. In the meantime, Sam was driving along the country road in rather a reckless fashion. His mind was in a turmoil, and to think clearly just then seemed to be out of the question. "Of course she has a right to go out and dine with the Walthams if she wants to," he told himself. "But at the same time----" And then there came up in his mind a hundred reasons why Grace should have refused the invitation and waited for him to call upon her. "Hello! you are back early," remarked Spud, when Sam appeared at Brill. "I thought you were going to make an evening of it." "I had some bad luck on the road," replied Sam, rather sheepishly. "I had a blowout, and in trying to get the tire off I slipped and went flat on my back in the mud and slush," he continued. "Is that so? Well, that's too bad, Sam. So you came home to get cleaned up, eh? I thought your girl thought so much of you that she wouldn't care if you called even when you were mussed up," and at this little joke Spud passed on, much to the Rover boy's relief. The only occupant of Number 25 who seemed to be happy that night was Songbird, who came in whistling gaily. "Had a fine time with Minnie," he declared--"best time I ever had in my life. I tell you, Sam, she's a wonderful girl." "So she is, Songbird." "Of course, you don't think she's half as wonderful as Grace," went on the would-be poet of Brill; "but, then, that's to be expected." "How did Mr. Sanderson treat you?" broke in Sam, hastily, to shift the subject. "Oh, he treated me better than he did before." Songbird's face sobered for a minute. "To be sure he feels dreadfully sore over the loss of that four thousand dollars. But I assured him that I and the authorities were doing all in our power to get the money back, and I also assured him that if it wasn't recovered I expected to pay it back just as soon as I could earn it. Of course he thinks I am talking through my hat about earning such a big amount, but just the same I am going to do it just as soon as I graduate from Brill. I'd go to work to-morrow instead of staying here if it wasn't that I had promised my folks that I would graduate from Brill, and as near the top of my class as I could get. If I left now, my mother would be heartbroken." "Of course your folks know about the loss, Songbird?" "Yes. I wrote them the whole particulars just as soon as I could, and I've let them know what we are doing now." "Do they blame you for the loss?" "My father thinks I might have been a little more careful, but my mother says she thinks it is Mr. Sanderson's fault that he let me get such an amount of money in cash and carry it on such a lonely road. But dad is all right, and in his last letter he said he could let Mr. Sanderson have a thousand dollars if that would help matters out." "Had Mr. Sanderson heard any more from old Grisley, or Belright Fogg?" "Yes. He saw Grisley and the old man said the lawyer was boiling mad because he had agreed to let the mortgage run for another year. Fogg wouldn't accept the five dollars that old Grisley offered him for his trouble, so then Grisley would give him nothing; and there the matter stands." "He'll get something out of Grisley if he possibly can. My opinion is, since Fogg lost his job with the railroad company, and made such a fizzle of his doings in New York City, he is in bad shape financially and eager to get his hands on some money in any old way possible." "Have you settled the snowball affair with him yet?" "No. I'm going to see Dr. Wallington about it to-morrow," answered Sam. The Rover boy had rather expected some sort of a communication from Grace the next day, and he was keenly disappointed when no letter came and when she failed to call him up on the telephone. Several times he felt on the point of calling her up, but each time set his teeth hard and put it off. "It's up to her to say something--not me," he told himself. "She must know how I feel over the affair." When Sam called upon Dr. Wallington, the head of Brill met him with rather an amused smile. "I suppose you want to see me in regard to that claim of Mr. Fogg's," he said. "Yes, sir." "Well, I have had one of the professors call on the lawyer and bind him down to just exactly what happened and how badly he was hurt. It seems that he did not go to any doctor at all, although he did see a friend of his, a Doctor Slamper, on the street." "Doctor Slamper!" cried Sam. "Oh, I remember him. He's the fellow who came here with Mr. Fogg at the time we put in our claim for damages on account of the wrecked biplane." "Ah, indeed! I remember," and Dr. Wallington nodded knowingly. "And what does Mr. Fogg want us to do?" questioned Sam. "At first, as you know, he wanted fifty dollars. Then he came down to twenty-five, and at last to fifteen. Then we brought to his attention the fact that the snowballing contest had taken place on the college grounds, and that it was his own fault that he had become mixed up in the affair. This brought on quite an argument, but in the end Mr. Fogg agreed to accept six dollars, which he said would pay for three consultations with Dr. Slamper at two dollars per consultation," and the good doctor smiled rather grimly. "And did you pay the six dollars, Doctor?" "Not yet, Rover. I expected, however, to send him a check for that amount to-morrow, provided you are satisfied." "I think I'll have to be, Dr. Wallington. I suppose it's rather a cheap way out of the difficulty, although as a matter of fact I don't believe he is entitled to a cent." "You may be right, Rover. But six dollars, I take it, is not so very large a price to pay for so much fun--I mean, of course, the fun of the snowballing contest in which, so they tell me, you were the one to capture the banners of the opposition." "You're right, sir. And I'm satisfied, and you can place the amount on my bill," answered Sam; and then he bowed himself out of the doctor's office. Another day passed, and still there came no word to Sam from Hope. He was very much worried, but did his best not to show it. "Call for all baseball candidates at the gym to-morrow afternoon!" announced Bob, during the lunch hour. "I don't think I want to go in for baseball this spring," returned Sam. "I heard something of that from some of the other fellows, Sam," interrupted Bob. "It won't do. We need you and we are bound to have you." The roads were now drying up rapidly, and that afternoon Spud asked Sam if he did not want to walk to Ashton. "I've got a few things I want to get at the stores," said Spud. "Come along, the hike on the road will do you good." "All right, Spud, I'll go along, for I am tired of writing themes and studying," answered Sam. But it was not his theme and his lessons that worried the boy. Thinking about Grace, and waiting continually for some sort of word from her, had given him not only a heart ache but a headache as well. When the boys arrived at Ashton they separated for a short while, Spud to get fitted with a new pair of shoes while Sam went to another place in quest of a new cap. The Rover boy had just made his purchase, and was leaving the store to rejoin Spud when he heard some one call his name, and looking around saw Andy Royce approaching. "I just thought I'd ask you if you had heard anything about that Blackie Crowden yet," remarked the gardener from Hope, as he approached. "Not yet, Royce. But they have sent out a good description of him, along with copies of his photograph, so the authorities think they will get him sooner or later." "I've heard something that maybe you would like to know," went on Andy Royce. "I've heard that Crowden was over at Leadenfield, to a small roadhouse kept by a man named Bissette, a Frenchman." "When was this?" demanded Sam, with interest. "Either the day of the assault or the day after. Bissette didn't seem to know exactly. I happened to be there buying some potatoes for the seminary--you see Bissette is a kind of agent for some farmers of that neighborhood. I mentioned the robbery to him and spoke about the suspicion about Crowden, and he was very much surprised. He said Crowden was there for a couple of hours using the telephone, and then he left the place when somebody drove up in a cutter." "Do you mean that Crowden went off with the other person in the cutter?" "Bissette thinks so, although he ain't sure, because as soon as Crowden went out, Bissette turned to do some work inside and forgot all about him." "Did Bissette have any idea who the man in the cutter was?" "He wasn't sure about that either, but he kind of thought it was a lawyer who used to work for the railroad company--a man named Fogg." CHAPTER XV BASEBALL TALK "Fogg!" cried Sam, in astonishment. "Do you mean Belright Fogg?" "That's the man--the fellow who used to do the legal work for the railroad here." "Was this Bissette sure it was Fogg?" "No, he wasn't sure, because he didn't pay very much attention. But he said if it wasn't this Fogg, it was some one who looked very much like him," answered Andy Royce. This was all he could tell Sam of importance, and the Rover boy went off, to rejoin his chum in a very thoughtful mood. "That's rather a queer state of affairs," was Spud's comment, when told of the matter. "If Fogg met this Blackie Crowden, what do you suppose it was for?" "I haven't the least idea, Spud." "Do you think he was mixed up in this robbery?" "No, I can't say that. The assault was committed by one man, and so far they haven't been able to find any accomplices." When Sam returned to Brill he at once sought out Songbird and told him of what he had heard. The would-be poet of Brill was even more surprised than Spud had been. "I wouldn't put it above Belright Fogg to be in with a rascal like Blackie Crowden," was Songbird's comment. "He did his best against you in that flying machine affair and in that affair in New York City." "I've got an idea," said Sam, after a slight pause. "I am to pay him six dollars' damages for hitting him in the head with that snowball. Doctor Wallington was going to send him a check. I've got a good notion to ask the doctor to let me pay the bill and get Fogg's receipt for it. That will give me a chance to pump him about this matter." "Do it, Sam! And I'll go along," burst out his chum, quickly. "If this Belright Fogg knows Blackie Crowden I want to know it." Permission was readily granted by the head of Brill to Sam to pay the bill, and that evening the Rover boy and Songbird took the former's automobile and rode over to where Belright Fogg boarded, on the outskirts of Ashton. They found the lawyer just preparing to go out, and he showed that he was very much surprised to see them. "I suppose you are here to pay that bill you owe me," he said stiffly to Sam. "I am, Mr. Fogg," was the answer. "I believe you agreed to accept six dollars. If you will make out a receipt for the amount I will give you Doctor Wallington's check." "Humph! isn't the check receipt enough?" demanded the lawyer. "Perhaps. But I would prefer to have a receipt showing exactly what the money is being paid for," answered Sam. "As a lawyer you must know it is best to have these things straight." "Oh, very well. Come in and I'll write out your receipt for you," announced Belright Fogg, coldly, and ushered the pair into a sitting-room. Sam had asked Songbird to say nothing about Blackie Crowden until the matter of the snowball injury was settled. A receipt for the money was quickly penned by Belright Fogg. "There, I presume that will be satisfactory," he said, as he showed it to Sam. "That's all right, Mr. Fogg," was the answer. "And here is your check." Sam paused for a moment while the lawyer looked the check over. "By the way, Mr. Fogg, I understand you were in Leadenfield a few days ago at the tavern kept by Bissette." "What's that?" shot out the lawyer, somewhat startled. "I said that I understood that you were in Leadenfield a few days ago at the tavern kept by Bissette." "And that you met a man there named Blackie Crowden," broke in Songbird, quickly. "I--I was in Leadenfield some days ago on business," answered Belright Fogg, hesitatingly, "but I wasn't at the Bissette place, or anywhere near it." "But you met a man named Blackie Crowden?" queried Sam. The lawyer glared at the Rover boy and also at Songbird. "Blackie Crowden? I don't know such an individual--at least, not by name." "He is a fellow who used to work in Hoover's livery stable in Center Haven--a man who stutters greatly." "Don't know the fellow," was the prompt response. "You mean to say you didn't meet Blackie Crowden at Bissette's?" cried Songbird. "Look here, young man, what are you driving at?" stormed Belright Fogg, in a sudden temper. "You've no right to question me in this manner. What is it all about?" "We have it on good authority that you met this man, Blackie Crowden, outside of Bissette's place," answered Sam, stoutly. "Who is this man you mention?" "Being a lawyer and interested in public affairs, you ought to know that, Mr. Fogg," answered Songbird. "He is the man who, we think, knocked me down and robbed me of Mr. Sanderson's four thousand dollars." "Ah! I--I remember now. And so you are trying to connect me up with that rascal, are you? What do you mean by that?" "Never mind what we mean," declared the would-be poet of Brill, stoutly. "I want to get at the facts in this matter. If you say you didn't meet Crowden, all right, we'll let it go at that. But there are others who say you did meet him." "It's false--absolutely false!" roared Fogg, but as he spoke his face paled greatly. "I--I don't know this fellow, Crowden--never met him in my life. This is all a put-up job on your part to make trouble for me," and he glared savagely at both Songbird and Sam. "It's no put-up job, Mr. Fogg. We intend to get at the bottom of this sooner or later," answered Sam, as calmly as he could. "Come on, Songbird." "See here! you're not going to leave this house until I know just what you are driving at," roared the lawyer. "I won't have you besmirching my fair name!" "Your fair name!" returned Sam, sarcastically. "There is no necessity for you to talk that way, Mr. Fogg. I know you thoroughly. If you want to rake up the past you can do it, but I advise you not to do so." "I--I----" began the lawyer, and then stopped, not knowing how to proceed. "We might as well go," broke in Songbird. "But perhaps, Mr. Fogg, you haven't heard the end of this," added the would-be poet of Brill; and though the lawyer continued to storm and argue, the two chums left the house and were soon on the return to Brill. "I'm afraid we didn't gain anything by that move," was Sam's comment, as they rode along. "He'll be on his guard now, and that will make it harder than ever to connect him with this affair--provided he really is mixed up in it." "He acted pretty startled when we put it up to him," returned Songbird. He heaved a deep sigh. "Well, maybe some day this matter will be cleared up, but it doesn't look like it now." Several days passed, and Sam stuck to his lessons as hard as ever. Once or twice he thought of calling up Grace at Hope or of writing her a note, but each time he put it off, why, he could not exactly explain even to himself. But then came a rift in the clouds and the sun shone as brightly as ever. A note came from Grace, which he read with much satisfaction. A part of the communication ran as follows: "I was thinking all manner of mean things about you because you did not answer my note of last week, when--what do you think? The note came back to me, brought in by one of the smaller girls here, Jessie Brown. Jessie was going to town that day, and I gave her the note to post and she put it in the pocket of her coat, along with several other letters, so she says. Well, the pocket had a hole in it, and, as you might know, my own particular letter had to slip through that hole into the lining of the coat. The rest of the letters were mailed, but my letter remained in the lining until this morning, when Jessie came to me with tears in her eyes to tell of what had happened. I felt pretty angry over it, but glad to know that you were not guilty of having received the note and then not answering it. "In the note I told you how sorry I was to find that you had called here while I was away. You see, Ada Waltham's brother, Chester, came on in his new automobile--a big foreign affair, very splendid. He wanted to give Ada a ride, and invited me to go along, so I went, and we had a very nice time. Chester is an expert auto driver, and the way we flew along over the roads was certainly marvelous. He insisted upon it that we dine with him. And, oh, Sam! such a spread as it was! "You know he is a millionaire in his own right (Ada has a great lot of money too). We certainly had one grand time, and I shall never forget it. He got a beautiful bouquet for the table, and also bouquets for Ada and me to take home, along with boxes of the most beautiful chocolates I ever ate. But just the same, I am awfully sorry I wasn't at the seminary when you called, and I don't understand why you haven't been up since, or why you didn't telephone to me. "One of the girls here says they are organizing the Brill baseball nine for the coming season, and that they want you to play as you did last year. If you do join the nine, I hope you have the same success or more. And you can rest assured that I will be on the grandstand to offer you all the encouragement possible. I hope that Dick and Tom come on to see the game and bring Dora and Nellie along, and then we can have the nicest kind of a jolly party. Ada Waltham, as you may know, loves baseball games too, and she says that she is going to have Chester here at that time to take her over to Brill, unless somebody else turns up to accompany her." "All right, as far as it goes," mused Sam, on reading this note. "But I wish Chester Waltham would stay away. Of course I can't blame Grace for liking a ride in a big, foreign car and being invited out to such a first-class spread as she mentions, but, just the same, I wish she wouldn't go with him." However, the communication brightened his thoughts considerably, and it was only a little while later when he talked to the girl over the telephone and made an arrangement for a ride in the automobile on the following Saturday afternoon, Songbird and Minnie to accompany them. The four went off to Center Haven, where Sam spread himself on a dinner which was certainly all that could be desired. Grace was in one of her most winning moods, and when the young couple parted the cloud that had hovered over them seemed to be completely dispelled. As winter waned and the grass on the campus took on a greener hue, baseball matters came once more to the fore at Brill. Bob Grimes, who played at shortstop, was again the captain of the team, and it was generally understood that Spud Jackson would again occupy the position of catcher. "We're going to miss Tom Rover a good deal this year," said Bob to some of the others. During the year past Tom had been the candidate for head twirler against both Bill Harney and Dare Phelps and had shown that he was the superior of both of the others. "Well, you haven't got Tom Rover, so you've got to make the best of it," answered Stanley. "Phelps has been doing pretty well, I understand, so you might as well give him a chance." "Yes, I thought I'd do that," answered the team captain. "Harney isn't in it at all, and doesn't want even to try. I'll give Phelps a chance and also Jack Dudley." Dudley was a sophomore whose swift pitching had become the general talk of the college. He, however, was rather erratic, and liable to go to pieces in a crisis. As my old readers know, Sam had joined the team the year before only after considerable coaxing, and then merely as a substitute. During the middle of the great game he had been assigned to left field in place of a player who had twisted his foot. In that position he had caught a fly in a thoroughly marvelous manner, and he had also managed, when at the bat, to bring in a home run. "We've simply got to have you on the team, Sam," said the captain, a little later, when he caught the Rover boy in one of the corridors. "Your hanging back this year is rather hurting our chances of winning." "But, Bob, I want to pay attention to my lessons," pleaded Sam. "I can't afford to get behind." "You'll not get behind," was the answer. "Aren't we all striving to graduate? You ought to be willing to do as much as Spud and myself." "All right, then, Bob, if you are going to put it that way," was the answer, and thereupon Sam allowed his name to go on the list of prospective players and at once began training. After that matters moved along swiftly. The committee from Brill met with the committee from Roxley and arrangements were perfected for the coming game. As the contest had taken place the year previous at Roxley, it was, of course, decided that the game this year should be played at Brill. Then men were set at work to place the diamond in the best possible shape for the contest, and the grandstand was repaired, and a new set of bleachers put up to accommodate a larger crowd than ever. "This is a baseball year," announced Bob Grimes, "so we can expect a big rush of visitors." The nine had already won three games of minor importance. "They tell me Roxley has got the best team it ever put in the field," announced Stanley one day, after he had been over to the other institution. "They've got three dandy pitchers, and two outfielders who are crackerjacks at batting. One of their men told me that they expected to walk all over us." "Well, we'll see about that," returned Bob Grimes. "We've got a good team of our own, and I know every one of us will try to play his head off to win." CHAPTER XVI THE OPENING OF THE BALL GAME The day for the great baseball game between Brill and Roxley dawned clear and bright. Sam had received word that both of his brothers with their wives would be on, reaching Ashton early in the morning. He drove down to the depot in his automobile to meet the newcomers. When the train rolled into the station Dick Rover, as tall and handsome as ever, was the first to alight, quickly followed by his wife, Dora. Then came Tom and Nellie. "Hello, Sam, my boy!" exclaimed Dick, as he strode up and shook hands, quickly followed by his wife. "How are you these days? But it is needless to ask, for you look the picture of health." "Oh, I'm feeling fine," answered Sam, smiling broadly. "Ready to play winning baseball, I presume," came from Dora, as she gave him a warm smile. "Surest thing you know, Dora," he answered. "Oh, we've got to win from Roxley to-day!" "Yes, but you haven't got me to pitch for you to-day, Sam," broke in Tom, as he came up and shook hands. "Who is going to do the twirling for Brill?" "They are going to try Dare Phelps first, and if he can't make it, they will try Jack Dudley, one of the sophs." "Oh, yes, I remember Dudley when he was a freshman," answered Tom. "Pretty clever fellow, too." "How is it you didn't bring Grace with you, Sam?" questioned Nellie, as she took his hand. "I'm to take you two girls up to Hope after I leave Tom and Dick at Brill," explained the youngest Rover. "Then we are to get all of you girls directly after lunch. Grace wanted it that way." "My! but this is a touch of old times," remarked Dick, as he climbed into the automobile. "Let me take the wheel, Sam." "Certainly, if you want to," was the quick reply, and a few minutes later, with the oldest Rover running the machine, the whole party set off for Brill. "How are matters going in New York, Dick?" questioned Sam, while they rode along. "We are doing quite well, Sam. Of course, we are having a little difficulty in certain directions, but that is to be expected. You must remember in Wall Street the rivalries are very keen. I suppose some of our competitors would like to put us out of business." "What about that tour Tom mentioned?" "I think we can make it, Sam. I'll know more about it a little later. There is no hurry, you know, because you've got to graduate first," and Dick smiled knowingly at his brother. Songbird and some of the other collegians were waiting to welcome Dick and Tom, and as soon as they had left the automobile Sam continued on the way to Hope. "Oh! I'm so glad to see you!" cried Grace, as she rushed out and kissed her sister and her cousin. "Come right in. We are going to have a special lunch in your honor. Sam, I'm sorry I can't invite you, but you know what the rules are." "Never mind. Tom will be on hand at one-thirty promptly," answered the youth. "I hope you'll all be ready, for we can't delay, you know." "We'll be ready, don't fear," answered Grace. When Sam returned to Brill he found a crowd of the seniors surrounding his brothers, telling them of the many things that had happened in and around the college since they had left. "It's a jolly shame we can't have you in the box to-day, Tom," said Bob Grimes. "I'm afraid we'll need you sorely," he added rather anxiously. "Why don't you put William Philander Tubbs in?" suggested Tom, with a grin. "Don't you remember what a famous ball player he was?" And then there was a general laugh, at the recollection of a joke that had once been played on the dudish college student. The air was filled with talk of the coming game, and but scant attention was paid to the lunch provided for the collegians and their guests. As soon as the meal was over, Tom took the Rover's automobile and started for Hope to bring Grace and the others. When he arrived there he found his wife, Dora and Grace talking to Ada Waltham and her brother Chester, to whom he was introduced. "We are going over to the game," announced Chester Waltham. "Ada and I are going to take half a dozen of the young ladies." "Fine!" returned Tom. "The more the merrier! Don't forget to tell the girls to whoop her up for Brill." "I think the most of them will do that," said Ada Waltham; "although one or two of them are Roxley sympathizers." "Well, Brill can't have everything its own way," answered Tom. A few minutes later he was on the return with Grace, Nellie and Dora. When he arrived he found Sam awaiting them, and all walked down to the grandstand, where seats had been provided for the party. Grace and the others had just been made comfortable when Chester Waltham arrived with his sister and a number of others. The young millionaire came forward with a broad smile and was quickly introduced, and he lost no time in seating his sister next to Grace, while he sat directly behind the pair, with all the other girls he had brought close by. This arrangement did not altogether suit Sam, and he hurried off to the dressing-room to get into his baseball uniform in rather a doubtful frame of mind. A little later there was a grand shouting at the entrance to the field, and into sight came a large automobile truck containing a drum and fife corps and carrying a large Roxley banner. The truck was followed by a dozen or more automobiles containing the Roxley team and their fellow-students. The students had tin horns and wooden rattles. "Zip! Hurrah! Roxley!" was the cry, and then followed a great noise from the horns and rattles. "Brill! Brill! Brill!" was the counter cry, and then the furious din was taken up by the other side. After that the grandstand filled up rapidly and so did the bleachers, until there was not an available seat remaining. In the meanwhile, a parking place for automobiles and carriages at the far end of the field was also well patronized. "Some crowd, and no mistake!" was Stanley's comment, as he looked at the masses of humanity waving flags and banners and tooting their horns and using various other devices for making noise. "This is by far the biggest crowd we have ever had." "Roxley has sent word all around that they are going to bury us this year," returned another student standing by. "They claim they have a team that can't be beaten." Down in the dressing-room Bob was giving some final instructions to his men. "I want you to play from the word 'go,'" he said. "Sometimes a game is lost or won in the first inning. Don't let them get any kind of a lead if you can possibly help it." It had been decided almost at the last minute that instead of covering left field Sam should cover third base. There was a big cheer for the Roxley team when it made its appearance on the field, and another cheer when the Brill nine showed itself. Then came the toss-up, and it was decided that Brill should go to the bat first. The first man to the bat was a tall fellow who played center field, and as he came forward many of the Brill sympathizers cheered him lustily. "Now show 'em what you can do!" "Knock it over the back fence!" The ball came in and the batter swung for it and missed it. "Strike one!" "That's the way to do it, Muggs!" Again the ball came in, and this time there was a foul tip. "Foul! Strike two!" Following this second strike came two balls, over which the Brill contingent cheered. Then came a swift inshoot, which the batter missed by the fraction of an inch. "Strike three! Batter out!" sang out the umpire. "That's the way to do it, Muggs!" came the yell from the Roxley cohorts, and there followed a din of horns and rattles. The second man up for Brill managed to get to first, but the next one went out on a pop fly, and then the man on first was caught trying to steal to second. "That's the way to do it, Roxley! Keep it up!" And as a goose egg was put up for Brill on the score board the opponents cheered as wildly as ever. But if Roxley had hoped to score in that first inning, her expectations were doomed to disappointment. The first man up went out on a pop fly, the second on a foul, and although the third managed to reach second base on what should have really been a one-base hit, the fourth man up knocked an easy one to first which ended their hopes. It was not until the second inning that Sam came to the bat. There were two men out when he grasped the ashen stick and took his stand beside the home plate. He had a strike and two balls called on him, and then sent a clean hit between first and second bases. "Run, Sam, run!" yelled Dick. "Leg it, old man, leg it!" added Tom, and the youngest Rover certainly did speed for first, arriving there just a second before the ball. "Oh, if only he can get in!" cried Grace, clapping her hands. "It's a long way around to home plate," put in Chester Waltham. "He's got to have help to do it." A moment later the next man to the bat knocked an easy fly to second and that ended the chances for Sam's scoring, and another goose egg went up for Brill on the score board. In the end of the second inning Roxley was fortunate enough to open the play with a neat drive which brought the batter to second. Then came another one-base hit, and amid a wild yelling the runner from second slid in over the home plate. "Hurrah! Hurrah! A run for Roxley!" "That's the way to do it! Keep it up! Snow Brill under!" Bob Grimes walked up to Dare Phelps, who was occupying the pitcher's box. "Take it easy, Dare," he pleaded. "Don't let 'em rattle you." "They are not going to rattle me," responded Dare Phelps, and pitched the next batter out in one-two-three order. In the meantime, however, the man on first managed to steal second. A moment later he tried to reach third. The pitcher threw the ball to Sam, who leaped up into the air and caught it, coming down on the runner while he was still a foot from the bag. "Runner out!" cried the umpire, and Roxley's player arose rather crestfallen and limped off to the benches. "That's the way to do it, Sam. Nab 'em every time!" cried Tom. When the inning was ended Roxley had only the one run to its credit. Brill came to the bat for the third time with a sort of do-or-die look on the faces of the players. It was plucky little Spud who started a batting streak, getting safely to first and followed by another player who managed to reach second, landing Spud on third. Then came two outs. Before the inning was ended, however, two runs were placed on the board to the credit of Brill. "Two to one in favor of Brill!" cried one of the students. "Just wait, this inning isn't over yet!" cried one of the Roxley sympathizers. Then Roxley went to the bat, and because of a bad fumble on the part of the Brill second baseman, they managed to secure another run. "Two to two!" was the cry, as the figures went up on the big score board. "Anybody's game, so far," said Dick Rover, soberly, "but I do hope Brill wins." "And so do I," answered his brother Tom. CHAPTER XVII HOW THE GAME ENDED In the fourth inning Brill did its best to get in another run. There were two one-base hits made, but these were followed by a strike-out and two pop flies, so the hits availed nothing. "Such playing as that isn't helping us any," was Dick's remark in a low tone to Tom. "Well, those first two men up managed to find the ball," returned Tom, hopefully. But if Brill had not fared well in that inning, Roxley did no better, so far as bringing in runs were concerned. But the Roxley batters found Phelps quite easily, pounding out numerous fouls. "The score is two to two," remarked Chester Waltham, when the Brill team came up to the bat in the fifth inning. In this, with one man out, Sam managed to send a neat drive directly past the Roxley shortstop. He gained first with ease, and then, taking a desperate chance, slid safely to second. "Good work, Rover! Keep it up!" came from one of his chums. "That won't do him any good. They can't bring it in," called out a Roxley sympathizer, and he proved to be a true prophet, for the inning came to an end with no additional runs, Sam getting no chance to advance beyond the second bag. "Now, then, Phelps, keep cool," admonished Bob, when in the second half of the fifth inning the Brill pitcher passed the first batter on balls. "All right, I'll do my best," answered Dare Phelps. "But I must confess my arm is beginning to hurt me," he added. "Do you want to drop out?" questioned the captain, quickly. "Oh, no, not until they hit me more than they have," responded the Brill pitcher, grimly. There followed one out, but after that came some free hitting which brought in two runs. "Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted the Roxley students. "Two to four in favor of Roxley! That's the way to do it! Snow 'em under!" "Steady, Phelps, steady," warned the Brill captain. But it was of no avail, and the only way Brill could bring that inning to a finish was by the clever work of two of the fielders in capturing two flies which looked as if they might be home runs. When the board showed the score of 2 to 4 Roxley went wild once more, while the followers of Brill looked correspondingly glum. "Maybe you had better give Jack Dudley a chance," suggested Bob to Dare Phelps, when the two walked into the benches. "Oh, let me try it just once more!" pleaded the pitcher. "Anybody might have let in those two runs." "All right, Phelps, I'll give you one more chance," answered Bob, somewhat sharply. "You know we don't want this game to go to Roxley if we can possibly help it." In the sixth inning Brill scored another goose egg. Then Roxley came once more to the bat, and on the first ball pitched by Phelps scored a home run, amid a yelling and cheering that could be heard for a great distance. "Whoop! That's the way to do it! Five to two in favor of Roxley!" "Keep it up, boys! Snow 'em under! Snow 'em under!" And then the Roxley crowd began a song, the refrain of which was: "We're here to-day to bury them!" The cheering was still at its height when Bob motioned to Jack Dudley, who had been warming up in a corner of the field, to come forward and take Dare Phelps' place. There was a cheer from Brill for the new pitcher, while Phelps retired rather crestfallen. "Now, then, Dudley, put 'em out in one-two-three order!" was the cry. "We've killed off one pitcher; now kill off the next!" came the cry from the Roxleyites. "Take it easy, Dudley," warned Bob. "Give 'em your inshoot and that new fadeaway." "I'll give 'em all that is in me," returned Jack Dudley, with a determined look on his lean, and somewhat angular, face. The first man up got two balls and two strikes. Then came a foul tip, followed by another strike. "Strike three! Batter out!" called the umpire. "Hurrah! That's the way to do it, Dudley!" The next man managed to get to first, but then came two more outs, and the sixth inning came to a close with the score still standing, Brill 2--Roxley 5. "That's some lead," remarked Chester Waltham. "Brill has got to get busy pretty quickly if it expects to win this game." "Oh, we'll get there, don't you worry," answered Tom, quickly, and then he shouted: "Go to it, fellows; go to it! Lambast the life out of that leather!" and at this cry there was a general laugh. The seventh inning proved a blank for both teams. Brill, however, managed to reach second, while Roxley was pitched out in one-two-three order by Dudley. "Well, Dudley held them down that time," remarked Dick Rover. "I hope he manages to keep the good work up." "Yes, but a pitcher can't win a ball game alone," answered Chester Waltham. "You've got to have some good batters." "Go to it, Brill! Go to it! This is your lucky inning!" yelled Tom, enthusiastically. "Get busy, everybody!" In the eighth inning the first man up for Brill went out on a pop fly. But then came a fine hit that took the next player safely to second. Then Sam walked to the plate. "That's the way to do it, Brill!" "Now, Rover, hit it for all you are worth!" It must be confessed that Sam felt a trifle nervous, so anxious was he to make some sort of a showing. He swung his ashen stick at the first ball pitched. "Strike one!" came from the umpire. "Take your time, Sam!" yelled Tom. "Make him give it to you where you want it!" Whether Sam heard the cry or not it would be hard to say, but he let the next ball go by, and then repeated this action. "Ball two!" called the umpire. "Oh, say! That was all right!" grumbled the Roxley catcher. "What do you want?" "Too far out," returned the umpire sharply, and then added: "Play ball!" The next one was a straight drive, and Sam swung at it with all the strength and skill he possessed. Crack! The ashen stick hit the leather, and the sphere went sailing far down into center field. "Go it, Rover, go it!" "Come on in, Orben!" Paul Orben, who had been the player to reach second, was already streaking up to third, and by the time Sam reached first Paul was legging it for the home plate. "Throw that ball up here! Throw that ball up!" yelled the second baseman to the center fielder, who was still chasing after the bouncing leather. Then amid a cloud of dust Paul slid in over the home plate while Sam, having reached second, was legging it rapidly for third. Up came the ball from the field to second, and then to third, but before it got there the youngest Rover was safely clutching the bag. "Whoop! Hurrah! That's the way to do it! One run in and another on the way." "Keep it up, Brill! You've struck your winning streak!" "Oh, dear! I do hope Sam can bring that run in!" came from Grace. "It might have been a home run if he had only run a little faster," remarked Chester Waltham. "Faster!" retorted Tom, quickly. "Why, he legged it like greased lightning! Most players would have gotten only two bags out of that hit." Following this batting came another out, but then the next man up managed to reach first, and amid a wild cheering on the part of the Brillites, and a loud tooting of horns, Sam rushed over the home plate. "Hurrah! Hurrah! Another run!" "That makes the score four to five!" "Keep up the good work, Brill!" But that was the end of the run getting for the time being. Then Roxley came to the bat, and amid the most intense feeling Jack Dudley managed to pitch out three men in succession and the score went up on the board: Brill 4--Roxley 5. "Now, fellows, this is our last chance," said Bob, as the team came in for the ninth inning. "Remember, one run will tie the score and two runs may win the game. Now every man up on the job." The first batter for Brill in the ninth inning was plainly nervous. He let two good balls go by and thereby had two strikes called on him. Then he made a wild pass at the next ball, knocking a short foul which the first baseman for Roxley gathered in by a sensational running leap. "One man gone! One man gone!" chanted the Roxley followers. "Now, then, get the other two." "Take your time, boys, take your time," cried Bob. "Make them give you just what you want." This advice was heeded, and as a result the next man got to first and on another one-base hit managed to reach third. Then came a one-bag drive that brought in a run and took the man on first to second. "Hurrah! Hurrah! That ties the score!" "Keep it up, Brill! Bring in all the runs you can!" Following the bringing in of the tying run, there came some field play between the pitcher and the basemen, and as a result the man who had reached first was called out trying to steal second. In the mean time the other runner tried to steal home, but had to stay on third. "Be careful, boys, be careful," pleaded Bob, and then a few seconds later came another base hit which brought in another run. "Good! Good! That's the way to do it, Brill!" "That makes the score six to five in favor of Brill!" "Bring in half a dozen more while you are at it!" "Hold them down. Don't let them get another run," pleaded the captain of Roxley's nine to his men. "We're going to make a dozen more," announced Tom Rover, gaily. But this was not to be, and a few minutes later the inning came to an end with the score standing: Brill 6--Roxley 5. "Now, then, Roxley, one run to tie the score and two to win the game!" was the cry from the visitors. "Lam out a couple of homers!" "Show 'em where the back fence is!" In that ninth inning Roxley came to the bat with a "do-or-die" look. "Now watch yourself, Dudley," whispered Bob to the pitcher. "Don't let them rattle you." "They are not going to rattle me," answered Dudley. Yet it was plainly to be seen that the sophomore was nervous, and that the strain of the situation was beginning to tell upon him. Nevertheless, amid a wild cheering on the part of Brill, he struck out the first man up. "That's the way to do it, Brill!" "It's all over but the shouting!" shrieked one Brill sympathizer. "Not much! Here is where we make half a dozen runs!" yelled a Roxleyite. The next batter up was a notoriously hard hitter. Dudley was afraid to give him something easy, and as a consequence the pitcher had four balls called on him and the batter went to first. Then came a drive to center field which took the man on first to second, while the batter reached first with ease. "That's the way to do it, Roxley! Now you've got 'em going!" With only one man out and two men on bases, Jack Dudley was more nervous than ever. Yet Bob did not have the heart to take him out of the box, and, besides, he had no pitcher on hand who was any better. "Hold 'em down, Dudley! Hold 'em down!" pleaded the captain. "Don't feed 'em any easy ones." And the pitcher nodded grimly, being too nervous to even answer. A ball was called and then a strike. Then Dudley fed the batter a straight one. Crack! The ashen stick met the sphere and sent it along just inside the third base line. "Run! Everybody run!" was the yell from the Roxley contingent, and while the batter dropped his stick and sped toward first, the man on that bag legged it for second and the man on second rushed madly toward third. For one brief instant it looked as if one, and possibly two, runs would be scored. But then, Sam, playing a little off third, made a wild leap into the air and pulled down the ball. Next, like a flash, he tagged the man sliding in toward the third bag. [Illustration: SAM MADE A WILD LEAP INTO THE AIR AND PULLED DOWN THE BALL.] "Batter out! Runner out!" announced the umpire. "Hurrah! Hurrah! Brill wins the game!" "Say! that was a dandy catch by Rover, wasn't it?" "Yes. And how neatly he put that runner out, too!" And then as the score, Brill 6--Roxley 5, was placed on the big board a wild yelling, tooting of horns, and sounding of rattles rent the air. Once more Brill had vanquished its old opponent. And everybody said that Sam Rover was the hero of the occasion. CHAPTER XVIII GOOD-BYE TO BRILL The celebration at Brill that evening was one long to be remembered. Bonfires blazed along the river front, and the students marched around them, and around the campus and the college buildings, singing songs and having a good time generally. The others had insisted that the Rovers take part in these festivities, and so the boys had taken the girls to Hope, where Dora and Nellie were to remain until the next day. "I must say I am mighty glad I came," said Dick to his brothers, as he surveyed the shouting and marching students. "This certainly takes me back to the days when I was here." "I'm going in for some fun," announced Tom, and was soon in the midst of the activities. The students played jokes on William Philander Tubbs, old Filbury, and on a number of others, and the fun-loving Rover helped them all he could. An attempt was also made to get the captured banners of the freshmen and sophomores from Sam's room, but this failed. "The boys are rather noisy to-night," said one of the professors to Dr. Wallington. "I agree with you, sir," returned the head of Brill, "but then they have something to be noisy about. Their victory was certainly well earned," and the doctor smiled indulgently. Many had come forward to congratulate Sam on his fine work in putting through a double play unassisted in the last inning. "It saved the day for Brill," announced Stanley, and many agreed with him. The great game had taken place on Saturday afternoon, so, as the next day was Sunday, Sam could do as he pleased. The Rovers had an early breakfast, and then lost no time in riding over to the seminary, where they found the others waiting for them. "Oh, Sam, your playing was simply wonderful!" declared Grace, as she beamed on him. "How you ever caught that fly in the last inning is beyond me." "Yes, and what do you think?" put in Grace's sister. "Mr. Waltham said he thought it was quite an ordinary play--that any good, all-around player could have done what Sam did!" "Maybe he was a bit jealous of Sam," was Dora's comment, and as she spoke she looked rather keenly at Grace, who, of a sudden, blushed deeply. "I suppose Waltham brought his sister and those girls back here last evening," said Sam. "Oh, yes," answered Nellie, "and they insisted that we join them in a little treat. Mr. Waltham drove down to Ashton for some ice cream, fancy crackers and candy, and we had quite a spread under the trees. It certainly was very nice of him to do it." "I suppose he's got so much money he doesn't know what to do with it," was Dick's comment. "He was asking me about that tour that we propose taking this summer," said Dora. "He added that he and his sister and maybe others were going to take a tour in his new car, but he hadn't decided on where they were going, and he thought it might be rather jolly if he joined our touring party." "Humph! I don't see----" began Sam, and then broke off suddenly. "It would be lovely to have Ada along," said Grace. "She is a splendid girl, and we've become quite chummy since Nellie and Dora went away." "Well, we haven't any time to settle about that tour just now," announced Dick. "Our train leaves in a couple of hours and you girls have got to pack up before we start for the Ashton depot." The mention of Chester Waltham, along with the fact that he might join them on their proposed automobile tour, put rather a damper on Sam's feelings. He acted very soberly, and his remarks to Grace were not half as cordial as they usually were. Evidently Sam's "nose was out of joint," although he was not willing to admit it, even to himself. All drove down to the Ashton depot, and there Sam and Grace said good-bye to the others, who were going on to the home farm at Valley Brook and then to New York City. On the return to the seminary Sam had hoped to have a long talk and an understanding with Grace, but unfortunately two girls turned up who wished to get back to Hope, and there was nothing for the Rover boy to do but to invite them to ride along, so that the confidential talk between them had to be abandoned. After the great ball game matters quieted down at Brill. All of the seniors were hard at work getting ready for the final examinations, which would start on the week following. "If you make as good a showing in the examinations as you made on the ball field, you sure will prove a winner," declared Bob to Sam one day. "Well, I'm going to do my level best, Bob," was the reply. "You see, neither Dick nor Tom had a chance to graduate, so I've got to make a showing for the entire family." During those days nothing further had been heard regarding Blackie Crowden or the missing money. Sam and Songbird had met Belright Fogg once on the streets of Ashton, but the lawyer had marched past without deigning to speak to them. "He's a foxy customer," was the comment of the would-be poet of Brill. "If he had anything to do with Blackie Crowden, he'll try his level best to keep it to himself." At last the examinations began. They were to continue for the best part of two weeks, and during that time Sam cut out all sports and confined himself to his studies with greater diligence than ever. He had several important papers to hand in, and he worked over these early and late, rewriting and polishing until there seemed to be absolutely nothing more that could be done. Songbird also was busy, for in addition to his studies and themes he had been asked by the class to write a poem in honor of the coming occasion. "I only wish I could write something that would bring in some cash," remarked the would-be poet one afternoon. Although he had not apprised Sam of that fact, Songbird had copied off several of his best poems and sent them to various publishers, hoping that they might prove acceptable and bring in some money which he might turn over to Mr. Sanderson as an evidence of what he hoped to do in the future. So far, however, he had not heard from any of the poems but one, which had been promptly returned. At last came the day when the examinations ended. All the themes written by the students had been handed in, and Sam found himself free to do as he pleased. He at once sought Grace by means of the telephone, hoping to get her to take an automobile ride with him. "I am sorry," she answered over the wire, "but I have still another examination to take and a theme to finish, so I don't dare to think of going out." "How have you made out so far?" questioned the youth. "I don't know, Sam. Sometimes I think I have done very well, and then again I am afraid that I missed a great many things. How did you make out?" "Oh, I think I'll pass, but how high up I don't know. I am hoping for great things, but I may be mistaken." And there the conversation had to come to an abrupt end, for a professor came in to use the Brill telephone. It must be confessed that Sam slept rather uneasily on the night before the morning on which the announcement concerning each student's standing was to be made. "I'm scared to death," came from Spud. "I missed a whole lot of questions." "So did I," put in Paul. "And I boned hard too," he added dismally. Finally came the announcement. Out of a class of sixty-five seniors, sixty-two had passed. Sam's name was at the head of the list with a percentage of ninety-seven; Songbird came fourth with a percentage of ninety-three; Spud had ninety-one, and Stanley the same; while Paul, William Philander Tubbs and a number of others were listed at from eighty to eighty-eight per cent. "Sam, allow me to congratulate you!" cried Songbird, as he came up to wring his friend's hand. "You certainly made a splendid showing." "You made a pretty good showing yourself," answered Sam, his face beaming. "Your folks will be mighty glad to hear of this," went on the would-be poet of Brill. "Why don't you telegraph to them?" "Just what I'm going to do," answered the Rover boy. "And I'm going to telephone to Hope, too," he added. "That's the talk. I wish I could telephone over to the Sandersons." "Never mind, Songbird, I'll drive you over there when I drive to the seminary," replied Sam. The days to follow were delightful ones for Sam. True to his promise, he took Songbird over to the Sanderson homestead and then visited Grace. The girl had passed third from the top of her class and was correspondingly delighted. "We had such dreadfully hard questions I thought I should never get through," she confessed to the youth when they were alone. "And you came out on top, Sam. Oh, it's wonderful--simply wonderful!" and she caught both his hands. "Well, I'm glad--glad for myself and glad for you, Grace," he answered, and looked her full in the eyes. She looked at him in return and blushed prettily. "Oh, Mr. Rover, allow me to congratulate you," came from somebody near by, and Ada Waltham came tripping up. "Grace told me all about your wonderful showing." "Ada made a splendid showing herself," answered Grace, before Sam could speak. "I was one point behind Grace," answered the rich girl, "and that certainly was wonderful for me. I never was very keen about studying--in fact, I didn't want to go to college, only I had to do it if I wanted to inherit the money that my uncle left me." "Oh, Sam! and to think our days of studying are over at last!" burst out Grace. "I can scarcely believe it." "I can't believe it myself, Grace," he answered. "It seems to me I've been going to school all my life. Just think of the years and years I put in at Putnam Hall Military Academy before I came to Brill!" "Yes, and to think of the years I put in at the Cedarville school before I came to Hope," returned Grace. "Now it is all over I feel quite old," and she laughed merrily. As was the usual custom, it had been decided that graduation exercises at Hope should take place two days before those at Brill, which would give ample opportunity for those desiring to do so to attend both functions. "My folks are all coming to the graduations," announced Grace, a day or two after the conversation just recorded. "Yes, and my folks will all be on hand," answered Sam. "Even Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha are coming. Dear, old Aunt Martha!" he said. "She has been a regular mother to us boys ever since I can remember. I'm awfully glad she will be present, and I'll be mighty glad to have Uncle Randolph too, not to say anything about dear, old dad." After that there seemed to be so much to do and so many things to think about that time sped with amazing swiftness. The Rovers and the Lanings had engaged rooms at the leading hotel in Ashton, and arrived on the day previous to the graduation exercises at Hope. "Tell you what, education is a great thing!" remarked Mr. John Laning when speaking of the matter to Mr. Rover. "I didn't have much of a chance at it when I was a boy--I had to go out and scrap for a living--but I'm mighty glad that I had the means to give the girls the learning they've got." "You're right--it is a great thing," answered Mr. Anderson Rover. "I am only sorry now that Dick and Tom didn't have the chance to graduate as well as Sam. But, you know, I was very sick and somebody had to look after our business affairs. And what those boys have done for me is simply wonderful!" "The greatest boys that ever lived," announced Randolph Rover. "They used to bother the life out of me with their fun and noise, but now that they have settled down and made men of themselves I forgive them for all the annoyances." Sam's father had brought for him as a graduation present a very fine diamond scarf pin, while his uncle and aunt presented him with a handsomely engraved cardcase and Dick and the others brought him a ring set with a ruby. Grace's folks and the others had also brought several gifts of value for the girl, and to these Sam added a bracelet and the finest bouquet of flowers he could obtain in Ashton. The graduation exercises at Hope were exceedingly pretty. All the girls were dressed in white, and they formed a beautiful picture as they stood in a long line to receive their diplomas. The onlookers clapped vigorously, but no one with more fervor than did Sam when Grace received her roll. The exercises were followed by a reception that evening at which the fair girl graduates shone as they never had before. "And now for the big event at Brill!" said Dick, when on the way back to Ashton that evening. "Sam, aren't you a bit sorry to leave the old college?" "I certainly am, Dick. At the same time, now that you and Tom have buckled down to business, I feel that I ought to be doing likewise." "Yes, but all of you young folks are going on that tour first," announced the boys' father. "I think you have earned it, and I want you to have it. I'll supply all the funds necessary, and I'll see to it that everything goes right at the office while you are away." Never had Brill been so crowded as it was at those graduation exercises. Every seat in the college hall was occupied, and every doorway and open window held its group of eager onlookers. The Rover family had seats almost in the center of the auditorium, and all of the Lanings were with them. "Oh, it's grand! just grand!" murmured Aunt Martha, as she saw Sam and the rest of the senior class gathering. "Oh! how proud I am of that boy!" and the tears coursed freely down her cheeks. The valedictory address had been written by Sam and was delivered by the class orator, Stanley. This was followed by a class poem written by Songbird and delivered by a student named Wells. Sam's valedictory was received with loud clapping of hands. "A well written paper--very well written, indeed," was Dr. Wallington's comment, and a great number of visitors agreed with him. Songbird had worked hard over his class poem, which contained many allusions to local matters, and was received with many smiles and expressions of good humor. "Songbird is certainly becoming something of a poet," was Dick's comment. "If he keeps on, some day he'll become the simon-pure article." At last it was over, and Sam, with his sheepskin rolled up and tied with a ribbon, joined his folks. His father was the first to congratulate him, and then came old Aunt Martha, who wept freely as she embraced him. "I'm proud of you, Sam, proud of you!" she said, in a voice trembling with emotion. "What a pity your own mother couldn't be here to see you! But the good Lord willed it otherwise, so we must be content." "Sam, you've certainly done the family proud this day," announced his oldest brother. "To graduate at the top of the class is going some." "Well, I've got to do something for the Rover name," said the happy youth, modestly. There was another reception that night, and again the bonfires blazed along the bank of the river. The undergraduates "cut loose" as usual, but those who were to leave Brill forever were a trifle sober. "It's been a fine old college to go to," was Dick's comment. "You're right there, Dick," came from Tom. "A fine place, indeed!" "The best in the world!" answered Sam. He drew a deep breath. "No matter where I go in this old world of ours, I'll never forget my days at Brill." CHAPTER XIX GETTING READY FOR THE TOUR "And now for the grand tour!" "That's the talk, Sam! We ought to have the best time ever," returned his brother Tom. "Just to think of such an outing makes me feel five years younger," came from Dick Rover. "I like work as well as any one, but a fellow has got to break away once in a while." "And to think we are going away out to Colorado Springs and Pike's Peak!" burst out Dora. "And all the way in our automobiles!" added Nellie. "I hope we don't have any breakdowns." "So it's decided that we are to start Monday morning, is it?" asked Dick's wife. "Yes, Dora, provided it is clear," answered Sam. "Of course there is no use of our starting our trip in a storm. We'll probably get enough rain while we are on the way." "Look here, Sam, don't be a wet blanket!" cried Tom, catching his younger brother by the shoulder and whirling him around. "This trip is going to be perfectly clear from end to end. I've ordered nothing but sunshine and moonlight," and at this remark there was a general laugh. The young folks were assembled on the lawn in front of the old Rover homestead at Valley Brook. About two weeks had passed since Grace and Sam had graduated, and during that time the various arrangements for taking the tour to the West had been completed by the Rover boys. In the meantime, Fourth of July had been spent in Cedarville, at the Laning homestead, where all had had a glorious time. "I'm awfully sorry that Songbird and Minnie can't go with us on this trip," remarked Dick, "but I know exactly how poor Songbird feels." "Yes, he told me he felt he had to go to work," returned Sam. "He wants to do his best to earn that four thousand dollars." "That's some job for a fellow just out of college to undertake," was Tom's comment. "What is he going to do for a living?" "He has had a place offered to him by his uncle. He is to start at fifteen dollars a week, and he says his uncle will advance him as soon as he learns something about the business." "They haven't heard any more about that Blackie Crowden or the missing money?" questioned Nellie. "Not a word. And it looks to me now as if they never would hear anything." "More than likely that fellow has got out of the country," was Dick's comment. "Especially if he has learned that the police are after him." "Oh, you can't tell about that," broke in Tom. "He may be hiding within a mile or two of where the crime was committed." It had been decided that the touring party should take two automobiles--that belonging to the Rovers and a new machine which was the property of Mrs. Stanhope, Dora's widowed mother. The party was to consist of Dick and Tom and their wives, Sam and Grace and Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning. Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha had also been invited to go along, but both had declined, stating that they preferred to remain on the farm. "I have some important scientific data on farming to gather," had been Randolph Rover's explanation, "and, besides that, I must oversee the building of that new addition to the house;" for since the marriage of Dick and Tom it had been decided to build a large wing on the old homestead, so that the young folks might be accommodated there whenever they cared to make a visit. Aleck Pop, the faithful old colored servant of the Rovers, was still at the farm, as was Jack Ness, the man of all work, and both did all they could to aid the boys and girls to get ready for the tour. "It's most won'erful how you young gen'lemen has done growed up," was Aleck Pop's comment. "It don't seem no time at all sence you all was boys at Putnam Hall," and he grinned broadly, showing a mouthful of ivories. "And to think two of 'em are married now and settled down!" added Jack Ness. "I can't hardly believe it. First thing you know we'll have a lot of young Rovers runnin' around this farm." "Well, if they is any young Robers aroun' yere, I's gwine to serve 'em jest like I served the others," answered Aleck Pop, and then went off, nodding his head vigorously to himself. The only drawback to the proposed tour, so far as Sam was concerned, was the fact that Chester Waltham and his sister Ada were going to accompany them as far as Colorado Springs. Then the Walthams proposed to continue to the Pacific Coast, while the Rovers were to return to the East. "Are those two people going in a big touring car all by themselves?" questioned Sam, when he heard of this arrangement. "They are not going to take the touring car, Sam," answered Grace. "Ada wrote me that her brother had purchased a new runabout--a very speedy and comfortable car--and they are going to use that instead." "Humph! I don't see why they had to stick themselves in with our crowd," grumbled the youngest Rover. "Why didn't they take the trip by themselves?" "Well, maybe I am to blame for that," answered Grace. "I told Ada all about our proposed trip, and said I was sorry that she couldn't go with us. You must remember she treated me very nicely while we were at the seminary, especially after Dora and Nellie left." "Oh, I don't object to Ada," answered Sam. "Just the same, I think it would be nicer if we could go off by ourselves. Chester Waltham and his sister don't seem to fit in with us exactly." "Well, I think Chester Waltham is a very nice young man, and certainly he has given me some splendid rides," answered Grace, and then walked off to join the others, leaving Sam to do some thinking which was not altogether agreeable. The start was to be made from the farm, and the Walthams had written that they would be on hand early, stopping for the night at the hotel in Cornville, some miles away. On the Friday before the Monday set for the start, all three of the Rover boys went down to New York City, to the offices of the newly formed Rover Company in Wall Street. They found their father in charge, and also several assistants, and everything seemed to be in good running order. Dick and Tom went over a number of business matters with their parent, and Mr. Rover declared that he could get along very well without the boys for at least a month or six weeks. After the visit to the offices Dick and Tom took Sam up to their apartments on Riverside Drive, where they packed a number of things wanted by themselves and Dora and Nellie. "Certainly a beautiful location," remarked Sam, as he walked to one of the front windows, to gaze out on the Hudson River. "It certainly is a fine place, Sam," answered Tom, "and Nellie and I enjoy it just as much as Dick and Dora do." Tom looked at his younger brother questioningly. "I suppose now that you have graduated, Sam, you and Grace will be joining us here some day?" "I don't know about that, Tom." Sam's face flushed painfully. "You see I--I----" and then he broke off, unable to proceed. "You don't mean there is anything wrong between you and Grace, do you?" demanded the brother, coming closer. Dick had gone to another room and so was out of hearing. "I can't say that anything is wrong exactly, Tom," returned Sam, hesitatingly. "You see, I--I----" "Is it that Chester Waltham?" demanded the other, quickly. Sam nodded. "Of course I can't blame him, and I can't blame Grace, for the matter of that. It isn't every girl who gets the chance to marry a young millionaire." "What! Has he proposed to her?" cried Tom. "Oh, no, I don't think that, Tom. But he has been very friendly." "Well, I wouldn't stand for it, Sam. I think Grace ought to marry you, and I would tell her so and have it settled." "That's all well enough to say, Tom. But just the same I haven't any right to stand in her light. I haven't got any such money to offer her as this millionaire----" "Rot! You've got enough money to make any girl comfortable, and that is all that is necessary. You go on in and win!" and Tom clapped his younger brother on the shoulder encouragingly. Then Dick entered, along with a maid left to take care of the apartments, and the talk came to an end. While the boys were doing this, the girls had gone to Cedarville, and there assisted Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning in getting ready for the tour. Dora's mother had a hired chauffeur to run her car, and this man was to bring the party to Valley Brook in the Stanhope machine. "I am very glad you are going, Mother," said Dora to her parent. "I am sure this trip will do you a world of good." For Mrs. Stanhope was not in the best of health and sometimes grew quite nervous when left too long to herself. "It will be a wonderful trip, no doubt," answered the mother, "and I am sure I shall enjoy it greatly, especially with all you young folks along to brighten matters up." "It will certainly be a wonderful tour for me," declared Mrs. Laning, who had always been more or less of a home body. "Gracious! Why, I can remember when I used to think a trip of ten or twenty miles on the steam cars was wonderful. Now just to think of our going hundreds and hundreds of miles in an automobile!" "The most wonderful part of it to me is that we can afford to have you take such a trip as that, Mother," chuckled John Laning. "Sakes alive! when I was a young man the height of my ambition was to own about fifty acres free and clear, along with a couple of horses and half a dozen cows. And now look at us--here we own over three hundred acres, got over fifty head of cattle, over two thousand chickens, and the finest orchards in this part of the state. I tell you we've got a lot to be thankful for," he added with great satisfaction. "But I'll miss you, John, while I'm away," said his faithful wife. "Don't you worry about me, Mother. I'd just as lief stay here and see all them big crops a-comin' in," announced the farmer. "That's fun enough for me. You go ahead with the young people and enjoy yourself. You've been in harness long enough and you deserve it." Mr. Laning had had his ears wide open during the visit of his daughters and Dora, and before his wife and the others left for Valley Brook he called Mrs. Laning aside. "What's this I hear about Grace going out with a young millionaire named Waltham?" he asked, curiously. "I can't tell you much more than what you've already heard, John," she answered. "I thought Grace had her eyes set on Sam Rover," went on the husband, looking sharply at his wife. "That is what I thought myself. But it seems this young millionaire has been calling on his sister at Hope, and he's been taking his sister and Grace out in his automobile and acting very nicely about it. Grace seems to be quite taken with him." "Huh! A young millionaire, eh? Maybe he's only amusing himself with her. You had better caution her about him." "No, John, I don't think that would do any good. In fact, it might do a great deal of harm," declared the wife. "Grace is old enough to know what she is doing." "Yes, but if she has made some promises to Sam Rover----" "I am not sure that she has made any promises. Sam has been very attentive to her,--but just because Tom married Nellie is no reason why Grace should marry Sam." "Oh, I know that. But, somehow, I thought they had it all settled between 'em, and I certainly like Sam. He's a nice, clean-cut boy." "Yes. I like Sam, too." Mrs. Laning heaved a deep sigh. "But, just the same, we had better not interfere. You know how it was when we got married," and she looked fondly at her husband. "You bet I do!" he returned, and then put his arm over her shoulder and kissed her gently. "Well, let us hope it all comes out for the best," he added, and walked off to go to work. CHAPTER XX A MOMENT OF PERIL "This is the life!" "That's right, Tom. This kind of touring suits me to death," returned Sam Rover. "Tom, how many miles an hour are you making?" broke in his wife. "Remember what you promised me--that you would keep within the limit of the law." "And that is just what I am doing, Nellie," he answered. "But it's mighty hard to do it, believe me, when you are at the wheel of such a fine auto as this. Why, I could send her ahead twice as fast if I wanted to!" "Don't you dare!" burst out Grace, who sat in the tonneau beside her sister. "If you do I'll make you let Sam drive." "He's got to let me drive anyway after dinner," said the youngest Rover boy. "That's the arrangement." It was the second day of the tour, and Valley Brook Farm, and in fact the whole central portion of New York State, had been left far behind. The weather had turned out perfect, and so far they had encountered very little in the way of bad roads. Once they had had to make a detour of two miles on account of a new bridge being built, but otherwise they had forged straight ahead. Tom and his wife, with Grace and Sam, occupied the first automobile, the remaining space in the roomy tonneau being taken up by various suitcases and other baggage. Behind this car came the one driven by Dick Rover. Beside him was his wife, with Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning behind them. Some distance to the rear was the third machine, a brand-new runabout, containing Chester Waltham and his sister Ada. Waltham had at first wished to take the lead, but had then dropped behind, stating he did not wish to get the others to follow him on any wrong road. "You go ahead," he had said to the Rovers. "Then if you go wrong you will have only yourselves to blame." "Well, we don't know any more about these roads than you do, Waltham," Dick had replied. "We are simply going by the guide book and the signs." "I hate to use up my brains studying an automobile guide," Chester Waltham had returned with a yawn. "When I am on an outing I like to take it just as easy as I possibly can." "It's a wonder you didn't bring a paid chauffeur along," had been Sam's comment. "I thought something of doing that, but my sister objected. She said if she was to go along I must run the car. You see, she wants me to risk my neck as well as her own," and the young millionaire had smiled grimly. They had been running for several miles over a road that was comparatively straight. On either side were tidy farms, with occasional farmhouses and barns. Now, however, the road became winding, and they soon passed into a patch of timber. "Four miles to the next town," announced Sam, as they rolled past a signboard. He looked at his watch. "Quarter after eleven. Do you think we had better stop there for dinner, Tom?" "No, we are going on to Fernwood, six miles farther," was the reply. "They say the hotel there is much better. And, believe me, when you get away from the big cities the best hotel you can find in a town is none too good." It had been rather warm on the open road, and all those in the automobiles welcomed the shade of the woods. "It's a pity we didn't bring our lunch along," said Dora to Dick, as they moved along at a slower rate of speed. "We could have had a good time picnicking along here." "Yes, we'll have to dine out in the woods sometimes on this trip," put in Mrs. Laning. "I like that sort of thing much better than taking all our meals in hotels or restaurants." The first automobile had reached a spring by the roadside, and here Tom came to a halt, presently followed by the others. Collapsible cups were handy, and all were ready for a drink of the pure, cool water which the spring afforded. "Fine! isn't it?" exclaimed Dick, after the ladies had been served and he had had a cupful himself. "You're right," answered Tom. "A good deal better than that bottled water we have down in the New York offices." "But it can't beat the water on the farm," said Sam. "I must say no matter where I go the water doesn't taste quite as good as that at Valley Brook." "Oh, that's only sentiment, Sam!" cried Grace. "Now, I think the water at Cedarville is just lovely." "I think you are taking a little chance in drinking from a spring like this," was Chester Waltham's comment. "It may be pure, and then again it may be full of all sorts of germs." "Sure! it may be full of tadpoles and bullfrogs, too," added Tom, gaily. "But you've got to take some chances in this life, as the fly said when he flew down into the molasses jug and got stuck there," and at this little joke there was a general smile. Beyond the spring the road went uphill for a long distance, and then took a turn to the southward, past more farms and over a bridge spanning a tiny stream. Then they came to a small town, looking dry, dusty and almost deserted in the midday, summer sun. "I am glad we didn't arrange to stop here," was Nellie's comment, as she glanced around. The sleepy little town was soon left behind, and once again they found themselves passing over a series of hills, dotted here and there with farms and patches of woodland. Then they came to a place which was very uneven and filled with rocks. "Got to be careful here unless we want to get a puncture," announced Tom, and at once reduced speed. They were running on another winding road which seemed to bear off to the northward. Here there was something of a cliff, with great, rocky boulders standing out in bold relief. Suddenly, as Tom reached a bend, he saw a man coming towards them. He was an Italian, and carried a small red flag in one hand. "Back! You-a git-a back!" cried the man, waving his red flag at them. "Blas'! Blas'! You git-a back!" The grade was downward and the man had appeared so suddenly that before Tom could bring the first automobile to a standstill he had gotten at least a hundred feet beyond the Italian, while the second car, run by Dick, was by the man's side. "What's the trouble here?" demanded Dick. "You git-a back! You git-a back!" exclaimed the Italian, frantically. "Blas' go off! You git-a back!" "Hi, Tom, come back here!" yelled Dick. "This fellow says there is a blast going off." Tom was already trying to heed the warning. He had stopped so suddenly, however, that he had stalled his engine and now he had to take time in which to use the electric starter. In the meanwhile, the Italian workman ran still farther back, to warn Chester Waltham and anybody else who might be coming along the road. "Oh, Tom! can you turn around?" questioned his wife anxiously. "Maybe you had better run the car backward," suggested Sam. He had noted the narrowness of the roadway and knew it would be no easy matter to turn around in such limited space. Besides that, there was a deep gully on one side, so that they would run the risk of overturning. "Yes, I'll back if Dick will only give me room," muttered Tom, as he pressed the lever of the self-starter. Then after the power was once more generated he threw in the reverse gear and allowed the car to back up. "That's the way to do it, Tom," yelled Dick. "Come on, I'll get out of the way," and he, too, began to back until he was close on to the Waltham runabout. "Look out! Don't bump into me!" yelled Chester Waltham, who for the moment seemed to be completely bewildered by what was taking place. "What's the matter anyway?" he demanded of the Italian. "Oh, Chester, there must be some danger!" shrieked his sister. "Say! they are both backing up. Maybe you had better back up too." "All right, if that's what they want," answered the young millionaire, and then in his hurry tried to reverse so quickly that he, too, stalled his engine. "Back up! Back up!" called out Dick. "We've got to get out of here! There is some sort of blasting going on ahead!" "Oh, Dick, be careful!" cried Mrs. Stanhope, and sprang up in the tonneau of the car in alarm, quickly followed by Mrs. Laning. "You will run into Mr. Waltham, sure!" wailed the latter. "Don't smash into me! Don't smash into me!" yelled the young millionaire in sudden terror. "If you bump into me you'll send me into the ditch!" By this time Dick's car was less than three feet away from the runabout, while Tom's machine was still some distance farther up the road. Boom! There was a distant explosion, not very loud; and following this came a clatter as of stones falling on the rocks. None of the stones, however, fell anywhere near the three machines. "Oh!" cried Grace. "Is that all there is to it?" queried Nellie, anxiously. "I don't know," returned Tom. He had now brought his automobile once more to a standstill. All in the three machines waited for a moment. Then they gazed enquiringly at the Italian who stood behind them. "Say, is that all the blasting there is?" demanded Chester Waltham. "Dat's heem," responded the foreigner. "He go off all right, boss. You go," and he waved the stick of his flag for them to proceed. "Some scare--and all for nothing," muttered Tom. "The way he carried on you would think they were going to shake down half of yonder cliff." "Oh, Tom, they don't dare to take chances," returned Nellie. "Why, if we had gone on we might have been showered with those stones we heard falling." "You fellows want to be careful how you back up," grumbled Chester Waltham. "You came pretty close to smashing into me." "Well, you should have backed up yourself when you heard us yell," retorted Dick, sharply. "We didn't know how bad that blast was going to be." Tom had already started forward, and in a moment more Dick and Chester Waltham followed. But hardly had they done this when the Italian on the road suddenly let out another yell. "Boss! Boss! You-a stop!" he cried. "You-a stop queek! De two-a blas'! You-a stop!" and he danced up and down in added alarm. Those who had gone on paid no attention to him, and an instant later passed around a corner of the cliff. As they did this they saw a man on the open hillside waving his arm and shouting something they could not understand. "Tom, something is wrong----" began Sam, when, of a sudden, his words were swallowed up in a fierce roar and rumble that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them. They saw a flash of fire in an opening of the cliff, and the next instant a burst of flames and smoke was followed by a rain of rocks all around them! CHAPTER XXI NEWS OF BLACKIE CROWDEN It was a moment of extreme peril, and what made it seem worse was the fact that the Rovers and the others could do nothing to save themselves. Rocks, small stones and dirt flew all around them, striking with loud noises the hoods and other metal parts of the automobiles, and even landing in the tonneaus of the larger cars. "Hold up the robes! Protect yourselves with the robes!" yelled Dick, but before the ladies could heed his words the rain of rocks, small stones and dirt had come to an end. "Great Cæsar! that's a fine happening!" groaned Tom, who had been hit on the shoulder by a fair-sized stone. He looked quickly at those in the car with him. "Any of you hurt?" "I got hit in the head with something," returned Sam. "But it didn't hurt very much. How about you?" and he looked at Grace and at Tom's wife. "I--I don't think I am hurt any," faltered Grace, as she looked at some stones and dirt on the robe over her lap. "I'm all right," answered Tom's wife. "But, oh dear! something--I think it must have been a big stone--flew directly past my face!" "I hope the others got off as well as we did," remarked Tom. "Let us go and see," and, suiting the action to the word, he left the machine, followed by his brother. The second car had a dent in the hood made by a stone as big as Tom's fist. All those in the automobile had been hit by some smaller stones and also covered with loose dirt, but no one had been seriously injured, although Mrs. Laning declared that some of the dirt had entered her left ear and also her eye. "Let me look at that eye," cried Mrs. Stanhope, as soon as she had recovered from the shock of the second blast. And then she went to work on the optic, and presently Mrs. Laning declared that the eye was as well as ever. As Chester Waltham and his sister had been farther back on the road, around the turn of the cliff, they had not felt the effects of the second explosion excepting a slight shower of dirt which had covered the front of the runabout. But the young millionaire and his sister were greatly excited, and the former got out of his machine to run up to the Italian with the red flag and shake his fist in the man's face. "You--you rascal!" he spluttered. "What do you mean by sending us into such peril as this? You ought to be put into prison!" "I-a, I-a forget heem," faltered the foreigner helplessly. "I tink only one blas'. I forget two blas'," and he looked very downhearted. But this time the man who had been up on the hillside came running to the scene of the mishap, followed by several of the workmen. "Anybody hurt?" sang out the man, who was an American in charge of the blasting gang. "Nothing very serious," answered Dick. "But it might have been," he added sharply. "You fellows ought to be more careful." "I told Tony to keep everybody back for two blasts," answered the man. "Why didn't you stay back until you heard the second blast?" "He told us to go on," answered Tom. "I make mistake," cried the Italian. "You forgive, boss," and he looked pleadingly at Dick and the others. "Well, you don't want to make any more mistakes like that," returned Dick. "If we had gotten a little closer somebody might have been killed." "That's the second time you have failed to obey orders, Tony," said the gang master, sternly. "You go on up to the shanty and get your time and clear out. I won't have such a careless man as you around." At these words the Italian looked much crestfallen. He began to jabber away in a mixture of English and his own tongue, both to his boss and to our friends. But the boss would not listen to him, and ordered him away, and then he departed, looking decidedly sullen. "I can't do anything with some of these fellows," explained the man in charge of the blasting. "I tell them just what to do, and sometimes they mind me and sometimes they don't. I'm very sorry this thing happened, but I'm thankful at the same time that you got through as well as you did," and he smiled a little. "You're not half as thankful as we are," put in Sam, dryly. "I hope there is no damage done to your cars, but if there is I'm willing to pay for it," went on the man. "A few dents, but I guess that is all," answered Dick, after a look at both the car he was driving and the one run by his brother. "We'll let those go, for we are on a tour and have no time to waste here." "All right, sir, just as you say. But here is my card; I don't want to sneak out of anything for which I'm responsible," continued the man. "If you find anything wrong later on you let me know and I'll fix it up with you." "We ought to sue this fellow for damages!" cried Chester Waltham, wrathfully. "It's an outrage to treat us like this." "Were you hurt in any way?" asked the man, quietly. "We got a lot of dirt and stones on the runabout," growled Waltham. "Oh, Chester! don't quarrel over the matter," entreated his sister, in a low tone. "The man didn't want to do it." "Oh, these follows are too fresh," grumbled the young millionaire. "The authorities ought to take them in hand," and then he reëntered his runabout, looking in anything but a happy mood. "Do you think we can go ahead on this road now?" asked Dick, after a few more words had passed between the Rovers and the man who had the blasting in charge. "I think so," was the reply. "Just wait a few minutes and I'll have my gang of men clear a way for you." He was evidently a fair and square individual who wanted to do the right thing in every particular, and the Rovers could not help but like him. "It was all that Italian's fault," remarked Sam to Tom, while they were waiting for the road to be cleared of the largest of the rocks. "If he had kept us back as he was ordered to do there would have been no trouble." "He looked mighty mad when he went off," was Tom's answer. "If that fellow in charge here doesn't look out, that chap may put up some job on him." Inside of ten minutes the man in charge of the blasting told them they could go ahead, and so on they went as before, with Tom again in the lead. As they passed by they saw numerous places along the face of the cliff where other blasting had taken place. The man had explained that the work was being done by the contractors in order to widen the road in that vicinity. About a mile and a half beyond the cliff, nestling in the midst of a number of pretty farms, they came to the town of Fernwood, the place at which they were to stop for their midday meal. They had the name of the leading hotel on their list, and found the hostelry a fairly large and comfortable one. "I think we'll want a good washing up after that experience," remarked Dick, when the automobiles had been placed in the hotel garage. "My! but that was a narrow escape!" and he shuddered at the recollection. "You fellows were mighty easy with that man," observed Chester Waltham. "He ought to have been made to suffer for his carelessness." "Well, if you want to sue him, Waltham, you go ahead and do it," said Dick somewhat sharply. He was beginning to like the young millionaire less and less the more he came in contact with him. A table had been reserved for the entire party, and soon the well-cooked meal put even Chester Waltham in better humor. Now that the danger from the blast was a thing of the past, they could afford to smile over the somewhat thrilling experience. "Maybe after this it would be a good idea to ride with the tops up," said Tom. "Only we'd have to make them stone proof as well as rainproof," and at this remark there was a general smile. "Remember, Tom, I'm to be at the wheel this afternoon," announced Sam, who thus far had not had much chance to do any steering on the trip. "All right, little boy, you for the pilot act!" returned his fun-loving brother, gaily. "But remember what the girls told you--no speeding. The law in this state is four and one-eighth miles an hour, except on turning corners, where it is two and one-sixteenth miles," and at this little joke there was a titter from the girls. As it was so warm during the middle of the day, it had been decided that they should not proceed on their tour until about three o'clock. This gave the ladies a chance to rest themselves, something which was particularly satisfying to Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning. "I think I'll take a look around the town," said Tom, after the ladies had gone to one of the upper rooms. "Will you go along?" and he looked enquiringly at his brothers and Chester Waltham. "I am going to write a letter to dad," answered Dick. "I think I'll write a letter myself and enjoy a smoke," came from the young millionaire. "I'm with you, Tom," returned his younger brother. "Let's go out and see if we can't capture a nice box of chocolates for the girls." Tom and Sam were soon on the way. The main street of Fernwood contained less than four blocks of stores, and there was a cross street with half a dozen other establishments. But the place was a railroad center and, consequently, was of quite some importance. Having walked up and down the main street, and procured a box of chocolates and a few other things, the two Rovers wandered off in the direction of the railroad station. A train had just come in, and they watched the passengers alight and then others get aboard. They were particularly interested in the discomfiture of a fat traveling salesman who came puffing up on the platform, a suitcase in each hand, just in time to see the train depart. The fat man was very angry, but this availed him nothing. "It's a shame! a shame!" howled the traveling salesman, as he threw his suitcases down in disgust. "I know that train left at least two minutes ahead of time," he stormed to the station master. "You're wrong there, mister," was the ready answer. "She was a minute late." "Nonsense! Nonsense!" stormed the disappointed individual. "I tell you she left ahead of time. I ought to sue the railroad company for this," and he shook his head savagely. "Gosh! we are up against people who want to sue everybody," was Sam's remark. "That fellow ought to join Chester Waltham, and then they could hire one lawyer to do the whole business." "I might have been here five minutes ago if I hadn't been a fool," stormed the fat salesman, as he looked for comfort at the two Rovers. "That comes from trying to be accommodating. I was headed for this place when down there at the Ludding House I met a fellow who wanted to know how to get to Stockbridge. He stuttered so that it took me about five minutes to find out what he wanted." "Stuttered, did he?" questioned Tom, curiously. "He sure did! He had an awful stutter with a funny little whistle in between. I wish I hadn't waited to listen to him. I might have had that train, confound it!" went on the fat salesman, pulling down his face. "Did you say that fellow stuttered and whistled?" broke in Sam eagerly. "He certainly did." "Will you tell me what kind of a looking man he was?" "Sure!" answered the salesman, and then started to give as good a description of the individual as his recollection would permit. "It must have been Blackie Crowden!" cried the youngest Rover, before the man had finished. "I don't know what his name was," said the salesman. "We want to catch that man the worst way," went on Sam. "Have you any idea where we can find him?" "He asked me the way to Stockbridge, so I suppose he was going there," was the reply. "Where is Stockbridge?" "It's down on the road past the Ludding House. It's about five miles from here." "Do you suppose the man was going to walk it?" "I don't know about that. You must remember I was in a hurry to catch the train. Hang the luck! I wish I hadn't stopped to talk to that man," went on the fat salesman. "And I'm very glad that you did stop to talk to him," returned Sam. He looked at his brother. "Come on, Tom, let us see if we can find Blackie Crowden." CHAPTER XXII ON THE TRAIL The Ludding House was on the side street of the town, about three blocks from the hotel at which our friends were stopping. When the two Rovers arrived there they found the dining-room had just closed and only two men and an elderly woman were in sight. "We are looking for a man who was around here--I think his name was Blackie Crowden," said Sam. "He is a man who stutters very badly." "Oh, yes, I remember that fellow," returned one of the men who worked around the hotel, "He was here for lunch." "Can you tell me where he is now?" "No, I cannot." "That man who stuttered so terribly said something about going to Stockbridge," put in the woman. "Perhaps he was going there." "On foot?" "I don't think so. Most likely he took the stage. That left about ten minutes ago." "Was the man alone?" asked Tom. "I think he was, although I am not sure. He came in during the lunch hour and after that I saw him talking to a salesman who had been staying here--a man who just went off on the train." "You mean a man who went off to catch the train," grinned Tom. "He didn't get it, and he's as mad as a hornet on that account." The two Rovers asked several more questions and found out that the stage which left Fernwood twice a day passed through Stockbridge on its way to Riverview, six miles farther on. "They used to use horses," explained the hotel man, "but last year Jerry Lagger got himself an auto, so he makes the run pretty quick these days." "Come on, Sam, let's get one of our autos and follow that stage," cried Tom, and set off on a run for the other hotel, quickly followed by his brother. They burst in on Dick just as the latter was posting the letter which he had written to their father. "Say! that would be great if it was Blackie Crowden and we could capture him," cried Dick, on hearing what they had to say. "You get the auto ready while I tell the others where we are going." "It's a pity Stockbridge and Riverview are not on our regular tour," was Sam's comment. "Oh, it's just as well," answered Tom. "We may have lots of trouble with this fellow Crowden, and it will be just as well if the girls and the ladies are not in it." One of the touring cars was quickly run to the front of the hotel, and a moment later Dick, who had rushed upstairs to explain matters to the others, came out and joined his brothers. Tom was at the wheel, and he lost no time in speeding up the car, and on they went along the dusty road in the direction of Stockbridge. "I do hope they catch that fellow and get back Mr. Sanderson's money," was Grace's comment, as she watched the departure of the touring car out of one of the upper windows of the hotel. "What's it all about?" asked Ada Waltham, who had not been present when Dick had burst in on the others. She was quickly told and then asked: "Why didn't they take my brother along with them?" "I don't know, I am sure, Ada," answered Grace. "Perhaps he wasn't around." "He was down in the writing-room with Dick." "Well, I am sure I don't know why he isn't with them," was the reply. "I don't think they are treating Chester just right," retorted the rich girl, rather abruptly, and then left the room with her nose tilted high in the air. "What a way to act!" murmured Nellie. "I am afraid that sooner or later we will have some sort of rupture with the Walthams," was Dora's comment. She gave a little sigh. "Too bad! I should hate to have anything happen to spoil this tour." "Well, I don't think the boys treat Chester Waltham just right," returned Grace, somewhat coldly. "They treat him as if he were a stranger--an outsider," and then she, too, left the room, leaving her sister and Dora to gaze at each other questioningly. Along the dusty road sped the touring car, Tom running as rapidly as safety would permit. Soon Fernwood was left far behind and they began to ascend a slight hill. Presently they came to a crossroad, and here they had to stop to study a much-faded signboard, so as to decide which was the proper road to take. Even then, as they continued their way, they were all a little doubtful. "That signboard was so twisted it didn't point right down this road," was Sam's comment. "It would be just like some boys to twist it out of shape just for the fun of sending folks on the wrong road." "Well, I played a joke like that myself, once," confessed Tom. "Then if we are on the wrong road on account of some boys' tricks, Tom, you'll simply be getting paid back for what you did," returned his older brother. Half a mile more was covered, and then the road grew rapidly worse. Tom had slowed down, and was just on the point of stopping when a low hissing sound reached the ears of all. "Good-night!" was Tom's comment. "What is it, Tom, a puncture?" queried Sam. "Oh, no, it's only a gas well trying to find its way to the surface of the ground," was the dry comment. "Everybody out and to work!" They leaped to the ground and soon saw that Sam's conjecture was correct. A sharp stone had cut into one of the front shoes, making a hole about as large in diameter as a slate pencil. "Might know a thing like this would happen just when we were in a hurry," grumbled Dick. "Never mind, now is our time to make a record," came cheerfully from Sam. He glanced at his watch. "Four minutes after two. Come on, let us see how quickly we can get that new tire on." All threw off their coats and caps and set to work in the shade of some trees. While one jacked up the car, another worked to get off the damaged shoe and inner tube. In the meanwhile, the third got ready another shoe with an inner tube, and thus working hand in hand the three got the new tire in place and pumped up in less than ten minutes. While Dick and Sam were putting away the tools, Tom walked a bit ahead on the road. He looked around a turn, and then came back much crestfallen. "Well, I'm paid back for monkeying with those road-signs years ago," he announced. "The fellows who fixed that sign some distance behind us have got one on me. This is nothing but a woods road, and ends in the timber right around the bend." "Which means that we have got to turn back and take the other road," put in Sam, quickly. "That's it! Some fun turning around here," was Dick's comment. "It's about as narrow as it was on that road where they were doing the blasting." "Oh, I guess I can make it," answered Tom; and then all got in the car once again. By going ahead and backing half a dozen times, Tom at last managed to get the touring car headed the other way. Then he put on speed once more and they raced off to where they had made the false turn. But all this had taken time and as a consequence, although they ran along the other highway at a speed of nearly forty miles an hour, they saw nothing of the auto-stage which had gone on ahead. "I guess this is Stockbridge," was Dick's comment, a little later, as they came in sight of a straggling village. Several buggies and farm wagons were in sight and likewise a couple of cheap automobiles, but nothing that looked like a stage. "Has the auto-stage from Fernwood got in yet?" questioned Sam of a storekeeper who sat in a tilted chair under the wooden awning of his establishment. "Yes, it got in some time ago," was the drawled-out reply of the storekeeper. "Then has it gone on to Riverview?" queried Dick. "Reckon it has, stranger." "Do you know if any passengers got off here?" asked Tom. "Old Mrs. Harrison got off." "Anybody else?" "I didn't see anybody else,--but then I wasn't watchin' very closely," explained the storekeeper. The only other persons in sight besides the storekeeper were two children, too small to be questioned about the stage passengers. The Rovers looked at each other questioningly. "Might as well go right through and follow that stage," said Dick. "If he is on board, there is no use of letting him get away. If he isn't, we can come back here and look for him." The others deemed this good advice, and in a moment more they left Stockbridge at a rate of speed which made the storekeeper leap up from his comfortable chair to gaze after them in amazement. "Some of them speeders," he murmured to himself. "If they don't look out they'll be took in for breakin' the law." For a mile or more the road outside of Stockbridge was fairly good. Beyond, it grew poorer and poorer, and Tom had to reduce speed once more for fear of another puncture, or a blowout. As they sped along the highway all the youths kept a sharp lookout for Blackie Crowden, but no one came in sight who answered in the least to the description of that individual. "I'm sure I'd know him if I saw him," said Sam, who had studied a copy of the man's photograph. "So would I," answered Tom. "He's got a face that is somewhat unusual;" and to this Dick agreed. On and on they went, the road now being little more than a country lane. Here the dust was about six inches deep, and a big cloud floated behind the machine. "Almost looks as if we were on the wrong road again," observed Dick. But hardly had he spoken when they came out to another crossroad. Here a signboard pointed to the left, and the highway was as good as any they had yet traveled. "Only one mile more!" cried Sam. "It won't take long to cover that," answered Tom, and then turned on the power, and in less than two minutes more they were approaching the center of Riverview, a fair-sized town located on the stream which gave it its name. "There is the auto-stage, drawn up in front of the hotel," announced Sam. "Yes. And it's empty," answered Dick. The driver of the auto-stage was at the town pump getting a drink of water. He looked at the three Rovers curiously as they confronted him. "Did I have a passenger that stuttered?" he repeated in answer to their question. "I sure did have such a fellow. Why, he stuttered wo'se than any man I ever heard. And he whistled too. Awful funny. Why, I had all I could do to keep from laughin' in his face." "We want to find that man very much and right away," announced Dick. "Will you let us know where you let him off?" "That's a funny thing, mister," announced the auto-stage driver. "You see, after we left Stockbridge I didn't have nobody in but that man. He paid me the fare to this place before I started. Then when we was about half-way here I looked around in the back of the stage and, by gum! he was gone." "Gone!" came from the three Rovers. "Yes, sir, he was gone. I looked back and there he stood on the side of the road. As soon as he saw that I saw him, he waved his hand to me and disappeared." CHAPTER XXIII BACK AT ASHTON The three Rovers listened in astonishment to what the auto-stage driver had to say concerning the sudden disappearance of Blackie Crowden. "Then he must have jumped from the stage while you were running," remarked Dick. "That's just what he did do, mister. And he took some chances, too, believe me, for I wasn't runnin' at less than twenty miles an hour." "Did he have any baggage with him?" questioned Tom. "He had a small handbag, that's all." "Would you remember the place where he jumped off?" came from Sam, eagerly. "Yes, it was on the road back of here--just before you turn into this highway." "You mean the road that was so thick with dust?" remarked Tom. "That's the place. He jumped off at a spot where the bushes are pretty thick, and there are three trees standin' close together just back of the bushes." "I think I know that place," said Dick. "There is a small white cottage on the hillside just behind it." "You've struck it," answered the stage driver. "I reckon as how he was goin' to call on somebody at the cottage. But why he didn't ask me to stop is a mystery. Why! he might have broken a leg gettin' off that way." "That man is a criminal, and he did it to throw you off his track," announced Sam. "Do you know what I think?" he continued to his brothers. "I think Blackie Crowden must have gotten on to the fact that we were at Fernwood, and made up his mind to clear out as soon as possible. Then he got afraid that we might question folks, including this stage driver, and so jumped from the auto-stage to throw us off his trail, provided we should follow the stage." "I guess you have struck the nail on the head, Sam," answered his oldest brother. "But come on, let us see if we can find some trace of him." And in less than a minute more they had turned their machine around and were heading for the spot mentioned to them by the stage driver. It was only a short run, and soon they halted beside the bushes hedging in three tall trees. Eagerly they looked around in all directions, but not a soul was in sight. "I'm going up to the farmhouse," announced Sam. "And I'll go with you," added Dick. "Tom, you stay down here and take a look around. If you see anything of him blow the auto horn three times." At the farmhouse the two Rovers found themselves confronted by an elderly man and his wife, who looked at them rather curiously. "No, there hasn't been anybody around here so far as I know," announced the farmer. "We haven't had a visitor for several days." "I was out to the well about five minutes ago," put in his wife, "and if anybody had come up to the house or the barn I'd have seen him." "The fellow we are after is a criminal," explained Dick, "so if you don't mind we'll take a look around for him." "A criminal!" cried the farmer. "Say, that's bad! Certainly look around all you please, and I hope if he is anywhere near you'll catch him. I'd go around with you myself, only I can't very well on account of this rheumatism of mine." The two Rovers walked around the cottage and the out-buildings but found not the least trace of Blackie Crowden. Then, rather crestfallen, they returned to the automobile. "Perhaps there's some mistake and it wasn't Crowden at all," was Sam's comment. "Well, it was a man who stuttered, anyway, and the general description fitted Crowden," answered his brother. When they reached the automobile, they found Tom gazing curiously at a piece of newspaper which he had picked up from the ground. It was rather crumpled, as if it had been used for wrapping purposes. "See anything of him, Tom?" asked Dick. "No," was the answer. "But look here. Do either of you recognize this print?" He held out the paper, which was the lower half of a newspaper page. Part of this was devoted to reading matter and the rest to advertisements. "Why, sure! I know that paper," cried Dick. "See that advertisement of The Russel Department Store and that advertisement of Betts' Shoe Store? That's a part of the _Knoxbury Weekly Leader_." "That's just what it is!" ejaculated Sam. "Where did you get that paper, Tom?" "Found it right here beside the bushes. It looks as if it had been used to wrap something in." "Then that proves two things," announced Dick, flatly. "One is that the man who stutters was really Blackie Crowden, for who else could have been here with something wrapped in a Knoxbury newspaper? And the other thing is that he did as the stage driver said--left that stage somewhere near here." "Right you are, Dick," returned his youngest brother, "but that doesn't answer the question--where is he now?" "I think he got on to the fact that we were in Fernwood, and that it was his business to get out just as quickly as he could," said Tom. "And if that is true it is more than likely that he is a good distance away from here by now and keeping to side roads where he thinks he will not be followed." "But what brought him to Fernwood in the first place?" questioned Sam. "Give it up. Of course, he may have friends or relatives here. But I don't know how we are going to find out the truth about that, and what good will it do us if we do?" A half hour was spent in that vicinity, the boys tramping up and down the road and through the fields and woods looking for some trace of the missing man. Then they returned to Fernwood. "I'm going down to the post-office to post our letters," announced Dick. "I'll see if the postmaster knows anything about Crowden." The postmaster of Fernwood was a young man and glad enough to give what information he could when he heard what Dick had to say. "Yes, that man was here several times," he remarked. "He seemed very anxious to get some letters, and he posted several letters himself, although whom they were addressed to I don't know." "You haven't any idea where he was stopping?" "Not the slightest." And this was all the postmaster could tell them. "No use of our staying here any longer," announced Tom, when the boys had rejoined the others at the hotel. "I guess Crowden just came to this out-of-the-way place to get and send mail." "Don't you think he'll come back, thinking there'll be some letters for him?" questioned his wife. "We'll take care of that," was the reply. "We'll notify the local authorities and also the postmaster, so if Crowden turns up again he'll be arrested at once;" and this matter was attended to before they left the town. Chester Waltham grumbled somewhat because the Rovers had not taken him along on the trip to Riverview, but the three brothers paid little attention to this, although Sam showed that he was rather anxious because of the way in which Grace stood up for the brother of her seminary chum. It had been planned that the tour from Valley Brook to the west should be taken through Ashton, so one morning a few days later found the whole party in the old college town. "Too bad that Brill and Hope are both closed for the season," remarked Dora. "We might have met some of our old friends." "Well, it doesn't make much difference to me," grinned back Sam. "It seems like only yesterday since I graduated." "I am glad my school days are over," announced Ada Waltham. "I never did care for studying." Before proceeding farther, the Rovers had decided to call on the Sandersons, so they went away from the hotel at Ashton, leaving the Walthams behind. A letter had been sent ahead to Minnie, so she was not much surprised at their arrival. Her appearance, however, shocked them greatly. From looking round and ruddy her face had taken on a pale and careworn look. "We are having all sorts of bad luck this year," she said, in answer to an inquiry of Dora, and while the boys had gone off to find Mr. Sanderson, who was at the barn. "First came the loss of that money. Then father was taken sick, and now he tells me that the crops this year are not going to be nearly as good as usual." "That is certainly too bad, Minnie," said Dora, sympathetically. "I wish we could do something to help you." She paused for a moment. "I suppose you hear from Songbird occasionally?" "Oh, yes, he writes to me regularly. He is hard at work, and last week he sent father a check for one hundred dollars. This, of course, is a good deal of money for the poor fellow to scrape together, but it isn't much towards four thousand dollars." "It certainly is too bad about the crops not being good," said Nellie, who, being the daughter of a farmer, knew exactly what such a calamity means to the average man who depends on the soil for his living. "Father wouldn't mind it so much if it was not for this interest on the mortgage. You see he had expected to pay the whole amount off and that, of course, would stop the interest. Now he has to pay the usual amount, two hundred and forty dollars a year, which, you see, is twenty dollars a month. It worries him a good deal." "Did you say Songbird sent him a hundred dollars?" questioned Grace, curiously. "Yes. It was money he had earned and some that his folks had given him. I am glad to say father didn't think much of accepting it at first," added Minnie, her face brightening a little. "But poor John urged it, so that at last he took it and sent it over to the bank." "Then I suppose Songbird and your father are on fairly good terms now," remarked Dora. "No, I am sorry to say that is not true, Dora. At first father seemed to get over it, but lately he has been as bitter as ever. You see, his sickness, and the bad crops, and the interest money to be paid on the mortgage, worry him a great deal, and he takes it all out on poor John. He sticks to it that John should have been more careful while he was carrying such a large amount." Minnie turned her face away and two tears stole down her cheeks. "It's a shame--an awful, burning shame! But what in the world am I to do?" "It surely is too bad, Minnie," said Dora, kindly, placing her arm around the girl's waist, while Nellie and Grace looked on sympathetically. "If we could help you at all we would do it. We have some news of Blackie Crowden, and the others have gone out to tell your father about it," and then she related what had occurred during the stop at Fernwood. "Oh! if only they could find that fellow and get back the money!" sobbed Minnie. "But maybe the most of it has been spent," she added, dolefully. "Oh, let us hope not!" cried Nellie. "He couldn't spend any such amount as that in so short a time." "He might if he drank and gambled it away," put in her sister. "Oh, wouldn't it be too bad if they did catch this Blackie Crowden and then found that he had squandered all that money!" CHAPTER XXIV AT THE FESTIVAL While Dora and her cousins were talking to Minnie the others had sought out Mr. Sanderson, who was down in the barn superintending the stowing away of some grain. The farmer listened with interest to what they had to tell him about Blackie Crowden, but shook his head dolefully. "I'm pretty well satisfied that they'll never get that money back for me now," he announced. "A fellow of that character would use up cash about as fast as he could lay hands on it." "Well, let us live in hopes," returned Dick, not knowing what else to say. The farmer asked them about their tour, and said he trusted that they would have a good time. Then Sam ventured to mention Songbird. "Better not talk to me about that young man," declared Mr. Sanderson, drawing down the corners of his mouth. "He may mean well enough, but he's not my kind, and I've told Minnie she had better stop having him call and also stop writing to him." "Oh, Mr. Sanderson! I think you are doing our chum an injustice," cried Sam. "It wasn't his fault that he was robbed of that four thousand dollars." "Humph! That's as how you look at it," grumbled the farmer. "I've said what I think, and I'll stick to it." And nothing that the Rovers could say would alter his decision in this matter. "Oh, I'm so sorry for Minnie I really don't know how to express myself," were Dora's words, when the party were once more on the way to the Ashton hotel. "If her father compels her to give up Songbird it will just about break her heart." "I don't believe she's the one to give up Songbird," answered Sam. "She isn't that kind of girl," and he looked at Grace. But her eyes at that moment were turned in another direction. He followed the look and saw that she was gazing at Chester Waltham, who, with his sister, had driven their car to meet the others. "There is one thing about this whole matter that worries me," said Dick, "and that is that when they catch this Blackie Crowden--and I think they'll land on the fellow sooner or later--most of the money may be gone. There will be some satisfaction in placing such a rascal behind the bars, but that won't give Mr. Sanderson his cash back nor lift that mortgage." "We've just got news and we thought we would let you know about it," cried Ada Waltham, as the runabout came to a standstill close to the other automobiles. "There is to be a grand festival at Larkinburg this evening, and if it is not necessary to stay in Ashton to-night we might as well go to that place and attend the festival. I received a letter at the Ashton post-office from two girls who used to go to Hope, and they are to be at the affair, and they write that it will be well worth attending." "Oh, yes, let us go to Larkinburg by all means!" cried Grace. "I know the two girls--Jennie Cross and Mabel Stanford. The festival will certainly be well worth while if they say so." "Let me see--how many miles is it to Larkinburg?" questioned Tom. "Only sixty, so we can make the run with ease if we start directly after lunch," answered Chester Waltham. The matter was talked over for a few minutes, and as a result it was decided to go ahead and make the town mentioned in ample time to attend the festival. "They are going to have a concert and some outdoor tableaux, with refreshments," said Grace. "Ada was telling me all about it." "Well, that will be much better than staying in Ashton doing nothing," returned Dora. "And, besides, we must be getting along on our trip. Dick says we are really a day behind in our schedule." During the stop at the Ashton hotel for lunch, Chester Waltham had been very attentive to Grace and had asked her if she did not wish to change places with his sister on the run to Larkinburg; but she had declined, offering some excuse which was far from satisfactory to the young millionaire. "I thought you were going to put in part of this tour with me," he had said, rather reproachfully. "Besides, if you will come in with me it will give Ada a chance to visit with the others." "Well, I'll ride with you some time," Grace had answered. "I want Ada to have as good a time as any of us." The long hours spent on the road had proved rather tiring to Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning, and when Larkinburg was reached they were glad enough to rest in a comfortable room which Dick engaged for them. "You young folks can go to the festival," said Mrs. Stanhope, with a smile. "We are going to stay here and go to bed early;" and so it was arranged. The festival was held in a large grove bordering a beautiful stream and located some distance from the center of the town. As soon as our friends had arrived they had called up the two former students of Hope, and it had been decided that these girls, along with their escorts, should join the others and all should attend the festival together. "We can easily pack the whole crowd in our three cars," announced Dick. "I can't carry any extra people in my runabout," complained Chester Waltham. "Of course, one of the fellows might stand on the running board, but----" "We'll take them, don't worry," answered Sam. "We've got some vacant seats, you know, and four extra won't count." The girls from Hope were a jolly pair and so were the two young men who accompanied them. All got in the Rovers' machines, and away they went, followed closely by the Waltham runabout. A parking space had been set aside, and there our friends found themselves surrounded by machines of all sorts, and a jolly, laughing crowd numbering several thousands of people. "Oh, how pretty!" burst from Grace's lips, as they strolled toward the place where the concert and the tableaux were to be given. A stage had been constructed among some trees and bushes with a background of the river, and here scores of lamps and lanterns twinkled forth. The seats were placed along a sloping bank, and soon the whole crowd was gathered to listen to the opening number of the concert. As soon as the machines were parked Chester Waltham, almost ignoring his sister, had devoted his attention to Grace, doing this while Sam was busy talking over some matters with his brothers. Waltham had walked over to the seats with Grace beside him, and now he saw to it that she was placed where he could talk to her with ease. This, of course, did not particularly suit Sam, but he was helpless in the matter and so made the best of it. The concert was a fine one and the tableaux, which were interspersed between the various musical numbers, were intensely interesting. "Certainly well worth attending," was Tom's comment, when that portion of the festival came to an end amid a loud clapping of hands. "And now for some refreshments," announced Dick. "Come on, let us hurry or the tables may all be filled," for some long tables decorated with lanterns had been set under the trees at one side of the grove. "My! but it is rather chilly here," was Grace's comment, when they were moving toward the tables. "I feel positively cold." "Didn't you bring your jacket?" questioned Sam. "Yes, but I left it in the auto." "I'll go and get it," he returned, and ran off to procure the garment. He found that more machines had come in, and it was some little while before he could locate their automobile and pick out the jacket. In the meanwhile, Chester Waltham, leaving his sister with the other girls from Hope, had gone on with Grace and seated her at one of the tables, with the others of the party opposite. There was but one vacant seat left next to Grace, and this the young millionaire appropriated. "I don't know what Sam will do when he gets here," remarked Grace, anxiously. "Oh, I guess he'll find a seat somewhere," answered Chester Waltham, coolly. The youngest Rover was rather surprised on getting back to find every seat filled and the young millionaire sitting beside the girl who was so dear to his heart, but he made no comment. He helped Grace don the jacket, and then stood back until there was a vacant seat at a table some distance away. "I think it was rather mean of Chester Waltham to appropriate that seat," whispered Nellie to Dora while they were being served. "I think so myself, Nellie," was the low reply. At last the festival came to an end, and all those in the crowd prepared to go home. "I hope you enjoyed your refreshments," said Sam, rather coolly, as he came up to Grace's side. "Why, yes, I enjoyed them very much," answered the girl. She looked at him rather pointedly. "Didn't you think the sandwiches and cake and other things were very nice?" "Nice enough," he grumbled. "Come on, let us get back to the hotel, I'm as tired as a dog," and he started to walk away, leaving the others to follow him. His words and the manner in which they were spoken rather nettled Grace, and she walked toward the automobiles in silence, with the others in front and behind her. But Chester Waltham remained at her side, and as they approached the machines he caught her by the arm. "Say, Grace, come on and take a ride with me," he half whispered. "It's a beautiful night. Come on, you don't want to go back to the hotel yet." "But what about Ada?" she questioned. "Oh, she can take your place in one of the other autos, can't she?" "I--I--suppose so," faltered Grace. She hardly knew how to go on. She did not wish particularly to take a ride with Waltham, and, at the same time, she was hurt over the way Sam had spoken to her. "See here, Sis," cried the young millionaire, "I am going to take Miss Laning back in my runabout. She says you can take her place with the Rovers." "Oh, all right, Chester," answered the sister. "Hope you have a nice time of it," she added to Grace. There was a large crowd down among the automobiles, and our friends had all they could do in the semi-darkness to get their machines out on the road in safety. "Where is Grace?" demanded Sam, as some of the others came up to him. He had just turned on the lights of both cars. "She is going to ride back with Chester," answered Ada Waltham. "You'll have to let me ride back with you," and she laughed lightly. "Oh, all right. Come ahead," returned the youngest Rover. He spoke as lightly as he could. He did not wish to let the others know his true feelings. There was a strange bitterness in his heart, and for the moment he wished that he had never come on this tour. CHAPTER XXV A CALL FOR ASSISTANCE Ada Waltham did all she could to make herself agreeable to Sam and the others, but the youngest Rover was in no mood for raillery, and on the way back to Larkinburg had but little to say. Chester Waltham had lost no time in assisting Grace into his runabout and in getting his car out of the congestion in the parking space. Then he put on speed, and soon the pair were whirled away out of the sight of the others. "It's a dandy night for a ride," was Tom's remark. There was some moonshine, and the stars glittered clear in the heavens overhead. "That is true, Tom," answered his wife, "but don't you think we had better get back to the hotel and go to bed? I heard Dick say something about a long day of it to-morrow." "Oh, yes, Nellie, we'll get back. It wouldn't be fair to go off and leave mother and Mrs. Stanhope alone." When they reached the hotel at Larkinburg the Rovers expected to find the Waltham runabout in the garage, and they were consequently somewhat surprised when they saw no sign of the machine. "We certainly couldn't have passed them on the road," observed Dick. He turned to his youngest brother. "You didn't see them, did you?" "No. They went on ahead," answered Sam, shortly; and his manner of speech showed that he was thoroughly out of sorts. Having placed the touring cars in the care of the garage keeper, the Rovers joined the others on the piazza of the hotel. Then Dora slipped upstairs to see if her mother and Mrs. Laning were all right. She found both of them sleeping soundly, and did not disturb them. Sam could not content himself with sitting down, and so lounged around in one place and another, and finally said he would go inside and write a letter to the folks at home. He was still writing when Tom came in to join him. "Sam, did Chester Waltham say anything about where he was going to take Grace?" asked Tom, as he sat down beside his brother. "No, he didn't say a word to me," was the short reply, and Sam went on writing. "Did Grace say anything?" "No." Tom said nothing for a moment, drumming his fingers on the writing table. At last he heaved something of a sigh. "Seems to me if they were going on a long ride they might have said something to us about it," he observed. "Nellie is rather worried." "Oh, I guess they've got a right to take a ride if they want to," came rather crossly from Sam. He finished his letter with a flourish, folded it, and rammed it into an envelope which he quickly addressed. "Oh, of course, but----" Tom did not finish, and as Sam, after stamping his letter, arose, he did the same. "I wonder if we had better stay up for them." "I think I'll go to bed." "Sam!" and Tom looked sharply at his younger brother. "Well, what's the use of staying up?" "A whole lot of use, Sam Rover, and you know it. If I were you I wouldn't let Chester Waltham ride over me." "Who says I am letting him ride over me?" retorted Sam; and now his manner showed that he was quite angry. "I say so," answered Tom, bluntly. "If you have got half the sand in you that I always thought you had, you wouldn't stand for it. All of us know how matters were going on between you and Grace. Now to let this fellow step in, even if he is a young millionaire, is downright foolish. If you really care for Grace it's up to you to go in and take her." "Yes, but suppose that she cares for Waltham and his money more than she cares for me?" asked Sam, hesitatingly. "Do you think Grace is the kind of a girl to be caught by money, Sam?" and now, as the two were in a deserted part of the hallway, Tom took his brother by both arms and held him firmly. "N--no, I--I can't say that exactly," faltered Sam. "But just the same, why does she favor him at all?" "Maybe it's because you haven't been as outspoken as you ought to be. It's one thing for a girl to know what you think of her, but just the same the average girl wants you to tell her so in plain words. Now, it may not be any of my business, but you know that I want you to be happy, and that I am unusually interested because of Nellie. It seems to me if I were you I'd go to Grace the first chance I had and have a clear understanding." "I--I can't go to her now. She's out with Waltham," stammered Sam. "Then hang around until they get back and see to it that you have a chance to talk with her before she goes to her room," returned Tom; and then, as some other people came up, the conversation had to come to an end. A half hour passed and Ada Waltham excused herself. "Chester and Grace must be having a fine ride," she observed on retiring, "otherwise they would have returned by this time." "Maybe they had a breakdown," observed Dick. "I've been told that some of the roads around here are far from good." "Oh, don't say that!" cried the girl. "Chester hates to have to make any repairs when he is alone. Time and again he has run to a garage on a flat tire rather than put another one on himself." Another half hour dragged by, and now Dora turned to whisper to Dick. "Don't you think we had better retire?" she asked. "I never supposed Grace was going to stay out as late as this." "No, we'll stay up," he answered. "Nellie has told Tom that she isn't going to bed until her sister gets back, so it won't do for us to leave them here on the piazza alone." "Mr. Rover! Telephone call for Mr. Rover!" came the announcement from a bellboy, as he appeared upon the piazza. "Which Mr. Rover?" demanded Sam, eagerly. "The party said any of 'em would do," answered the bellboy. "I'll go," said Sam, eagerly, before either of his brothers or their wives could speak. "All right, Sam. I'll follow in case you want me or any of the others," answered Tom. The telephone booths were located in the lobby of the hotel, and Sam was quickly shown to one of them. While he talked Tom stood by, but caught only a few words of what was said. "Hello!" "Oh, is this you, Sam?" came over the wire in Grace's voice. "I'm so glad! I have been trying to get somebody for the last ten minutes but they couldn't give me the hotel connection." "Where are you?" questioned the youth. "Has anything happened?" for the tone of the girl's voice indicated that she was very much agitated. "Oh, Sam! I want you or some of the others to come and get me," cried Grace. "The runabout has broken down, and I don't think Mr. Waltham can fix it. And we are miles and miles away from Larkinburg!" "A breakdown, eh? Why, sure, I'll come and get you, Grace. Where are you?" "I am at a farmhouse on the road between Dennville and Corbytown--the Akerson place. If you come, take the road to Dennville and then drive toward Corbytown. We'll hang a lantern on the stepping block, so you will know where to stop." "All right, Grace, I'll be there just as soon as I can make it," answered Sam; and then he added quickly: "You weren't hurt when the breakdown happened, were you?" "Not very much, although I was a good deal shaken up. Mr. Waltham had his face and his hand scraped by the broken wind-shield." "Well, you take good care of yourself, and I'll start right away," returned the youngest Rover, and after a few words more hung up the receiver. It did not take Sam long to acquaint the others with what had occurred, and then he ran down to the hotel garage to get out one of the touring cars. "Don't you think I had better go along?" asked Tom. "Chester Waltham may be in a fix and need assistance. And, besides, they may both be more hurt than Grace said." "Yes, I guess you'd better come," answered his brother. And soon, having received directions from the garage keeper as to how to get to Dennville, the pair were on the way. "How did Grace seem to be when you spoke to her?" questioned Tom, as Sam ran the car as rapidly as the semi-darkness of the night permitted. "She seemed to be all unstrung," was Sam's thoughtful reply. "Then the accident may have been worse than she admitted, Sam." "I hope not, but we'll soon see." And then, as a straight stretch of fairly good road appeared before them, Sam turned on the power and the touring car sped onward faster than ever. Inside of half an hour they reached Dennville, a sleepy little town, located in the midst of a number of hills. All the houses were dark and the stores closed up, and not a soul was in sight. They ran into the tiny public square and there found several signboards. "Here we are!" cried Sam. "Corbytown four miles this way," and he pointed with his hand. "We'll look at the other signboards first to see whether there is another road," answered his brother. But there was only the one, and so Sam turned the touring car into this, and they sped forward once more, but now at a reduced rate of speed, for the road was decidedly hilly and far from good. "What possessed Waltham to take such a road as this," remarked Tom, after they had passed a particularly bad spot. "Don't ask me!" was the reply. "It's no wonder he had a breakdown if he took this road on high speed." They were going up a long hill. At the top a large and well-kept farm spread out, and, beyond, the hill dropped away on a road that was worse than ever. "Hello! there's a light!" cried Tom, as they approached the house belonging to the farm. "I see it," answered his brother; and in a few seconds more they ran up to the horse-block and brought the touring car to a standstill, Sam, at the same time, sounding the horn. But the summons was unnecessary, for their approach had been eagerly looked for by Grace, and hardly had the machine come to a standstill when she flew out of the farmhouse to meet them. "Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" she burst out. "If you hadn't, I don't know what I should have done!" She was somewhat hysterical and on the verge of tears. "Are you sure that you're not hurt, Grace?" asked Sam, quickly; and as he spoke he caught her by one hand and placed an arm on her shoulder. "I--I don't think I am hurt, Sam," she faltered, and then looked rather tearfully into his face. "But it was an awful experience--awful!" and then as he drew a little closer she suddenly burst into a fit of weeping and rested her head on his shoulder. CHAPTER XXVI SAM FREES HIS MIND In spite of his fun-loving disposition, Tom Rover was a very wise young man, so as soon as he saw Grace resting on his brother's shoulder he promptly turned away, to interview the farmer and his wife who lived in the farmhouse and who had answered the girl's knock on their door. "I can't tell much about the accident," said Mr. Akerson. "Me and my wife were just goin' to bed when the young lady knocked on the door and begged us to take her in, and then asked if we had a telephone. She said she had been in an automobile breakdown, but she didn't give us many particulars, except to say that she thought the front axle of the machine was broken." "Well, a broken axle is bad enough," was Tom's prompt comment. "They are lucky that no necks were broken." "The poor girl was dreadfully shook up," put in Mrs. Akerson. "She just went on somethin' terrible. I had all I could do to quiet her at first." "Didn't the young man come here with her?" questioned Tom. "No. She said she had left him down on the road with the machine. She said he was all worked up over the accident." "I should think he would be," returned Tom, and said no more on the subject. Yet he thought it very strange that Chester Waltham had not accompanied Grace to the farmhouse and thus made certain that help was summoned. Tom and his brother had entered the sitting-room of the farmhouse. Next to it was a lit-up dining-room and to this Sam and Grace had walked, the latter between her sobs telling of what had happened. "Oh, Sam, it was dreadful!" cried Grace. "Mr. Waltham was so reckless. I couldn't understand him at all. When I said I would ride with him I supposed we were going right back to the hotel. But on the way he said it was too fine a night to go in yet, and begged me to go a little farther, and so finally I consented. Then he drove the car on and on, ever so many miles, until we reached Dennville." "But if you didn't want to go that far, Grace, why didn't you tell him?" "I did--several times. But he wouldn't listen to me. Of course, I didn't want to act rude, and when I told him to turn back he only laughed at me. Then, when we got to Dennville, and I told him that I positively would not go any farther, he said, 'Oh, yes, you will. We are going to have a good, long ride. I am going to make you pay up in full for not riding with me before.'" "The mean fellow!" murmured Sam. "I'd like to punch him for that." "Oh, but, Sam! that wasn't the worst of it," went on the girl; and now she blushed painfully and hung her head. "Then he started up on this side road and he ran the car as fast as ever. I was dreadfully scared, but he only laughed and told me to enjoy myself, and when the car bumped over some stones, and I was thrown against him, he put his arm around me and--and he did his best to kiss me!" "What!" "But I didn't allow it. I pushed him away, and when he laughed at me I told him that if he tried it again I would box his ears. Then, just after we had passed this place, he reached over and caught hold of me and tried to pull me toward him. Then I boxed him, just as I had said I would. That made him furious, and he put on a burst of speed, and the next minute there was a terrible bump and a crash, and both of us were almost thrown out of the car. The wind-shield was broken and also, I think, the front axle, and he was scratched in several places. Oh, it was awful!" And again Grace hid her face on Sam's shoulder. "Well, it served him right if he got hurt and if his runabout was ruined," was the youth's comment. He drew Grace closer to him than ever. "Then you didn't really care for him?" he whispered. "Oh, Sam, Sam! how can you ask such a question?" she murmured. "Because I didn't know. I thought---- You see, he--he is a millionaire, and----" "Why, Sam Rover! do you think that money would make any difference to me?" and now she raised her face to look him full in the eyes. "I am mighty glad to know it hasn't made any difference," he returned quickly; and then caught and held her tight once more. "I suppose you young men are goin' back to help the fellow with his busted machine," remarked Mr. Akerson to Tom. "I--I suppose so," returned Tom, slowly, and then looked toward Sam and Grace. "Oh, I don't want to go back!" cried the girl, quickly. "I want to return to the hotel in Larkinburg." "All right, I'll take you back, Grace," answered Sam. "If you say so, we'll leave Waltham right where he is." "I think it would be the right thing to do, Sam, under ordinary circumstances," was the reply. "But then we mustn't forget about Ada. She will be greatly worried if I come back and let her know that we left her brother out here on the open road with a broken machine." "I'll tell you what we'll do, Grace. You stay here and Tom and I will go down and see what Waltham has got to say for himself." He turned to the people of the house. "She can stay here a little longer, can't she? We'll make it all right with you." "Certainly she can stay," answered Mr. Akerson. "And there won't be anything to pay outside of the telephone toll, and that's only twenty cents." "Please don't stay too long," implored Grace, as the two Rovers hurried away. "Not a minute longer than is necessary," returned Sam. On the way down the hill to where the accident had occurred Sam gave his brother the particulars of the affair, not mincing matters so far as it concerned Chester Waltham. "I was thinking that that was about the way it would turn out," was Tom's dry comment. "With so much money, Waltham thinks he can do about as he pleases. I reckon now, Sam, you are sorry you didn't talk to Grace before." "I sure am, Tom!" was the reply, and Sam's tones showed what a weight had been taken from his heart. "I'm going to fix it up with Grace before another twenty-four hours pass." "That's the way to talk, boy! Go to it! I wish you every success!" and Tom clapped his brother on the shoulder affectionately. Even though all the lights were out, it did not take the two Rovers long to locate the disabled runabout, which rested among some stones on the side of the highway. As Grace had stated, the wind-shield was a mass of smashed glass, and the front axle had broken close to the left wheel. "They can certainly be thankful they didn't break their necks," was Tom's comment, as he walked around the wreck. "Waltham doesn't seem to be anywhere around here," returned Sam. "Wonder where he went to?" Both looked up and down the highway, and presently saw a figure approaching from down the road. It proved to be Chester Waltham. He was capless and walked with a limp. "Hello! Who are you?" challenged the young millionaire, and then as he drew closer he added: "Oh, the Rovers, eh? Did Grace get you on the 'phone?" "She did," answered Sam, and then added sharply: "You've made a nice mess of it here, haven't you?" "Say, I don't want any such talk from you," blustered the rich young man. Evidently he was in far from a good humor. "I'll say what I please, Waltham, without asking your permission," continued the youngest Rover. "You had no right to bring Miss Laning away out here against her wishes. It was a contemptible thing to do." "You talk as if you were my master," retorted Chester Waltham. "This isn't any of your affair and you keep out of it." "We are perfectly willing to keep out of it if you say so, Waltham," broke in Tom. "We came down here merely to see if we could help you in any way. But I see your front axle is broken, and you will have to get the garage people to help you out with that." "Where's Grace?" asked the young millionaire. The subject of the broken-down runabout did not seem to interest him. "She is up at the farmhouse on the hill," answered Tom. "And we are going to take her back to the Larkinburg hotel in our auto," added Sam. "Oh, all right, then, go ahead and do it." "Do you want to ride with us?" questioned Tom. "I don't know that I do. I'll stay here and take care of my runabout. If you'll tell my sister that I'm all right, that is all I want." "Very well, just as you say," answered Tom. He took his brother by the arm. "Come on, Sam, there is no use of wasting time here." "I'll be with you in a minute, Tom," was the younger brother's reply. "You go on ahead, I want to say just a few words more to Waltham." "No use of your getting into a fight, Sam," returned Tom in a low voice. "There won't be any fight unless he starts it." Tom walked slowly up the road, and Sam turned back to where Chester Waltham had settled himself on the mud-guard of the broken-down runabout. "See here, Waltham, I want to say a few words more to you," began Sam, and his tone of voice was such that the young millionaire leaped at once to his feet. "I want to warn you about how you treat Miss Laning in the future." "To warn me!" repeated Chester Waltham, not knowing what else to say. "Exactly! Up at the farmhouse she told me all of what took place between you. She was all unstrung and quite hysterical. Now this won't do at all, and I want you to know it. After this if you are going to travel with us you've got to act the gentleman and treat her like a lady." "Humph!" "No 'humph' about it. I mean just what I say. If you don't behave yourself and don't treat her like a lady I'll--I'll----" "Well, what will you do?" sneered Chester Waltham. "I'll tell you what I'll do," and now Sam shook his finger in the young millionaire's face. "I'll give you the soundest thrashing you ever had in your life!" "Ah! do you mean to threaten me?" "I certainly do." "When it comes to a thrashing, maybe two can play at that game," observed the young millionaire; but it was plainly to be seen that Sam's decided stand had disconcerted him. "All right, Waltham, I'll be ready for you. But remember what I said. We came out here to have a good time, and I am not going to allow you to spoil it for Miss Laning or for anybody else." "Humph! you make me tired," sneered the rich young man. "Go on, I don't want to be bothered with you any longer. The whole bunch of you is too namby-pamby for me. I think my sister and I could have a much better time if we weren't with you." "As far as you personally are concerned, you can't leave us any too quickly to suit me," returned Sam. "Is that so? Well, I guess you can call it off then so far as my sister and I are concerned. But if you think, Rover, that you have seen the last of this affair you are mistaken," went on the young millionaire, pointedly. "You think you are going to run things to suit yourself, don't you? Well, I'll put a spoke in your wheel--a spoke that you never dreamed of! You just wait and see!" and then Chester Waltham turned back and sat down once more on his wrecked runabout, leaving Sam to walk up the road to rejoin Tom in a very thoughtful mood. CHAPTER XXVII A TELEGRAM FROM NEW YORK It was not until the small hours of the morning that the two Rovers and Grace returned to the hotel in Larkinburg. They found Dick and his wife and Nellie anxiously awaiting their return. "Oh! I am so glad that you weren't hurt," cried Nellie, as she embraced her sister. "I was so worried," and she hugged her again and again. "You can rest assured, Nellie, that I'll never go out with Chester Waltham again! Never!" cried Grace. "Come on, I am going to my room. Good-night, everybody," she called back, and in another moment had retired from their view, followed by her sister. "Why, Sam! what does it mean?" cried Dora, as she looked on in bewilderment. "It means that Chester Waltham ought to have had a good thrashing," declared the youngest Rover; and then he and Tom told of what had occurred. "I guess it will be a good job done if we part company with the Walthams," remarked Dick, after the subject had been discussed for some time. "He is not of our class, even if he has money." "I feel rather sorry for his sister," added Dora. "Although once in a while she shows the same haughtiness of manner that Chester displays. It's too bad, too, for they might be really nice company." With so much excitement going on, it was small wonder that the Rover party did not come downstairs that morning until quite late. Sam was the first to show himself, he being anxious to know how Grace had fared. "Here is a letter for your brother, Mr. Rover," said the clerk at the desk, when Sam approached him. "It was left here by that Mr. Waltham." "Hand it over," returned the youth, and then added: "Did Mr. Waltham bring his wrecked runabout to the garage here?" "No, sir, he just came here, got his sister, paid his bill, and went off." "Oh, I see." Sam could not help but show his surprise. "I'll take this letter to my brother," he added, and hurried off. The communication was a short one, yet the Rovers and the others read it with interest. In it Chester Waltham said that in consideration of the way he had been treated by some members of the party he considered it advisable for his sister and himself to continue their tour separately. He added that he trusted Miss Laning did not feel any ill effects because of the breakdown on the road. "And just to think that Ada went off without saying good-bye!" cried Grace, when she saw the letter. "I didn't think she would be quite so mean as that." "Probably she took her brother's part. She usually did," returned her sister. "Well, I think we are well rid of them." "So do I," put in Tom. "Personally I don't care if we never see them again." "He said he was going to put a spoke in our wheel," mused Sam. "I wonder if he'll dare to do anything to harm us?" "Oh, it's likely he was talking through his hat," returned Dick; but for once the oldest Rover was mistaken. Now that our friends were by themselves there seemed to be a general air of relief. The only one of the party who was rather quiet was Grace, but Sam did everything he could to make it pleasant for her, and before nightfall she was as jolly as ever. The run during that day was through a particularly beautiful section of the country, and about one o'clock they stopped in a grove and partook of a lunch which had been put up for them at the Larkinburg hotel. Then they moved forward once again, with Dick and Tom at the steering wheels of the cars. "Still seventy-three miles to go if we want to make Etoria to-day," announced Dick, after consulting the guide book. "I'm afraid that will be quite a ride for you ladies," he added, turning to Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning. "Oh, yes, let us go on to Etoria by all means," pleaded Sam. "Any particular reason for going to that city?" asked Tom, quickly. "Yes, I've got a reason, but I'm not going to tell you," returned his younger brother. And then, as both Dick and Tom looked at him questioningly, he blushed and turned away. "Oh, go ahead. I think I can stand it," said Mrs. Stanhope, with a smile. "I am getting used to traveling," declared Mrs. Laning. "It's much more comfortable than I at first supposed it would be." Nightfall found them still ten miles from Etoria and Dick asked the others if they wished to stop anywhere along the way for supper. All declared, however, that they would rather keep on until the city was reached. "They tell me that they have got a dandy hotel there--something new," said Sam. "We ought to get first-class accommodations there." Etoria was a city of some fifty thousand inhabitants, with a long main street brightly lighted up. The new hotel was opposite a beautiful public park, an ideal location. Sam seemed to be in unusual haste to finish his supper, and immediately it was over he asked Grace if she would not take a walk with him. "We are going to do up the town, so don't worry if we get back a little late," he told Mrs. Laning, and then whispered something in her ear which made her smile and gaze at him fondly. They pursued their way along the main street of the town, and while doing so the youngest Rover kept his eyes on the various shops that were passed. At last they came to a large jewelry establishment and here he brought the girl to a halt. "It's open!" he cried. "That's what I call luck! I was afraid they would all be closed." Grace looked at the store, and at the display of jewelry in the window, and then looked at Sam. "I guess you know what it's going to be, Grace," he said rather tenderly, and looked her full in the eyes. "I want you to have just as good a one as Dora or Nellie." "Oh, Sam! I--I don't understand," she stammered. "It's an engagement ring. We are going in here and see what sort of rings this man has got. It looks like a reliable place." "Oh, Sam!" and now, blushing deeply, Grace clung to his arm. "An engagement ring?" "Sure! You ought to have had it long ago, then maybe we wouldn't have had any trouble." "There wasn't any trouble, Sam--at least, I didn't make any trouble," she repeated; and then, as he caught her arm and dragged her into the shop, she murmured: "Oh, I--I feel so funny to go into a store for a thing like that! Don't you think I had better wait outside?" "You can if you want to, after the jeweler has measured your finger, Grace. But what's the use of being so backward? As soon as we get back home you are going to be Mrs. Sam Rover, so you might as well get used to such things first as last." Fortunately for the young couple it was a very elderly man--quite fatherly in appearance--who came to wait on them. "A diamond ring?" he queried. "Why, certainly, I'll be pleased to show everything we have;" and then he measured Grace's finger, and brought forth several trays of glittering gems. Grace would have been satisfied with almost any of the rings, but Sam was rather critical and insisted upon obtaining a beautiful blue-white diamond which was almost the counterpart of the stone Dick had bestowed upon Dora. "Now you've got to promise to have this engraved by eight o'clock to-morrow morning," said the youngest Rover to the jeweler. "We are on an automobile tour and we can't wait any longer than that." And thereupon the shopkeeper promised that the order should be duly filled. "Oh, Sam, how extravagant you are!" murmured Grace, when the pair were returning to the hotel. "Why, that ring cost a dreadful lot of money." Her eyes were shining like stars. "It isn't a bit too good for such a girl as you," he declared stoutly, and then gave her hand a squeeze that meant a great deal. When they left Etoria the next morning Sam had the engagement ring tucked safely away in his pocket. He had confided in Dick, and the oldest Rover managed it so that that noon they stopped at a large country hotel and obtained the use of a private dining-room. This, Sam had decorated with flowers, and just before the meal commenced he slipped the engagement ring upon Grace's finger. "Oh, Sam! Oh, Grace!" shrieked Nellie when she saw the sparkling circlet on her sister's finger. "Oh! so that's what's going on, is it?" cried Dora, joyfully. "Grace, allow me to congratulate you," and then she kissed the girl and immediately afterward kissed Sam. Numerous other kisses and handshakes followed, and for the time being Sam and Grace were the happiest young people in the world. "Let us send telegrams home, announcing the affair," suggested the youngest Rover, after the meal was at an end. "I know dad, as well as Aunt Martha and Uncle Randolph, will be glad to hear of it." The telegrams were quickly prepared and sent off. In the messages Sam notified those at home where the touring party would be for the next ten days. After that several days slipped by quickly. The tourists had covered a good many miles and were now approaching the Mississippi River. The weather had been ideal, and not a single puncture or blowout had come to cause them trouble. Sam and Grace were much together, and, as the youngest Rover declared, "were having the time of their lives." "It's queer I don't get more word from New York," remarked Dick one evening, when they had reached a city which I shall call Pemberton. "Dad acknowledged that telegram of Sam's, but he didn't say a word about that Lansing deal or anything about the Bruno bonds." "Well, let us hope that no news is good news," returned Tom. "Anyway, I'm not going to worry until I know there is something to worry about." That evening came word from Valley Brook, stating that everything was going along well at the farm and that Mr. Anderson Rover was confining himself closely to business in New York. The Mississippi was crossed, and then the tourists headed in the direction of Colorado Springs. It was their intention to make the Springs the turning point of the trip, with a side trip by the cog railway to Pike's Peak. They would return by the way of Denver. Some days later found them in Topeka, where they had decided to rest up for a day or two. During that time only one short telegram had come from Mr. Anderson Rover, stating that the Bruno bonds had been sold at a fair profit, but that the Lansing deal was still uncertain. "We stand to win or lose quite a lot of money on that Lansing deal," Dick explained to Sam. "It's rather a peculiar affair. The whole thing is being engineered by a Wall Street syndicate." On the morning of the second day in Topeka, when Sam and Grace and some of the others had gone shopping, Dick heard one of the bellboys call his name. "Telegram," he said to Tom. "I hope this is from dad and that it contains good news." The telegram proved to be what is known as a Night Letter, and its contents caused the two Rovers much astonishment. The communication ran as follows: "Have been following up the Lansing deal closely. Affairs are getting rather clouded and I am afraid we may lose out. A new opposition has appeared, a combination headed by your former friend, Waltham. He is still in the West but his agents are working against us. He has also bought controlling interest in the Haverford deal. Evidently means to hit us as hard as possible. Will know more in a day or two and will let you know at once of any change in affairs. "ANDERSON ROVER." CHAPTER XXVIII CLOUDBURST AND FLOOD "I see it!" cried Tom. "That's the spoke Chester Waltham told Sam he would put in our wheel." "I guess you are right," returned his older brother. "Evidently Waltham is a meaner fellow than I took him to be. Just because Grace would not put up with his ungentlemanly attentions he evidently is going to do what he can to make trouble for us." "I don't understand what dad means by the Haverford deal," went on Tom, as he studied the telegram. "I thought that deal was closed long ago." "They thought of closing it, Tom, but at the last moment something went wrong and the men who were going into the matter withdrew. That put a large part of the burden on our shoulders. We have at least forty thousand dollars invested in it. Now, if Waltham has bought a controlling interest, as dad says, he will be able to swing it any way he pleases, just as he may be able to swing the Lansing deal, too." "How much money have we got locked up in that? The last I heard it was only about eight thousand dollars." "When I left, dad said he expected to put in another twelve thousand, which would make a total of twenty thousand dollars, Tom." "Phew! Then that makes a grand total of sixty thousand dollars in the two deals. Chester Waltham must have a lot of loose money, if he can jump into deals as big as those are at a moment's notice." "Oh, a young millionaire like Waltham can get hold of cash whenever he wants it," answered Dick. He ran his hand through his hair thoughtfully. "This looks bad to me. Perhaps I had better take a train back to New York without delay." "Oh, if you did that it would spoil the trip for Dora," protested his brother. "It's better to spoil the trip than to let Chester Waltham get the better of us." "Why not send a telegram asking if it will do any good for you to come home?" questioned Tom. And after a little discussion Dick decided to do this, and the telegram was sent without delay. A few hours later word came back that if Dick was needed his father would send for him. The stay in Topeka was extended to the best part of a week, for that night a furious rainstorm set in which lasted two days. The downpour was unusually heavy, and as a consequence many of the outlying roads became well-nigh impassable. During the last day of the storm Sam received a long letter from Songbird in which the would-be poet told of how he was working to make his way in the world and also earn some money that he might pay back the amount lost by Mr. Sanderson. He added that so far the authorities had been unable to find any further trace of Blackie Crowden. "It's too bad!" was Sam's comment, after he had read this communication. "Poor Songbird! I suppose he feels as bad as ever over the loss of that money." At last the sun once more broke through the clouds and the journey of the tourists was resumed. Close to the city the roads were in fairly good condition, but farther out they soon found evidences of the tremendous downpour of the days before. Deep gullies had been cut here and there, and occasionally they came across washed-out trees and brushwood. "We'll have to take it a bit slowly, especially after dark," remarked Dick. When they passed over some of the rivers they found the rushing waters reached almost to the flooring of the bridges; and on the second day out they found one bridge swept completely away, so that they had to make a detour of many miles to gain another crossing. "What a tremendous loss to some of these farmers," remarked Mrs. Laning, as they rolled past numerous cornfields where the stalks had been swept down and covered with mud. "I am glad to say we never had anything like this at Cedarville." "And we never had anything like it at Valley Brook either," returned Dick. "This is the worst washout I ever saw." At noon they stopped at a small town for dinner and there they heard numerous reports concerning the storm. In one place it had taken away a barn and a cowshed and in another it had undermined the foundations of several houses. "The water up to Hickyville was three feet deep in the street," said one man at the hotel. "The folks had to rescue people by boats and rafts. One man had four cows drowned, and up at Ganey Point a man lost all his pigs and two horses." The party had scarcely left that town when it began to rain again. The downpour, however, was for a time so light that they did not think it worth while to stop or to turn back. "We'll put the tops up," said Tom, "and maybe in a little while the clouds will blow away." But Tom's hopes were doomed to disappointment. The downpour was comparatively light for about an hour, but then, just as they were passing through a patch of timber, it suddenly came on with great fury. "Great Scott!" burst out Sam, as a gust of wind drove the rain under the automobile tops. "We'll have to put down the side curtains." "Right you are!" answered Dick; and then the machines were halted and all the curtains were lowered and fastened. But even this did not protect them entirely, for the wind drove the rain in between the numerous cracks of the covering. "How many miles to the next stopping place?" queried Nellie. "About thirty," answered Tom. "That is, if we go as far as we calculated to when we left this morning." "Oh, I don't see how we are going to make thirty miles more in such a storm as this!" cried her sister. "We'll be lucky to make any kind of stopping place," announced Dick, grimly. "Just listen to that!" There was a wild roaring of wind outside, and then came a flash of lightning followed by a deafening clap of thunder. "Oh! Oh!" came in a shriek from the girls; and involuntarily they placed their hands to their ears. "Richard, do you think it is safe to stay under the trees in such a storm as this?" questioned Mrs. Stanhope, fearfully. Before Dick could reply to this question there came more lightning and thunder, and then a crash in the woods as a big tree was laid low. "Oh, dear! Listen!" cried Nellie. "Suppose one of the trees should come down on the autos!" "That is what I was afraid of," added her mother. "I think we had better get out of here." "All right, if you say so," answered Dick. "I was only thinking about the awful wind. It's going to hit us pretty hard when we get out on the open road." The automobiles had drawn up side by side, so that those in one machine could converse with those in the other. Now Dick started up one of the touring cars and was followed a minute later by Tom, at the wheel of the other automobile. Once in the open air, those in the machines realized how furiously the wind was blowing and how heavily the rain was descending. The automobiles fairly shook and shivered in the blasts, and despite their efforts to keep themselves dry all those in the automobiles were speedily drenched. The downpour was so heavy that the landscape on all sides was completely blotted out. "Oh, Dick! what in the world shall we do?" gasped Dora, and it was plainly to be seen that she was badly frightened. "I'd turn in somewhere if I only knew where," answered her husband, trying his best to peer through the rain-spattered wind-shield. "I don't see anything like a house anywhere around, do you?" "No, I can't see a thing." Dick was running along cautiously, and now, of a sudden, he put on the brakes. Just ahead of him had appeared a flood of water, and how deep it was there was no telling. "Listen!" cried Mrs. Stanhope, when the automobile had come to a standstill. "Did I hear somebody calling?" Scarcely had she spoken when there came another vivid flash of lightning followed by more thunder, and then a downpour heavier than ever. As the lightning flashed out Dick was surprised to see a girl splashing through the water on the road and running toward them. "Look! Look!" he ejaculated. "Unless I am mistaken it's Ada Waltham!" "It is! It is!" exclaimed Dora. "What in the world is she doing out alone in such a downpour as this!" As the girl on the road came closer to the touring car Dick threw up one of the curtains, opened the door, and sprang out to meet her. "Oh, Mr. Rover!" gasped Ada Waltham, "is it really you? How fortunate! Won't you please help me?" "What's wrong?" he demanded quickly. "Chester! He's lost!" "Lost! Where?" "He tried to cross the river yonder in the storm, and the bridge broke and let the automobile down. I managed to save myself and jumped ashore, but he was carried off by the torrent." The rich girl clasped her hands nervously. "Oh, please save him, Mr. Rover! Please do!" By this time the second automobile had come up, and Dick waved to Tom to stop. Seeing that something was wrong, Tom quickly alighted, followed by Sam. "What's wrong?" came from both of the new arrivals, as they gazed at Ada Waltham in astonishment. "Miss Waltham says her brother is lost--that he has been carried off in the flood of yonder river," answered Dick. "Oh, please hurry!" burst out the girl eagerly. "Please hurry, or it will be too late! I don't think Chester can swim." "All right, we'll tell the others where we are going and then we'll do what we can," answered Dick. "But if that flood is very strong we may have----" Dick was unable to finish his speech. Just then there came more lightning followed by a deafening crash of thunder. Then the very heavens seemed to open, to let down a torrent of water which seemed to fairly engulf them. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" came from the women and the girls. "Oh! what a terrible storm!" "It is a cloudburst! That's what it is!" gasped Sam. "You're right!" ejaculated Tom. "Look! See how the water in the river is rising! It's a cloudburst and a flood!" Tom was right--there had been a cloudburst, but fortunately not directly over the heads of our friends, otherwise they might have perished in the terrible downpour which immediately followed. The catastrophe had occurred at a point about a mile farther up the river, and now the waters from this flood were coming down with great swiftness and rising higher and higher every instant. "We've got to get out of here," was Sam's comment. Already they were standing in water up to their ankles. "We've got to find higher ground." "Oh, Sam! Sam! please don't let my brother drown!" pleaded Ada Waltham, catching him by the arm. "We'll do what we can to save him, Ada, but we've got to save ourselves first," he answered. "See! there is a little hill ahead," came from Dick, as he did his best to look through the rain, which was coming down as heavily as ever. "Let us run to the top of the rise, then we'll be in less danger from the flood if the river gets much higher." He turned to the distracted girl. "Come, you had better go with us, then we will see what we can do for your brother." "Oh, Dick! Dick! If you don't hurry we'll be swept away, sure!" cried Dora, and then made room so that Ada might get in beside her. In a moment more the three Rovers had re-entered the touring cars, and then the machines were sent forward through the water, which was now nearly a foot deep on the roadway. "Oh! I never saw such a storm in my life," was Mrs. Laning's comment. "If only we get out of this alive!" breathed Mrs. Stanhope. Being naturally a very nervous woman, she was on the verge of a collapse. Running with care through the swirling water that covered the roadway, they at length reached a rise of ground several feet above the flood. Here they stopped at the highest point they could gain, bringing the machines side by side. When the storm had started in earnest the three Rovers had donned their raincoats. Now, with rain caps pulled well down over their heads, they once more alighted. "If you can show us where your auto went into the river we'll see if we can locate your brother," announced Dick to Ada Waltham. "Maybe he got out and is walking somewhere around here," he added, by way of encouragement. "Oh, dear! I'm so nervous I can scarcely stand!" gasped the girl, and when she reached the ground they had to support her. Splashing along through the water that covered the roadway, they slowly progressed until they gained a point where the youths felt it would be impossible for Ada Waltham to go any farther. "There is what is left of the bridge over yonder," cried the girl, pointing with her hand. The Rovers looked in that direction and saw a few sticks of timber sticking out of the swirling waters, which were running down stream as turbulently as ever. "I don't think there is any use of looking for Chester around that bridge," was Tom's remark. "Most likely he was carried down stream--how far there is no telling. I think the best thing we can do is to take a look farther down." "That is just my opinion," returned his older brother. "I think you had better return to the autos. It won't do any good for you to remain out in this storm," he continued to the girl. When the party got back to the cars they found a farmer and his grown son standing by the machines. "I was just telling the ladies you had better run your automobiles up to my place," said the farmer. "It's about ten or fifteen feet higher than this, and, consequently, just so much safer. Besides, the ladies can come into the house." "We want to find this young lady's brother. He was swept off the bridge yonder," returned Dick. "So the ladies were telling me," returned James Barlow. "You come up to the house, and I'll go out with you. We've got a big rowboat that may come in handy. Say! ain't this some storm? Worst let-down I've ever seen in these parts." CHAPTER XXIX THE RESCUE ON THE RIVER It did not take long to run the automobiles down the road and up a side lane leading to the farmer's house. Here the ladies got out, and then the machines were placed in a barn. "You will do all you can to find my brother?" wailed Ada Waltham, anxiously. "Yes, we'll do our level best," answered Dick; and Tom and Sam said practically the same. The Rovers consulted with Mr. Barlow and his son, James, and all five walked down as close to the edge of the river as the effects of the cloudburst would allow. They saw bushes, trees, and parts of buildings coming down the swiftly-flowing stream, the waters of which were now thick with mud. "Here is my rowboat," announced the farmer, pointing to where the craft was tied fast to a large tree. "You can use it if you want to, but it looks to me like rather a hopeless matter to try to do anything while the river is raging like this. You had better wait until it calms down a little." "The trouble of it is, it may then be too late," answered Tom. He looked at his brothers. "I think we can manage it," he added. The matter was discussed for fully a quarter of an hour, and during that time the storm seemed to let up a little. The first awful effects of the cloudburst were passing, and the water was going down slowly but surely. "We'll try it," announced Dick, at last. "If we can't manage the rowboat we'll come ashore farther down the stream." The craft was a substantial one, and there were two pairs of oars, and to these James Barlow added a sweep to be used as a rudder. Then the three Rovers embarked, Tom and Sam to do the rowing and the other brother to guide the craft. It was hard, dangerous work, as they realized as soon as they struck the current of the swollen stream. They were sent along pell-mell, and it was all they could do to keep themselves from crashing into one object or another on the way. "Look out, or you'll get upset!" yelled James Barlow to them, and then his voice was drowned out in the rushing and roaring of the elements around them. A half hour passed--which to the Rovers just then seemed almost an age. During that time the three kept their eyes wide open for a possible sight of Chester Waltham or anybody else who might have been carried away by the flood. "There is somebody!" suddenly called out Dick. "A man caught in a tree!" "Is it Waltham?" demanded Tom, quickly. "I can't make out. He is crouched in a heap on some limbs and is waving frantically for us." Not without additional peril did the Rovers turn the rowboat across the river, for the tree in which the man was crouching was on the shore opposite to that from which they had embarked. "Hello! there are two fellows in the tree!" announced Tom, as they drew closer. The second man crouched behind the trunk, so that they had not at first been able to see him. "Help! Help!" came from the fellow who had been waving so frantically to them. And now, as they drew still closer, they saw that the individual was Chester Waltham. The young millionaire was capless and coatless, and his face and hands were much scratched. "We're in luck, that's sure," was Tom's comment, in a low voice. "And I'm glad on his sister's account," added Sam. "When we bring the boat up beside the tree you lower yourself into it, Waltham," directed Dick. "But be careful how you do it or we'll upset. The current here is very swift." "Yes, yes, I'll be careful," answered the young millionaire in a voice which trembled so that he could scarcely speak. He was, of course, much surprised to discover that it was the Rovers who had come to his assistance. He was so exhausted that to get out of the tree in safety was all but impossible, and finally Dick had to assist him while Tom and Sam did all they could to hold the rowboat in position. "It's fine of you to come for me!" panted Chester Waltham, when he found himself safe in the rowboat. "Di-did my si-sister get you, or what?" "Yes, she escaped and told us of your plight," answered Dick, briefly. "Good for Ada! Now get me safe on shore once more and I'll pay you handsomely for your trouble." "You won't have to pay us a cent, Waltham," was Sam's quick reply. "Just sit still so that the boat doesn't go over." "Can I help you in any way?" "No. Sit still, that's all," came from Tom, sharply. The idea of having Waltham speak of paying them at such a time disgusted him. In the meantime the second fellow in the tree had moved down a limb or two with the idea of following Waltham into the rowboat. But now, as he looked at the three Rovers, he suddenly drew back. "Hi there! don't you want to come with us?" cried Dick, considerably astonished over the man's actions. To this the individual in the tree made no reply. He kept behind the trunk and finally waved a hand as if to motion them away. "Say! is that fellow crazy?" questioned Sam. "He must be," was Tom's comment. He turned to Chester Waltham. "Do you know him!" "No, he's a stranger to me. I tried to speak to him, but he was so scared and cold from the ducking he got he did nothing but chatter, so I couldn't understand him." "See here, it's foolish to stay up there," called out Dick. "Come on down and we'll take you ashore." "D-do-don't want to g-g-go," came the stuttered-out reply. "G-go-wheep!" came in a funny little whistle. "G-g-go a-away!" "Well, of all the scared fellows----" commenced Tom. "Great Scott! I wonder if that fellow can be Blackie Crowden!" ejaculated Sam. "G-g-go a-wa-way!" stuttered the man in the tree, and then tried to say something more, but the words only ended in a strange little whistle. "Sam, do you really think it can be the fellow who robbed Songbird?" demanded Dick. "What would he be doing away out here?" "Why, Blackie Crowden came from Denver or Colorado Springs," announced the youngest Rover. "Remember, we are not so many miles away from those places." He raised his voice. "You come down out of there, Crowden. We know you and we want you." At this command the man in the tree seemed much disturbed. He tried to speak, but because of his natural stutter and his terror of the situation through which he was passing, his effort was a failure. "If you don't come down, we'll haul you down," ordered Dick, finally, and then, after a little more urging, the fellow finally consented to come out of the tree, and dropped into the rowboat. "Blackie Crowden, as sure as fate!" murmured Sam, as soon as he got a good look at the fellow's features. "Well, if this isn't luck!" "Evidently you know this fellow," came from Chester Waltham, curiously. "We sure do!" declared Sam. "He's the man who knocked our college chum, John Powell, down on the road near Ashton and robbed him of four thousand dollars." "I di-didn't r-r-rob any bo-body," stuttered Blackie Crowden. "It's all a mi-mis-mis-mista-ta-take!" and he ended with his usual queer whistle. "We'll see about that later, Crowden," put in Dick, sternly. "Now you sit perfectly still or else maybe you'll go overboard and be drowned." It would be difficult to describe the joy with which Ada Waltham greeted her brother on his safe return. She flew into his arms and, as wet as he was, hugged him over and over again. "Oh! I was so afraid you'd be drowned, Chester!" and then she added quickly: "How grand it was for the Rovers to go to your assistance!" "It certainly was very fine of them to do it," returned the young millionaire. And now it must be admitted that he seemed very much disturbed in mind. "I'm going to pay them back, you see if I don't," he added, after a thoughtful pause. Blackie Crowden had done his best to make them believe that he was not guilty of the attack upon Songbird, but the Rovers would not listen to this, and put him through such a grilling that finally he broke down and confessed all. "I wouldn't have done the deed at all if it hadn't been that I was worried over another matter," he said amid much stuttering and whistling. "I ain't a bad man naturally, even though I do drink and gamble a little. If it hadn't been for a lawyer named Belright Fogg I would never have robbed the young man." "Belright Fogg!" came from the Rovers. "What has that shyster lawyer to do with it?" added Sam. "Do you know he is a shyster lawyer?" "We sure do!" added Tom, promptly. "Then you will understand me when I tell you how it was. Some time ago I was mixed up in a land transaction. It is a long story, and all I need to tell you is that Belright Fogg was in it, too. I did some things that I oughtn't to, and that gave Fogg a hold on me. Finally he claimed that I owed him three hundred dollars, and he said if I didn't pay up he would make it hot for me and maybe land me in jail. That got me scared and I said I'd get the money somehow. "Then by accident I saw Powell get the money from the bank, and I followed him on horseback, passed him, and took the cash, as you know. As soon as the deed was done I was sorry for it, but then it was too late," stuttered Blackie Crowden, and hung his head. "And did you go to Belright Fogg and give him the three hundred dollars?" queried Sam. "Yes. I met him in Leadenfield, at a road house kept by a Frenchman named Bissette." "Then I was right after all!" cried Sam. "I accused Fogg of meeting you, but he denied it." "Well, he got the three hundred all right enough," stuttered Crowden. "And how was it you tried to keep out of our sight in that flood?" asked Sam curiously. "Did you know us?" "I knew you--saw you follow me to the depot at Dentonville. You thought I got on that train. But I didn't--I took a night freight." "I see. That is why the authorities didn't spot you." "That's it. But you were asking about Fogg," continued Blackie Crowden, speculatively. "And did he know you had stolen the money?" demanded Dick, sharply. "I'm pretty sure he did, although he didn't ask any questions. He knew about the robbery, and he knew well enough that I didn't have any three hundred dollars of my own to give him." "What did you do with the rest of the money, Crowden? I hope you didn't spend it?" questioned Sam, anxiously. "Spend it!" came in a bitter stutter from the criminal. "I didn't get any chance to spend it. All I had was two hundred dollars!" "Then what became of the other thirty-five hundred?" questioned Tom. "It's in a room at the Ashton hotel, unless somebody found it and stole it." "At the Ashton hotel!" cried Sam. "That's it. You see, after I met Fogg I stopped at Ashton for one night and put up at the old hotel on the Cheesley turnpike. I hid the money in an out-of-the-way corner of a clothes closet, because I didn't want to carry it on my person. Then, when I was on the street, I heard that you were on my trail, and I got scared and I was afraid to go back to the hotel to get it." "Can you remember what room it was?" queried Tom. "Yes, it was a back room--number twenty-two. I put the money in a hole in the wall back of an upper shelf." "We had better notify the authorities at Ashton of this," said Tom to his brothers. "Let us telegraph to Songbird and tell him to go to Ashton," suggested Sam. "If the money is there, Songbird ought to have the fun of getting it and returning it to Mr. Sanderson." "All right, let's do it!" cried Dick; and so the matter was arranged. CHAPTER XXX MRS. SAM ROVER--CONCLUSION "Well, that's good news and I'm mighty glad to hear it." It was Dick who spoke, three days after the incidents recorded in the last chapter. Our friends had been staying at the farmhouse of Mr. Barlow. Blackie Crowden had been turned over to the local authorities, the oldest Rover making the charge against him. Crowden had pleaded for mercy, but the boys, while sympathizing with him, had thought it best to let the law take its course. Chester Waltham and his sister had also remained at the farmhouse, which fortunately was a large one, so that the whole party was not particularly crowded for room. The rescue of the young millionaire from the river had worked wonders, and he was now heartily ashamed of himself, not only for the way he had treated Grace but also on account of the instructions he had sent to his agents in Wall Street. "You can rest assured, Mr. Rover, that my opposition to your plans in New York will be withdrawn," he said to Dick. "I am going to telegraph to my agents as soon as I get a chance. And I want you and your brothers to understand that I appreciate thoroughly your goodness in coming to my rescue. It was a splendid thing to do. I am not going to insult you by offering you any reward--all I can say is that I thank you from the bottom of my heart." And that evening Chester Waltham and his sister had taken their departure, stating that the accident at the bridge had ended their idea of touring farther, and that they were going to take the first train they could get for the East. The thing that Dick called "good news" was a long "Night Letter" sent over the wires by Songbird. The former poet of Brill had received their message concerning Blackie Crowden, and also Belright Fogg, and had at once hurried to Ashton and to the hotel on the Cheesley turnpike. There, in room twenty-two, as mentioned by Crowden, he had found the package containing the thirty-five hundred dollars. Next he had called on Belright Fogg and had scared the shyster lawyer so completely that Fogg had returned the three hundred dollars received from Crowden with scarcely a protest. Then the happy youth had driven over to the Sanderson place. The Sandersons had been surprised to see him and amazed to learn that he had recovered so large a portion of the stolen money. "As I had already paid Mr. Sanderson one hundred dollars," wrote Songbird, "it made a total of thirty-nine hundred returned to him, and he told me that I need not bother about the other hundred. But I paid it just the same, for I had just been fortunate enough to sell six of my poems--two to a magazine and four to a weekly paper--for one hundred and sixty dollars. "Of course we had a grand time, and Mr. Sanderson has forgiven everything. He and Minnie think you are mighty smart fellows, and I agree with them. Minnie and I have fixed matters all up between us, and we are the happiest couple you ever saw. I don't know how to thank you enough for what you have done for me, and all I can add is, God bless you, every one!" "Good old Songbird!" murmured Sam, as he read the communication a second time. "I'll wager he feels a hundred per cent. better than he did." "And to think he sold six of his poems!" commented Tom. "I shouldn't wonder if he thinks more of that than he does of getting the money back," he added, somewhat drily. On the following day came another telegram, this time from Mr. Rover, stating that the opposition of the Waltham interests in Wall Street had been suddenly withdrawn. But he added that business matters in the metropolis were becoming more and more arduous for him, and he asked when Dick expected to get back. "I'm afraid it's getting too much for dear, old dad," was Dick's comment, on perusing this message. "I think the best thing I can do is to get back and help him." "Well, if you go back, I think I'll go back myself," said Tom. "Anyway, this tour seems to have come to a standstill, with so much rain." "I'm willing to go back if you fellows say so," put in Sam. "I'll wager he and Grace want to get ready for their wedding," remarked Tom, slily. "That's just what we do," returned Sam, boldly. "We're going to be married early this fall, aren't we, Grace?" and he gazed fondly at the girl, who nodded, and then turned away to hide her blushes. But the tour did not come to an end as quickly as might have been expected. On the day following it was such fair weather that they left the Barlow farm and started once more on their trip westward. Colorado Springs was soon gained, and, passing on to Manitou, they left the automobiles, and took the cog railway to the summit of Pike's Peak. Then, on the day following, they motored up to Denver. "We can ship our automobiles home by freight," said Dick, "and by returning by train we can be back in New York in no time." A week later found the entire party once more in the East. While Dick and Tom settled down to help their father at the offices in Wall Street, the others returned to Valley Brook and to Cedarville, to prepare for the coming wedding. "And where is it to be, Sam?" questioned Tom, when the brothers were on the point of parting. "Oh, it can only be in one place," was Sam's answer. "And I guess I know where that is," returned Tom, with a grin. Both Dick and Tom had been married in the Cedarville Union Church, a little stone edifice covered with ivy, which was located not a great distance from the homes of the Lanings and the Stanhopes, and also Putnam Hall. As before, it was a question if the numerous guests who were expected to the ceremony would be able to get into the building. But both Grace and Sam said they would have to make the best of it. As soon as the wedding invitations were issued, the presents began to come in, and they were fully as numerous and as costly as had been the gifts bestowed upon Dora and upon Nellie. From Mr. Rover came, as was to be expected, a bankbook containing an amount written therein which was the duplicate of that he had bestowed upon Dick and Dora and likewise upon Tom and Nellie. "You can always depend on dad," was Sam's comment, his voice choking a little. "The best dad anybody ever had!" "Indeed you are right!" answered the bride-to-be. "And I'm going to love him just as if he were my own father." Sam's own present to his bride was a gold wrist-watch set in diamonds and pearls--a beautiful affair over which the happy girl went wild with delight. At last came the eventful day, full of golden sunshine. All of the Rovers had arrived in Cedarville and were quartered at the hotel. Many other guests were at the Stanhope homestead and at the Laning farm, and still others--former cadets--had come back not only to attend the wedding but also to take another look at dear old Putnam Hall. Among the old guard who had thus presented themselves were Fred Garrison, Larry Colby, Bart Conners and Harry Blossom. Among those who had attended Brill were Stanley Browne, Spud Jackson, Bob Grimes and, of course, Songbird. "I'm engaged to Minnie," whispered the latter to the Rovers at the first opportunity. "We are going to be married just as soon as my income will permit. And what do you think? I've sold four more poems--got eighty dollars for them," and his face beamed as they had never seen it shine before. "I congratulate you, Songbird," returned Sam, heartily. "I certainly hope you get to be the best-known poet in the United States." "Oh, I don't know about that. I am going to buckle down to business. My uncle thinks I am doing wonderfully well, and he says if I keep on he is going to give me a substantial increase in salary after the first of the year. I'm going to write verses just as a side issue." As at the other weddings, the ceremony was set for high noon. Soon the guests began to arrive, and before long the old church was crowded to its capacity, with many standing up in the aisles and in the rear and even at the side windows, which were wide open. Captain Putnam, in full uniform and looking a little grayer than ever, was there, and with him, George Strong, his head assistant, with whom Sam had always been very friendly. There were also numerous girls there who had formerly attended Hope Seminary, and of these one was a flower girl and two were bridesmaids. Sam's best man was his old Putnam Hall chum, Fred Garrison, while among the ushers were Songbird, Stanley, Spud, Bob, and some others of his former classmates. Presently the organ pealed out and the minister appeared, followed a moment later by Sam. Then up the aisle came Grace on the arm of Mr. Laning, and daintily attired in white with a flowing veil beset with orange blossoms. "Oh, how pretty she looks!" said more than one; and they spoke the truth, for Grace certainly made a beautiful bride. The ceremony was a brief but solemn one, and then, as the organ pealed out joyously, the happy pair walked forth from the church, to enter an automobile which whirled them off to the Laning homestead. To that place they were followed by a great number of invited guests. An elaborate wedding dinner had been prepared, and an orchestra from the city had been hired, and all sat down to a feast of good things with music. "We'll have to give them a send-off--same as they gave me," said Tom to his brother Dick, while the festivities were at their height. "They'll be getting ready to go away soon." "Sure! we'll give them a send-off," returned the oldest brother. "Come on, let us get busy." Down at the barns an automobile was in readiness to take Sam and his bride away on their wedding trip. This car Dick and Tom and a number of others lost no time in decorating with white streamers and a placard which read: _We are on our wedding trip. Congratulate us._ "Aren't you going to stay to have a dance?" questioned Nellie of her sister, a little later. "Of course," answered Grace; and shortly after that she and Sam tripped around to the tuneful measures of a two-step. All of the young folks present joined in, the older folks looking on with much satisfaction. "I can hardly believe it," declared old Aunt Martha, as she took off her spectacles to wipe her eyes. "Why, it don't seem no time since Sam was just a baby!" The dancing continued for some time but then, of a sudden, came a cry from Dora: "Where are Sam and Grace? I don't see them anywhere." "They are gone! They have given us the slip!" "No, they've gone upstairs. Wait here, and we'll give them a shower." The young folks gathered in the hallway and out on the piazza, and a few minutes later Sam and Grace appeared, both ready for their tour. Then came a grand shower of rice and confetti, mingled with two or three old shoes, and in the midst of this the happy, laughing young couple escaped to the automobile which was now drawn up before the door. The chauffeur was ready for the start, and in an instant more the machine shot down the lane and out into the roadway. "Good-bye! Good-bye and good luck to you!" was the cry. "Good-bye, everybody!" came back from the touring car, and Sam and Grace stood up to wave their hands to those left behind. Then the touring car disappeared around a turn of the road, and they were gone. * * * * * And now let me add a few words more and thus bring to a close this long series of adventures in which the three Rover boys, Dick, Tom, and Sam, have played such an important part. A number of years have passed and many changes of importance have occurred. Mr. Anderson Rover has retired from active participation in The Rover Company, and Dick is now the president, with Tom secretary and Sam treasurer. The concern is doing remarkably well and all of the Rovers are reported to be wealthy. The father has returned to the farm at Valley Brook, where he lives in peace and comfort with Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha, who, despite their years, are still in the best of health. A year after Sam's marriage to Grace, Songbird Powell married Minnie Sanderson. The would-be poet has made quite a business man of himself and, what perhaps is of even greater pleasure to himself, has had many of his poems accepted by our leading periodicals. When Sam was first married he went to live in an apartment close to those occupied by Dick and Tom, but two years later the three brothers had a chance to buy a beautiful plot of ground on Riverside Drive, facing the noble Hudson River, and on this they built three beautiful houses adjoining one another. "I guess we are in New York to stay," was the way the oldest brother had expressed himself, "and if that is so we may as well make ourselves as comfortable here as possible." Before the young folks moved into the new homes Dick and Dora were blessed with a little son, who later on was named John after Mr. John Laning. Little Jack, as he was always called by the others, was a wonderfully bright and clever lad and a great source of comfort to his parents. Later still the young couple had a daughter, whom they named Martha after Dick's aunt. Tom and Nellie had twin boys that were speedily christened Andy after Mr. Anderson Rover, and Randy after Tom's Uncle Randolph. Then Sam came along with a daughter, who was called Mary after Mrs. Laning and with a son, whom he called Fred after his old school chum, Fred Garrison. The young Rover boys had a great many qualities similar to those displayed by their fathers. Little Jack was as strong and sturdy as Dick had ever been, and young Fred had many of the peculiarities of Sam, while Andy and Randy, the twins, were the equal of their father, Tom, for creating fun. "I don't know what we're ever going to do with those kids," remarked Tom, one day, after Andy and Randy had played a big joke on Jack and Fred. "Some day they'll pull the house down over our ears." "Well, Andy and Randy are simply chips of the old block," laughed Dick Rover. "I suppose we'll all have to do as our folks did with us--send the lads off to some strict boarding school." "If I ever do send them off, I know where it will be," answered Tom Rover. "Our old Putnam Hall chum, Larry Colby, has opened a first-class military academy which he calls Colby Hall. If I ever send them away I think I'll send them to Larry." "That wouldn't be a half bad idea," put in Sam Rover. "Larry was always a first-class fellow and I don't doubt but what he is running a first-class school." "Well, those boys are too young yet to leave home," was Dick Rover's comment. "If they are to go to boarding school that must come later." A few years after that Jack, Andy and Randy, and Fred were sent to Colby Hall, and it is possible that some day I may tell you of what happened there to this younger generation of Rovers. Dick, Tom, and Sam were happy, and with good reason. They had the best of wives, and children that they dearly loved, and though they worked hard they were surrounded with every comfort. Every summer, and at Christmas time, they left New York either for Valley Brook or for Cedarville, there to receive the warmest of welcomes. Life looked rosy to all of them, and here we will leave them and say good-bye. THE END _This Isn't All!_ Would you like to know what became of the good friends you have made in this book? Would you like to read other stories continuing their adventures and experiences, or other books quite as entertaining by the same author? On the _reverse side_ of the wrapper which comes with this book, you will find a wonderful list of stories which you can buy at the same store where you got this book. _Don't throw away the Wrapper_ _Use it as a handy catalog of the books you want some day to have. But in case you do mislay it, write to the Publishers for a complete catalog._ THE FAMOUS ROVER BOYS SERIES By ARTHUR M. WINFIELD (EDWARD STRATEMEYER) Beautiful Wrappers in Full Color [Illustration] No stories for boys ever published have attained the tremendous popularity of this famous series. Since the publication of the first volume, The Rover Boys at School, some years ago, over three million copies of these books have been sold. They are well written stories dealing with the Rover boys in a great many different kinds of activities and adventures. Each volume holds something of interest to every adventure loving boy. A complete list of titles is printed on the opposite page. FAMOUS ROVER BOYS SERIES BY ARTHUR M. WINFIELD (Edward Stratemeyer) OVER THREE MILLION COPIES SOLD OF THIS SERIES. Uniform Style of Binding. Colored Wrappers. Every Volume Complete in Itself. THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN THE ROVER BOYS IN THE JUNGLE THE ROVER BOYS OUT WEST THE ROVER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES THE ROVER BOYS IN THE MOUNTAINS THE ROVER BOYS ON LAND AND SEA THE ROVER BOYS IN CAMP THE ROVER BOYS ON THE RIVER THE ROVER BOYS ON THE PLAINS THE ROVER BOYS IN SOUTHERN WATERS THE ROVER BOYS ON THE FARM THE ROVER BOYS ON TREASURE ISLE THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE THE ROVER BOYS DOWN EAST THE ROVER BOYS IN THE AIR THE ROVER BOYS IN NEW YORK THE ROVER BOYS IN ALASKA THE ROVER BOYS IN BUSINESS THE ROVER BOYS ON A TOUR THE ROVER BOYS AT COLBY HALL THE ROVER BOYS ON SNOWSHOE ISLAND THE ROVER BOYS UNDER CANVAS THE ROVER BOYS ON A HUNT THE ROVER BOYS IN THE LAND OF LUCK THE ROVER BOYS AT BIG HORN RANCH THE ROVER BOYS AT BIG BEAR LAKE THE ROVER BOYS SHIPWRECKED THE ROVER BOYS ON SUNSET TRAIL THE ROVER BOYS WINNING A FORTUNE GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK WESTERN STORIES FOR BOYS By JAMES CODY FERRIS Individual Colored Wrappers and Illustrations by WALTER S. ROGERS Each Volume Complete in Itself. Thrilling tales of the great west, told primarily for boys but which will be read by all who love mystery, rapid action, and adventures in the great open spaces. The Manly Boys, Roy and Teddy, are the sons of an old ranchman, the owner of many thousands of heads of cattle. The lads know how to ride, how to shoot, and how to take care of themselves under any and all circumstances. The cowboys of the X Bar X Ranch are real cowboys, on the job when required but full of fun and daring--a bunch any reader will be delighted to know. THE X BAR X BOYS ON THE RANCH THE X BAR X BOYS IN THUNDER CANYON THE X BAR X BOYS ON WHIRLPOOL RIVER THE X BAR X BOYS ON BIG BISON TRAIL THE X BAR X BOYS AT THE ROUND-UP THE X BAR X BOYS AT NUGGET CAMP THE X BAR X BOYS AT RUSTLER'S GAP THE X BAR X BOYS AT GRIZZLY PASS THE X BAR X BOYS LOST IN THE ROCKIES GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK Transcriber's Notes: --Handful of punctuation and printer inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --The author's long dash style has been preserved. 
48848	----	[Illustration: "BANG!" WENT THE PISTOL AND SIX LEGS AND SIX ARMS BEGAN TO WORK LIKE PISTONS. --Page 151.] FRANK ARMSTRONG AT QUEENS By MATTHEW M. COLTON AUTHOR OF "Frank Armstrong at College," "Frank Armstrong's Vacation," "Frank Armstrong, Drop Kicker," "Frank Armstrong, Captain of the Nine," "Frank Armstrong's Second Term." [Illustration] A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1911, BY HURST & COMPANY MADE IN U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. FRANK ENCOUNTERS A BULLY 5 II. AN AFTERNOON OF FOOTBALL 18 III. JIMMY GETS IN THE GAME 29 IV. FRANK HAS A NEW NAME 41 V. CAPTURED BY THE ENEMY 51 VI. HAZING AND THE WATER CURE 64 VII. SCHOOL SPIRIT AND SCHOOL INFLUENCES 76 VIII. QUEEN'S MEETS BARROWS AT FOOTBALL 88 IX. WHAT CAME OF A TUMBLE 102 X. FRANK SPRINGS A SURPRISE 112 XI. A PROSPECTIVE PUPIL 123 XII. A TRY-OUT ON THE TRACK 134 XIII. LEARNING TO RUN THE HUNDRED 145 XIV. A MYSTERIOUS APPEARANCE 156 XV. FRANK WINS HONORS ON THE TRACK 170 XVI. WARWICK INVADES QUEEN'S 182 XVII. THE GREAT FOOTBALL GAME 194 XVIII. GAMMA TAU RECEIVES A SHOCK 211 XIX. AN ENCOUNTER WITH THE MYSTERY 224 XX. A CONTEST AT THE GYMNASIUM 241 XXI. THE LOSS OF A RINK 252 XXII. A HEROIC RESCUE 265 XXIII. A CHALLENGE FROM WARWICK 279 XXIV. A GIFT AND A THEFT 294 XXV. THE ICE CARNIVAL 305 Frank Armstrong at Queen's. CHAPTER I. FRANK ENCOUNTERS A BULLY. "Can you tell me how to get to Warren Hall, please?" The question was addressed by a slender youth of fourteen to a group of lads lolling on the grass at the foot of a great elm in the yard of Queen's School. "Well, I guess the best way would be to walk, unless you have an automobile," was the flippant answer of a freckle-faced and aggressive member of the group, who, lying with his hands under his head, gazed up at the questioner with an impish grin. The rest of the crowd laughed loudly at the sally. "I mean," said the newcomer, visibly embarrassed with this unkindly reception, "in which direction is Warren Hall?" "Follow your nose and your two big toes, kid, and you'll get there all right," was the rude response from the self-appointed guide, and at this several of the recumbent youths rolled around on the ground with laughter. It was great, this exhibition of wit. Chip Dixon considered himself brighter than the morning sun, and through a certain strength of his own held sway over his satellites, some of whom were with him this particular afternoon. The boy asking for information, at the second rebuff looked the speaker coolly in the eye. His embarrassment had gone now, and in its place came a look of disdain. He threw his head back. "I asked for Warren Hall because I'm going there, and I'm not sure which one it is, but this smart fellow," indicating Chip, "doesn't have sense enough to answer a straight question. Can anyone tell me?" He cast his eye around the group. A look of amazement that a new boy should dare to cross words with this rough and ready fire-eater, spread over the faces of several of them, and a titter ran around, for Chip was not over well liked in the school. Before anyone had time to answer, Chip himself sprang to his feet with clenched fists. He liked to say sharp things, but like many others, young and old, he could not stand his own medicine, and the titter angered him no less than the cool looking boy who had drawn it forth. "Smart, am I?" he yelled, rushing up to the newcomer. "I'll show you whether I'm smart or not," and he pushed his face up close to that of the new boy, who held his ground bravely in the rush of the fellow who evidently meant fight. In an instant the two were surrounded. "Ow! ow!" yelled Chip, just at the moment he appeared to be ready to land his fist on the unoffending boy, "ow! ow! I'll kill you for that," and he grabbed one of his feet and danced around on the other in agony. The heavy suit case, which the newcomer carried had been dropped on the toes of Chip's thin pumps, and must have hurt cruelly. And it looked as if it had been dropped intentionally. "I'll pay you for that, you fresh kid," and Chip made another rush. "Cheese it, Chip, here's Parks. Cut it out." Chip subsided quickly, assumed an air of easy indifference, and began to talk with those of his cronies nearest to him as if nothing had happened. Mr. Robert Parks, the assistant master of the school, and a martinet for discipline, was swinging rapidly down the walk, unaware that anything out of the ordinary was taking place. He was a young man in appearance, perhaps not over thirty-five, but he had trained for the army, and showed it in his bearing. A railroad accident had deprived him of his left arm, and as army service was impossible for him, he took up the work of teaching. He nodded pleasantly to the boys as he approached them, and then stopped suddenly. "Hello, Armstrong," he said with surprise, as he saw the strange lad standing there, "I was just going across to your room. Been talking with your father on the telephone and I promised him I'd see you settled all right. He said that he had been unable to come up with you, but described you so well I knew you at once. Glad you fell in with friends, though," added Mr. Parks, glancing around the circle of faces. "They are not friends of mine. I was just asking for directions when you came up," answered Frank, for the new boy was none other than Frank Armstrong. He had made up his mind to enter Queen's in the fall term after all, and as his health was so robust owing to the great vacation he had had at Seawall and in the Everglades, his mother and father offered no objections, and so here he was faring forth alone. "They have given you a room in Warren Hall, I believe, haven't they?" said Mr. Parks. "Yes, sir; eighteen is the number." "Alone?" "No, a fellow named Gleason is with me, from New York State, I think. I don't know him." "Well, come along," said Mr. Parks, and led the way in the direction of Frank's future domicile. "So that's Frank Armstrong, is it?" growled Chip, still with his feathers ruffled from the setback he had received. "I've heard of him and he's what I call a pretty fresh guy. If old Parks hadn't showed up when he did I would have knocked a little freshness out of him." "He wasn't as fresh as you were," broke in little Willie Patterson. "He asked a civil question and you began to be funny before any of us had time to answer. And, besides, it mightn't have been so easy to knock what you say is 'freshness' out of him. I notice he didn't back up much when you rushed him. Was the suit case heavy?" he added mockingly. Willie's diminutive size made him bold, and, besides, wasn't his sturdy but slow-witted room-mate, A. B. C. Sinclair, commonly called Alphabet, there to fight his battles for him in case his sharp tongue ran him into difficulties? Dixon knew he was at a disadvantage, shut his jaws tight and said nothing, but if his look meant anything it meant that a heavy hand was to fall on Frank at the first opportunity. "That's the fellow the papers have been talking about. Call him the 'great swimmer boy of Milton' because he got in a race with the champion Darnell down in Florida somewhere," sneered one of Chip's cronies, anxious to find favor in the eyes of his boss. "Swimmer! My eye," grunted Chip. "I could tie one hand behind me and beat him out." Chip boasted of being something of a swimmer himself, and he could not believe that the slender boy, whom he had tried to jolly and later to scare, had the strength to swim against him. "If I get him in the water some time I'll drown him." "I don't know about that," said Willie. "I think he's all right, and I'm going up to his room and tell him we are not all grouches like you are," and picking himself up he steered rapidly for Warren Hall to square matters with his own conscience. The bearing of the new boy had won him completely. Without a hint of the storm of injured feelings left behind, and consequently unheeding, Mr. Parks walked rapidly with Frank across the school quadrangle to Warren, and shortly arrived at the quaint old doorway of the second entry. "Warren was the first of the buildings of Queen's," said Mr. Parks as they trudged along. "It used to be the whole school when there were only about twenty-five boys. That was fifty years ago, but as the number of pupils increased these other buildings were added, and we have room now for a hundred and eighty boys altogether." "Yes, I know the school has been growing. Father says it's the best in the state." "Well, I think there are none better, even though our friends of the Warwick school up the river put on airs occasionally," said Mr. Parks. "That's Russell Hall across the north end of the yard where the recitation rooms are," he continued, "and the school library and the social hall; and at the north end of Warren there, is the chapel. Just across from Warren is Honeywell where the school officers are. Doctor Hobart, the head of the school--you know him, of course--has his quarters in Warren. So you'll have to be on your best behavior." And Parks smiled down on the lad to whom he was much attracted. They were now at the foot of the entry where was located No. 18. Mr. Parks plunged up the stairs and Frank followed at his heels, taking time to note the queer old crooked stairway, the newel post which was nothing more than a round block of wood carved with many initials, and the hand rail scarred with many a knife line where the ambitious initial cutters had dug deep to impress their fame on succeeding generations. The painted plaster of one side of the stairway was scrawled with initials, impromptu verses and rude sketches, caricatures evidently of school characters. "Here we are," said Frank's guide, stopping before a door on the second landing. "Let's see if Gleason's in," and he tapped lightly. There was no response, and turning the knob he stepped within. Frank followed at his heels, and entered what was to be his new home for a number of months at least. "Well, I wouldn't say Gleason was much of a hand at keeping things tidy," observed Mr. Parks. "Maybe you can help him. I wish you luck. If I can assist in any way, just call on me. I have an office in Russell Hall, ground floor, first entry, and my office hours are printed on a slip on the door. Come and see me when you get settled. Good day." "Good day, sir, and thank you for your kindness," replied Frank, and the door shut. Parks was right when he said Gleason was not a tidy housekeeper, for the place was in heaped up disorder. Evidently Gleason had not yet succeeded in settling himself. His clothes were scattered around the room, and mateless shoes bestrewed the floor. A laundry box lay tipped on the window seat with half its contents on the cushion and half on the floor, and the center table was filled with a promiscuous assortment of books, writing materials, a tennis racket, and several tennis balls reposing on a battered flannel cap. Out of this crazy jumble on the table, the drop light rose like a mushroom-topped lighthouse. The fine fireplace was piled full of crumpled papers. Frank's own things had been tumbled into his bedroom, and there lay his first work of straightening things out. He was busily engaged in setting things in order when there came a tap on the outer door, and following the tap, without waiting on ceremony, a hand pushed it open. Frank turned and saw his visitor, noticing at once that it was one of the group he had encountered a little while before. "You're Frank Armstrong," said the newcomer. "That's my name." "Well, my name's Patterson, Wee Willie they call me because I'm so big." The manner was friendly and genial. Frank grinned. "Glad to see you," he said as Wee Willie stuck out his hand. The visitor continued: "I happened to be in that bunch of fellows this afternoon, and I came up to apologize for Queen's, and to tell you that Chip Dixon made me sick. He didn't speak for the school when he cut into you this afternoon so heavy." "Who is he?" "He's in my class, a Junior, and belongs to the society that thinks it runs this school, but he's a big bluff, if anyone should ask you about it. He's got most of us scared to death because he's so handy with his tongue and his fist, but it tickled me to death to see you stand up to him this afternoon. Christopher is his name, but 'Chip' is a nickname they've given him." "I couldn't do anything else, could I?" "No, of course not, but it is going to put you in bad with Gamma Tau all right. They are awfully clannish." "Do you belong?" asked Frank. "No, they didn't think enough of me to give me a bid, but I don't care. I don't like the bunch they took from our class, and I would rather be outside looking in, than inside looking out. Gamma Tau used to be looked up to, but lately they have stopped giving the election for merit. It's all politics now, and the master, old Pop Eye Hobart, said he would abolish it if they didn't stop their monkeying and get down to first principles." "Well, I'm sure I don't care whether I get an election or not, if it's that kind of a society. I'd rather stay out." "The trouble is that the society runs the athletics of this school," continued the diminutive oracle, "and it's a hard job to make any team if you don't have the Gamma Tau pin. If you do have it, no matter how rank you may be, you're IT with a large capital I." "Then that's what's the matter with your teams up here, is it?" queried Frank, who had kept an eye on Queen's school athletics for some time, and knew that victories were rarities. "Hit it first time, right in the eye. We are punky to the state of rottenness, and we'll remain that way till the Gamma gets its head knocked off, and the best athletes in the school get a chance. As it is now, the best we have don't try. "Well, I must be off," said Wee Willie, as he slid from the window seat. "I just wanted to tell you we're not all like Chip Dixon. He's a crab and walks backward and doesn't know it. Ta ta, see you later," and the Wee One swung himself out of the door and clattered down the stairs, leaving Frank to straighten out his effects as best he might, and puzzle on the first tangle of life at school in which he found himself. CHAPTER II. AN AFTERNOON OF FOOTBALL. Frank had succeeded, after some hard work, in getting order out of chaos, and was in the act of unpacking his suit case when there was a thundering clatter on the stairs, and Jimmy, followed more leisurely by Lewis, broke into the room without even the ceremony of knocking. "Well, if it isn't my old eel from Seawall," shouted Jimmy boisterously. "We thought you were never coming." "You certainly took your time," said Lewis. "You were only going to be a week late and here half the month is gone and half the football schedule's been played. Give an account of yourself." "Well, you see, they weren't prepared to have me go till the winter term, and it takes father a long time to change his mind after he gets it made up to one thing. But mother and I got at him and proved to him that I was as fit as a race horse and there would be no more breaking down. So here I am." "And about time, too. You're going out for the football team, I suppose," said Jimmy. "You see the school isn't a very big one, and everyone who is heavy enough takes a try at it. Even Lewis here is on the squad." "Sure thing," nodded Lewis from the window seat. "I didn't intend to try for it, but the captain sent over one day and said it wouldn't be fair to the school if I hid all my talent under a bushel." "Yes, and it's been hid under a sweater ever since. Lewis is a fine ornament to any sideline," said Jimmy. "Are you on the team, Jimmy?" "O, no. I'm just on the squad doing what they tell me to. I got a chance yesterday afternoon to play tackle, but I'm about as much at home playing up in the line as a tadpole in a haymow. The tackle opposite me played horse with me. And the coach glared at me savagely whenever the play went over me, and that was every time, I guess." "Didn't he know you were a back?" asked Frank. "I ventured to tell him that, but he told me in the most courteous fashion to shut up, and I shut." "Don't you think you have a chance?" "About as much chance as I have to be president, which, considering that there are somewhere about ten million possible candidates, is a problem that even Lewis could figure." "Jimmy hasn't got a chance to make the team, Frank. I haven't been here but three weeks, and it's as plain as the nose on your face that if you haven't a Gamma pin on you, you might as well go way back and be comfortably seated. Tom Harding, the captain, is a Gamma, the manager is a Gamma, and I know for a fact that ten out of the eleven are in the same society." "It's a regular open and shut game," added Jimmy. "Isn't there another society here?" inquired Frank. "What's the matter with it?" "Alpha Beta. It doesn't count," said Lewis contemptuously. "Gamma Tau is the oldest society, and has had things all its own way for some years. Then some of the fellows, about six years ago, got together and ran in Alpha Beta, and for a little while it made a good fight against its older rival. But as every one was trying for the Gamma, the Alpha got the second run of fellows until now it isn't an honor to belong to it, and the fellows who don't get Gamma turn the other down flat, preferring to have nothing." "Seems like a chance for a third," observed Frank. "Wonder it hasn't been started." "No one has the nerve to start it," said Lewis. "They growl and growl at the Gamma like nice little dogs, but they never bite." "Gee whiz, it's nearly practice time," cried Jimmy. "We go out from four to five every day, and we've just time to make it. Stop your prinking, and come along. You can sit on the bleachers and see football as she is played by Lewis and me." Frank, nothing loth, banged shut the suit case, and putting on his cap was soon scampering with the two friends toward the playground. Queen's school playground was the gift of a wealthy graduate of the school who had kept his interest in the old place. Its equipment was most complete. The playground lay to the west of the line of school buildings,--gridiron, diamond, and boat-house, and beyond the latter the tennis courts, all models in themselves, and ample in size for the needs of the school for many years to come. Nature had done her share in the first place with a tract of land almost as level as a floor and some thirty acres in extent, but the hand of man completed the job, and the playground was one of the show places of Queen's School. Its rather low level, as it bordered on the Wampaug river, insured a greenness of verdure no matter how dry the season. Trained ground keepers kept the place like a gentleman's garden. Stands which would accommodate several thousand people were ranged on both sides of the gridiron, and a much smaller but prettily covered stand gave ample room for spectators at the diamond. The boat-house was well furnished with canoes, pair oars and gigs, and even boasted a fine cedar eight-oared shell and a heavier eight called a barge. But Queen's rowing had declined in late years, and it had been some time since the shell held a victorious crew. Around the gridiron was the running track, a pretty and well kept cinder path on which the track meets of the school were held, and where every other year Queen's met Warwick in their annual struggle. "Isn't she a beauty?" cried Jimmy, waving his hand with a proprietor's sense of ownership over the whole fair prospect, as the boys reached the crest of the little hill behind Warren Hall. The whole of the playground dotted with exercising boys lay open to their view. It surely was a beauty; and Frank felt his heart swell with pride in the knowledge that he was now a part of it. What worlds there were to conquer here! Would he be able to win his place in these fields? "I'll do my best," he whispered to himself. "This is the gymnasium," said Lewis, pointing to a low structure between the gridiron and the diamond. "Let's make tracks. There's the coach now. You go right over to the bleachers, and we'll be dressed on the field in a few minutes. Practice will begin very soon." They parted, and Frank went on alone. When he reached his seat, a score of fellows, who had dressed early, were tumbling around on the ground like so many kittens, falling on the ball which was being tossed to them by the coach, big Harry Horton, who at the same time belabored them with words. "Fenton, you fall on that ball like a hippopotamus; what are you doing, playing leap-frog? That's not the way. Dive for it, and gather it in to you. Try again." Fenton tried again, but with no better success. "Look,--this way!" And Horton rolled the ball along the ground, sprang after it like a cat, turning slightly sideways in the air, making a little pocket between knees and arms as he flew. When he fetched up, the ball was snugly tucked close to his body in a position which would make it perfectly safe from any attempts by fair or foul tactics. Fenton was impressed and made another try, doing it a little better. "Good, now, MacIntosh, make it sure. When you go for the ball don't go in such a great hurry. When you're in so big a hurry you don't know what you're doing; make it safe. Keep your head, even when you leave your feet." Horton had been a great player in his day on one of the big college teams, and had taken up the work of athletic director temporarily at Queen's, where he was greatly liked. The squad was augmented by fifteen or twenty boys as this preliminary instruction was going on, and practice now began in earnest. Among those in the field, Jimmy took his place. Frank could see that he was skillful at falling on the ball, and that he handled himself like a cat. As he was laughing at some of the attempts of Lewis to corral the rolling ball, a voice alongside cried: "Hello, Armstrong, why aren't you in the fray?" and turning, Frank saw approaching him Wee Willie Patterson. "Don't mind if I sit down with you?" said the Wee One cordially. "Mighty glad if you want to," returned Frank, who had taken a great liking to the diminutive but independent Patterson. "It was lonesome here alone." "There's your friend of this afternoon, Mr. Chip Dixon, talking with Captain Harding. He's quarterback of the eleven, and a mighty good one at that. He can play the game if he can't do anything else. He pretty near runs the team, too, for Harding is not much more than a figurehead, even though he is a Senior. "There she goes now. We're going to have a line-up, and a bit of a scrimmage, I guess." "First and Second elevens," cried Horton from the field, and as they took their positions,--"now make this good. We are only going to have fifteen minutes of it. Second team's ball for the kick-off." Jimmy was not in either line-up, Frank noticed with regret, but thought that maybe he'd get in before the end. "Bing." Away shot the ball from midfield driven by the sturdy toe of Duncan McLeod's foot. It settled in the arms of the First eleven's fullback, twenty-five yards down the field, and that individual came ripping back, tossing the Second's players over like nine-pins, until he had brought the ball back to midfield. "Peaches, peaches," cried the spectators. "Line-up, quick," yelled the coach who was acting as coach and referee as well. "You would have gone clear through," he said to the fullback, slapping him on the back as he dodged through behind to take his position at the other end of the line, "if you had used your arm as I told you. Remember it next time." "Come, now, make it go," barked Dixon, "1--7--33." There was a quick pass, and Hillard, the left half, had the ball, and with a good interference shot for the right end of the Second's line. The defensive tackle was nicely put out of the play, and the right half cut across and took care of the waiting end. Hillard was quickly past the line and bearing off well to out-distance the defensive half. "Look at the fool," yelled Wee Willie, "he has left his interference behind him. Morton will nip him. What did I tell you! O, rot, look at that!" Hillard had indeed left his interference, disobeying orders, but he thought he was fast and agile enough to clear the quarterback of the Second team, who was waiting his coming on the 20-yard line, inching over toward the side lines so that the runner would have less ground in which to dodge. In spite of his plan and his speed, Hillard could not avoid those eager arms of the quarter, and down he went in a whirling tackle. The ball flew from his grasp as he struck the ground, then it bounced crazily around, and finally nestled itself in the arms of Tompkins, the Second's left half who had come across to strengthen his quarter's defense. Tompkins, seeing his opportunity, was away to the side of the field from which the play had come like the wind, every man Jack of the First eleven having been carried in the direction of Hillard. Before they could bring themselves to a halt, and turn on their tracks, Tompkins had gathered speed. Once a tackle got a hand on him, but he shook it off, and with a clear field carried the ball across the goal line, touched it down behind the posts, and sat there upon it, grinning like a Cheshire cat. CHAPTER III. JIMMY GETS IN THE GAME. "Now, they'll get it for fair," observed the Wee One as the coach went striding down the field, following the scattered members of the First eleven who jogged sulkily down to the goal; and get it they did. "I'm ashamed of you, Hillard," burst out Horton. "You've been playing two years on this team, and you can't hang onto a ball yet. If any one crosses his fingers in front of you, you lose the ball. Go and sit down." Hillard turned and walked slowly toward the side of the field, with head hanging. He was a good back, but had the fatal habit of fumbling. He was so clever at dodging and so fast on his feet, however, that the coach, knowing well his failing, was still tempted to put him in the line-up,--and, besides, he belonged to the powerful Gamma Tau. "Tucker, you take Hillard's place, and see if we can't do something. Here we are, only three weeks from our last game, and you are playing like a perfectly lovely eleven from the Mount Hope Female Seminary. Think a little about the game, and squeeze that ball, PLEASE." The coach took the ball from Tompkins, and started up the field, the whole crowd of players straggling along behind him, the First eleven sour in face and heavy in step, the Second grinning broadly. "There, now," said Horton, putting the ball down at midfield again with a good deal more force than was necessary. "Let's have some football. First eleven's ball. Make it go. You've got to carry it from here, don't kick it, carry it. Make it go," and he jumped out of the way as the two lines crashed together. "That's something like it. Second down, two yards to go. Some more like that." "Big Dutton carried it that time," said Patterson to Frank. "That big fellow with the light hair. He's the best plunger on the field, but he's something of a bonehead, and he can't remember the signals. Poor Horton has his own worries with him. There he goes again." "First down," yelled Horton from the field. "That's going. Squeeze that ball, Dutton. Steady in the line there and keep on side. Wait till the ball is snapped, Burnham. Wait till the ball is snapped--there, what did I tell you?" as Burnham, the right tackle, anticipating the signal, plunged ahead. Little Hopkinson, quarter of the Second, had his hand up and was yelling for the penalty, which he got. "Now, First team, you've got to make that loss up this time." Harding, the captain, stepped out of his place at guard, in the line, and conferred with Dixon a minute. "It's going to be a long pass, I'll bet dollars to shoelaces," said the Wee One, as the lines settled down on their toes. "22--16--34--146," shouted Dixon. There was a quick pass from center, and the quarter, turning half-way round, tucked the ball cleverly in the right half's pocketed arms as he went shooting past him. The half ran straight out, seemingly bent on turning in at the first possible moment. But this little ruse was only to draw the fire of the opponents who came charging at him. Then he stopped dead in his tracks, stepped backwards and threw the ball unerringly to the right end who had edged away out toward the side line at the proper time, entirely unnoticed by the Second backs who had been drawn over. The catch was clearly made, by Campbell, and he was away like a breeze, with no one near him. Hopkinson came up on him hard, a little too hard for safety, and he was easily sidestepped by the fleet-footed end who, though hard pressed, eluded all tackles and carried the ball over. It was a pretty piece of work, and the coach, for once, seemed to be satisfied. "Now, that's what I call pretty football," exclaimed Frank. "I thought you said this team was no good." "Well, it isn't," replied Patterson. "Once in a while they can pull a play like that off, but most of the time they make a grand fizzle out of it. They don't seem to have the spirit, somehow. I'll bet they'll flub-dub it yet." "Good work, good work," said the coach as he took the ball again. "No time for goal-kicking now. First, see what you can do in carrying it through the line. What's the matter, Harper?" This last remark was directed at the right half on the Second team, who was limping around, having got in the way of one of the First's linemen, and received a bad tumble in open field while chasing Campbell. "My old ankle," replied Harper, walking around and wincing every time he touched his foot to the ground. "The one I hurt last week." "Go and sit down. I'll attend to it after practice; loosen your shoe if it hurts. I want someone to take Harper's place," continued Horton, glancing up and down the row of boys sitting on the sideline. "Hey, you Freshman, what's-your-name," indicating Turner, "get in and play this half." "Who is that going in?" inquired the Wee One, as Jimmy jumped up and ran onto the field. "Looks like a likely kid." "He's a friend of mine, Jimmy Turner; he's a Freshman." "He looks as strong as a bull. Does he know the game?" "No, not very well, but he's crazy about it, and I'll bet he makes good." Jimmy took his position, and the next instant he was on the bottom of a pile of bodies and arms and legs. Big Dutton had come through the line, and Jimmy met him with all his force, and stopped him. But there had been a gain. Again Dutton came ramming through. This time the guard and tackle had opened a hole in the Second's line five feet wide, and Dutton had time to get up some speed before he reached Jimmy, who waited for him. It was a bigger gain this time. "Come on," yelled the coach, dashing around from behind the attacking eleven. "This Second line isn't doing its work at all. Here you," indicating Jimmy, "don't wait for that back to come through on you, play up to the line, you've got to throw him back. Now again!" This time the play slammed through the opposite side of the line for three yards to a first down. "That's more like it now," encouraged Horton. "Show this school that you are good for something. Come on, a few more will take it across!" This time Dixon sent his catapult at Jimmy's territory. But although the line opened wide enough to admit two like Dutton, Jimmy was in the breach. He sprang hard and low, and carried Dutton's legs right out from under him. It is needless to say that the ball stopped right there. "Second down, four to go," called out the coach, not before he had ducked around behind Jimmy and hit him a slap on the back, at the same time giving him an encouraging "Good work, Freshman." Having respect for the strength of that side of the secondary defense, the play was directed at the other side of center, and when the pile was untangled, the ball lay only a yard from first down, and less than two yards from the goal line. "Now," yelled Chip Dixon, "we have 'em where we want 'em. Make it go and hang onto the ball, 22--36--19----" "It's coming through center," yelled little Hopkinson, "back-up, center----" "Change signals," shouted Chip, and then began to reel off a signal which he meant to have the effect of spreading out the defense, but the acute quarter, now playing close in, whispered to his backs: "It's a fake, it's a fake, the play's coming through center. Look out, look out----" And through center it came with a vengeance, Dutton carrying the ball, crashing and grinding past the guard and tackle who had not been deceived by the trick of changing signals. "Keep your feet, keep your feet," yelled Horton, dancing around near the end of the line. Just when it looked like a certainty that Dutton had cleared the line, the two backs of the Second team, reinforced by the ends who had come around to help, threw themselves at the big back. Jimmy was underneath, and the big fellow came crashing to the ground; with a twist and a wriggling half turn he struck hard right across the goal line, and the ball popped from beneath his arm into plain view. In an instant there was a scramble, everyone within distance diving for the sphere without regard to danger of broken heads. "The First has scored," said Frank. "Jimmy couldn't stop him, I guess." "I don't know about that," said the Wee One. "Depends on who has that ball. It's the First's--no, it isn't," as the coach began to dig down among the tangle of arms and legs and heads. "No, it's the Second's, it is, by gravy." For when Horton had finally succeeded in getting to the bottom of the heap, there lay Jimmy just across the goal line, and underneath him, tucked up securely between his arms and his chin, was the ball. How Jimmy had recovered the ball, no one knew, but there it was; and Jimmy himself wasn't able to tell if he had been asked, for when the pile was untangled Jimmy lay still. Horton slapped him on the back. "There, that's enough, let go of it now; great work, Freshman----" but there was no response, and then Horton turned him over on his back. "Get the water bottle, quick," he cried. "This youngster's knocked out." In a moment they stretched Jimmy on the ground, opened his jacket and bathed his face with the water which had been hurriedly brought from the sidelines. A thin trickle of blood ran down from his matted hair, just above his forehead. "Send for Patsy, the trainer, quick," commanded Horton, and some lively sprinting followed to the other end of the field where that individual was working over the twisted ankle of Harper. Patsy Duffy came in hot haste, with his handbag of bandages, but by the time he had arrived on the scene, Jimmy opened his eyes. "He's coming to all right. By Jove, Freshman, it was a fine piece of work," said Horton, as he gently nursed the head of the injured boy. "You'll be all right in a minute. If I had ten more like you we'd have a football team. There, can you walk?" he asked, as Jimmy struggled to his feet and started dizzily. When he saw that Jimmy had been hurt, Frank sprang from the stand and came down the field, and now, eager to help, he slipped his arm under that of Jimmy, and with one of the players helped to steady him as he walked around. Duffy had already put a bandage around Jimmy's head to stop the flow of blood. "I'm all right," said Jimmy. "Don't bother yourself about me. Someone bumped me over the eye with his knee, I think." "That's all for to-day," said the coach. "I've got a word to say to you at the gymnasium," and he led the way in that direction, the players trooping after him in silence. "Sorry he didn't break his blooming neck," muttered Chip to Harding as they trailed along. "I see he is a friend of that young Armstrong's." "This probably means," said Harding, "that Horton will want to have Turner play one of the backs of the First team." "I'll fix that all right. I'll make Turner look like the father of all the fumblers if Horton puts him behind the line with me." "How's that?" "Never you mind, but just watch out. Hillard and Dutton are both in our crowd, and we don't want any Freshman muts on the team. But don't you worry, there won't be any. I have my own plan, and the less you know about it, the better, for you're the captain, and you don't want to be accused more than you can help of playing favorites. Let me take care of it, and I'll show you how to put this young Turner in the shade." By this time the gymnasium had been reached. Horton stood just inside the door to the main dressing room, and when the last straggler had entered, he shut the door and turned around to face his pupils of the gridiron. "I want to tell you, young gentlemen," he said in a very quiet voice, "that if you continue to play football as you are playing it now, I might as well quit the job. You haven't improved since that disgraceful defeat by the Milton High School three weeks ago. The material is here but you haven't as much spirit as a sick cat. You do not get together. Once in a while you show what you could do if you would get together. No team can get together and do anything unless it is a team, every one helping every one else, doing his own work and giving the other fellow a hand when he needs it. If you don't get this spirit, Warwick will show you up worse than they did a year ago. You know very well what the trouble is," (he referred to the Society domination of football interests), "and you know the remedy. Captain Harding, you've got to play the best men on your squad. I'm going to have a long practice to-morrow, and I want you all to report at 4 o'clock sharp. That's all, good day," and Horton turned on his heel and left the gymnasium. CHAPTER IV. FRANK HAS A NEW NAME. It was a gloomy lot of football players that took their shower that night. They dressed in silence. Horton was by no means a mild-spoken coach, yet his method was to get the best out of the players by persuasion and infinite care. But when he occasionally did open up, the words were all the sharper. "Laid the hot shot into you fellows, didn't he?" said Patterson, sliding up to his classmate, Dixon, as they climbed the slope to the dormitories. "Yes, Horton has had a grouch for the last two weeks and we can't please him. Better come out and try it yourself." "You'd please him if you played the game," retorted the Wee One, who never lost a chance of sticking verbal pins into the quarterback. "I noticed a new back to-day, that young Turner fellow. He has Hillard beaten twenty ways for Sunday," he added. "Wouldn't be surprised if he made the team even at this late date." "I didn't see him do anything wonderful," growled Chip. "Dutton went through him several times. I'll bet he'll be sore to-morrow where those old keen bones of the big fellow hit him. He's new and he probably put all he had into the practice to-day. To-morrow he'll be like putty." "If I was a betting man," retorted the Wee One, "I'd lay you some good coin on it. He doesn't know much about it, but he has the stuff in him, and Horton will do the rest. I think he will play in the Warwick game, Chip." "And I say he won't," burst out Chip savagely. "Hillard is worth two of him," and then seeing a sarcastic grin playing on the features of Patterson, he added, "I'll see that he don't play----" and then he stopped short, fearing he had said too much. "O, is that so, Mr. Dixon, and when did they elect you captain and coach of this daisy eleven of ours?" "O, dry up," was all the comment he could get from Chip who, having reached the yard by this time, turned abruptly and left his tormentor. Jimmy, Frank and Lewis were a few rods behind, and the Wee One waited for them to come up. Frank had just been detailing the story of his arrival at the yard that afternoon and Dixon's exhibition of bad temper. Both Jimmy and Lewis were indignant, but Frank laughed about the incident. "It wasn't worth mentioning," he said, "but it shows you what kind of a chap your quarter is." "I've been here only three weeks," said Jimmy, "and I've heard lots of things about him being a bully, particularly fond of playing on the smaller fellow. I guess he can't do much to me. I'm only a Freshman, but I'll give him a dig in the ribs if he tries any of his tricks on me." The Wee One was waiting on the flagged walk in front of Warren Hall as the three boys came along. "We'll be over in a minute and take you to grub," Jimmy was saying to Frank. "All right," said Frank, "I'll be waiting for you and getting things in such shape that I can comfortably rest myself to-night. My room-mate Gleason's a fearful and wonderful housekeeper, judging from the looks of his effects up to date," and he turned into his entry. "O, Armstrong, just a minute." Frank stopped and saw his new sophomore friend approaching at a leisurely roll with his hands shoved deep into his trousers' pockets. "I say," volunteered the Wee One, "that young friend of yours, Turner, looks pretty good to me. But I want to give you a tip. If he plays that way he's sure to get a chance at the team. But for the good of the cause I'm just dropping you a weenty teenty hint. Tell him to keep his weather eye on Chip Dixon." "Why?" said Frank, showing his surprise very plainly. "Well, Chip doesn't want him and he'd take any means, fair or unfair, to put him in bad with the coach. It's just a tip from an old fellow. That's all," and the Wee One, having delivered himself of this advice, went whistling on his way. "I don't see what Chip can do if Jimmy plays well enough to make the team. I can't see what Chip can do to keep him off," murmured Frank to himself as he trudged up the stairs. "But I'll pass along the friendly word of Little Willie, who seems to be a fine little chap and much bigger than his name." Gleason was in his room this time, curled up on the window cushion, and he slowly unrolled himself as Frank pushed open the door. "Hello, Armstrong," he said, "you're my wife, I guess." "Your what?" asked Frank. "My wife, my better half, my tried and trusty room-mate, for better or for worser." "I'm all of that," said Frank, smiling in spite of himself at the voluble Gleason who wasn't the sort of chap he had pictured at all. From the tumbled state of the room, he had drawn his conclusion that Gleason would also be in a tumbled state, but here was an immaculate dandy. Frank looked his room-mate over, and then his gaze involuntarily traveled around the room. "Yes, I know," said Gleason grinning, "doesn't look right," as he saw that Frank was trying to adjust his notions anew. "You see I haven't time to keep both of us tidy, the room and me, so I put the time on myself and let the room go. I was never made for a housekeeper." Gleason was very tall and very thin, and had thin, dark hair which he parted in the middle and combed straight back. His collar was of the white wings variety, very high, and encircled a long, lean neck, and his necktie was of the most positive and overpowering lavender. Patent leather pumps and socks to match his cravat, and a suit with a decidedly purple cast to it, completed his attire. Gleason had the appearance of being half divinity student, half gambler, and "the other half," as the Irishman said, "dude." "Well, don't you like me, wifey?" asked Gleason quizzically, as Frank stood just inside the threshold eyeing this strange mixture of a boy. "Sorry if you don't, for it's going to be no end of a trouble. They're chock-a-block with flowering youth at this blessed institution, and if we fight one of us'll have to go into the cellar." "O, we're going to get on all right," said Frank grinning, "but you're so different from what I had expected." "Well, I might be worse. What are you going in for?" "It will be study for a while for mine. I'm three weeks late. I'm too light for football this year, and I don't know much about it, but I'm going out for baseball in the spring. And maybe I will get a chance at the track meets. I can run a little. What do you go in for?" "Me? O, I just sit round on the bleachers and take notes. I soak myself in records and they just ooze out of all my pores. Very handy young person to have around, Frank. Don't mind my familiarity, that's your handle--I saw it on your boxes. Good name for the family Bible, but kind of cold for school life. Haven't you got something warmer? They call me 'Codfish' because, forsooth, I came from up Cape Cod way. But the cod is a good fish properly treated, so I don't object. Haven't you something in the way of a name besides your Christian ticket?" "No, just Frank." "Well, it isn't right. It isn't cosey and homey enough. All right for the school catalogue, but too chilly for everyday use. What's your 'ponchong' as the French say, your big swipe, in other words?" "Well, I do a little swimming now and then," said Frank. "How would Fish be?" "Won't do. Can't have two members of the ichthyosaurus family in one room. Let's see. Eel--no, eel isn't good, he spends most of his time in the mud. Duck--no, the young ladies at the seminary'd be calling you ducky some day. I have it--web-foot, Web-foot Armstrong, how's that?" "Sounds all right," said Frank, "kind of a paddler, eh?" "An inspiration, my boy. Web-foot is your name from henceforth, to have and to hold until death do you part--Web-foot Armstrong, thus I christen thee." A sound was heard on the stairs, and in another moment Jimmy and Lewis appeared at the open doorway. They were already acquainted with Gleason, and nodded to him. "Welcome to our city," cried Gleason coming forward. "Are you acquainted with my young friend, Web-foot Armstrong? He is my steady for whom I've been waiting for three long weeks." "It's a new name my room-mate has given me," explained Frank laughing. "He says Frank isn't homey enough." "Web-foot suits him all right. He's a perfect water-dog, you know," said Jimmy. "One of the rising young swimmers of the generation and all that sort of thing; gave the champion a hard rub down in Florida." "Ah, yes," said the Codfish, straddling. "I saw something about that; let's see, I have it somewhere--yes, here it is," as he began picking in a big envelope among a number of clippings--"here it is--'Champion Boy Swimmer of Milton hustles the Champion,' copied from the _St. Augustine Record_," and he began to read an exaggerated account of the affair in the Florida tank. "That was going some," he concluded. "Darnell's record is 56 and 2-5 seconds for the hundred. He did that at the Olympics in Athens two years ago and repeated it in the New York Athletic Club last winter." The Codfish reeled off the information with the certainty of knowledge. "He knows every amateur record that was ever made, I think," Jimmy whispered to Frank, "and can tell you what the score of every league contest was since he was big enough to fall out of the cradle; and he is a great practical joker, so they say. You want to look out for his tricks." "Stop filling us up on your records, Gleason," said Lewis. "I'm hungry as a bear. Let's fill up on something more substantial." The boys raced down the stairs with a clatter and headed in the direction of Howard Hall beyond Russell. Howard was the old gymnasium which had been turned into a great dining hall, and there, amid the crash of crockery, Frank sat down to his first school meal, flanked by Jimmy and Lewis. Across the table was the irrepressible Codfish. "We all mess together here, you see," said Jimmy, waving his hand abroad, "but the upper classes have that end of the hall to themselves. Noisy, isn't it, but you'll get used to it." Frank nodded. He was taking in this part of his new life, with all his eyes and ears to the exclusion of his stomach. What would his mother think of this rumpus, he thought, and he smiled to himself. "Hey, Skip, you there, don't hog all the butter, shoot it down here," called the Codfish. "You use as much grease as a six-cylinder transmission." And the butter dish came hurtling down from Skip Congdon, caroming against the pepper and salt dishes and knocking them off their pins. CHAPTER V. CAPTURED BY THE ENEMY. The meal was finally over. There was nothing of the home quiet in it at all. The Codfish well described it as "grab and guzzle and git." Outside the early dusk had come and the lights of the dormitories twinkled out here and there to meet the moon which had just pushed her disk above the cloudless eastern horizon. The katydids kept up their ceaseless argument in the great elms overhead as Frank and Jimmy walked slowly arm in arm down the yard. Lewis had dashed off to his room to do some long over-due work on a recitation for the early morning hour. From the other side of the yard came the sound of singing. "That's the Glee Club tuning up," said Jimmy. "They sing out of doors until it gets too cold to be comfortable." The song floated over to them beneath the dusky arbor of the elm trees: QUEEN'S SCHOOL DAYS. Come all you jolly Queen's boys And harken to our song, We'll tell you all our school joys, We'll laugh both loud and long-- _Chorus._ For we'll sing ha, ha, And we'll yell RAH, RAH, In a merry, merry roundelay. A laugh and a smile, We have them all the while In our happy, happy Queen's school days. When first I came to Queen's School, Way back in sixty-eight, O, wasn't I the green fool In all this wide estate! I was a verdant youngster, As green as green as grass, They stuffed my head with knowledge All in the Freshman class. A year went by so swiftly On happy wings did soar, And then the masters made me A jolly Sophomore. And next a learned Junior My fate it came to be, The Profs. they set me climbing Straight up the Wisdom Tree. And then at last a Senior With dignity complete, The Freshmen, Sophs. and Juniors All kneeling at my feet. But now the fun is over; We draw a deep, deep sigh, Farewell to life in clover, Good-by old Queens, Good-by. The boys came to a halt as they listened to the rollicking melody borne to their ears on the evening breeze. To Frank came the exquisite feeling of being a part of the school, and the song thrilled him out of all relation to its value as music. "Great, isn't it?" and he looked up at the dark, gently swaying branches overhead and let his eye follow the long line of school buildings. "I was wondering only a little while ago," he said, "if it wouldn't be the best thing for me to go to work somewhere and give up school and college." "Changed your mind about it so soon?" "Yes, I guess I have. It's fine to be a part of a school like Queen's, and to meet all the fellows, and fight your little battles, and maybe win a few. I don't think I'll ever amount to much here, but I'm going to have a try at everything that comes my way." "What did your father and mother say about your going to work?" "O, mother didn't think much of it, but Dad, as usual, put it up to me. 'It's your own life, you know, and you've got to live it. If you want to go into business life now, I'll find you a good place to start, and if you want to take a few extra years broadening your education, there's Queen's ready to take you if you're ready for her.' And I'm glad I decided this way. It's going to be wonderful." He had forgotten the meeting with Dixon that afternoon, and the unhappy incident at his appearance on the scene. The black shadow of Gamma Tau which had fallen across his path did not trouble him. Frank and Jimmy had traversed the length of the school walk down to the great iron gates at the Milton turnpike, and were returning up the yard. The group on the steps of Russell were still singing and were engaged at that particular moment with the closing chords of a popular tune. Then they broke out in a joyful and triumphant pean, the new football song, written by Arthur Stubbs, Jimmy informed Frank, "editor of the _Mirror_, which maybe you don't know is the great and buzzing school weekly. Sounds pretty good, doesn't it?" They both listened as the song rolled out on the night air, doggerel sure enough, but given life and character by the vigorous way it was flung out: See our team come marching Down the white-barred field, Pushing back the foemen, Queen's will never yield. Charging fast and faster, Warwick's on the run, Disaster on disaster, And Queen's has just begun. Push them o'er the goal line, Roll them in the mold, Show them who's the master, Raise the Blue and Gold. Cheer the dusty victors As they turn away, Raise the shout to heaven, Hurray, hurray, hurray---- "The last line is to be shouted in unison," explained Jimmy, "and it will make a great noise when the whole school gets into it." The air was catchy, and Frank found himself humming as he walked along: "Show them who's the master, Raise the Blue and Gold." "If I can't do anything else, Jimmy, I can help the team by singing." "Well, I'm thinking that singing won't save this Queen's School football bunch when we meet Warwick." "Is Warwick strong this year? I saw they had cleaned up Dean without much trouble, but haven't noticed much about them." "Strong!" ejaculated Jimmy, "I guess they are. They've taken everyone they've played into camp this fall, and they boast that Queen's scalp will dangle at their belts as the last and the best of the series. Like the fellow in Danny Deever, 'I'm dreading wot I got to watch' two weeks from Saturday--that's the date of the bloody battle down there on the gridiron," and Jimmy jerked his thumb in the direction of the meadow. In their promenade the boys had almost reached the second entry in Warren Hall when they noticed a group of perhaps half a dozen fellows, a short distance up the walk. As Frank and Jimmy came up to the entry this group got in motion and approached them, and as they passed, one of the group jostled Frank off the walk. "Keep out of the way, Freshmen," said a gruff voice, but in spite of the attempt to disguise it, both boys recognized it instantly. "Chip Dixon," they exclaimed in a breath. "Now what is he hanging around here for with that bunch of his cronies, I'd like to know," said Jimmy. "I wonder if he has a notion of hazing you. By Jove, I'll bet you a dollar that's it. They were waiting for you to grab you, but seeing me here they probably gave it up for the time at least. Let's walk on." "Why would they give it up? You talk like a Senior, and if I haven't been sleeping like old Rip Van, you're nothing more than a Freshman yourself. My head isn't as hoary as yours by three weeks, that's all." "O, no, I've been through the mill and they never haze a fellow twice. They gave me a jolly roast though, and that let's me out for the rest of my natural school life." "What did they do to you?" inquired Frank, who had heard of such doings on the persons of unsuspecting and confiding youth. "I supposed that hazing had been stopped here completely. The _Milton Gazette_ said that Doctor Hobart had ordered it stopped after they ducked that fellow in the river one night and he got his death from it." "Yes; Dr. Hobart stopped hazing, and threatened to fire anyone he caught at it, but while that has stopped some of the worst of it maybe, it isn't dead by a long shot. They didn't do much to me, tied my hands and feet and rolled me down the hill over there, and gave me an egg shampoo and mussed me up considerable, but I came out of it all right. Dixon was in the gang that did for me, I think, but I'm not sure, because they were masked." "Well, they're not going to haze me," said Frank, "if I see them first." "Interference with your personal liberty resented, eh?" "Yes, maybe. I wouldn't mind anybody but Dixon, and I certainly will not have such a galoot as he is mauling me around, if I have to fight the whole gang." "Better not fight, Frank. Better take it good naturedly, and it will be over quick. If you resent, you're likely to get it harder." "Well, if they really are out to haze me there's no help for it, but I'll have some fun, too," and he stretched out his arm and flexed his muscles. "Haven't been paddling canoes around the Florida Everglades for nothing, Jimmy." Jimmy grinned. "Better come up to my room just the same; no use courting a ruction. If they are after you, they may come around and not finding you in, may give it up and forget about it. Come on." "Hanged if I do," said Frank. "I don't believe there's anything to it. You, having had your medicine, are suspicious. If they want me they will find me." By this time the two had retraced their steps to Frank's entry. All was quiet. The singers had ended their melodious efforts and moved off. Only now and then a single figure could be seen hurrying along under the tree arches. The moon, rising higher in the sky, sent her beams through the branches, and brought out every object in the yard distinctly. No plotters against the peace of No. 18 were to be seen anywhere. "False alarm, old man," said Frank, as they stood there scanning the school yard. "All is quiet on the Potomac. So long, see you in the morning. Gleason must be visiting, for there's no light in the room." "Maybe you're right, but, just the same, turn the key when you go into your room. So long, see you in the morning." "So long," echoed Frank, and turned and entered the arching doorway. Frank climbed the steps of the first flight three at a leap. He wasn't afraid of Dixon and his gang even if they were on the warpath. "It's great to be back at school," he thought, and as he took the last few steps leading to the second landing, he hummed to himself the lines he had heard the fellows singing: "Show them who's the master, Raise the Blue and Gold." "What's the matter with this stairway,--no light; they must be stingy with their gas," said Frank aloud. "Since Gleason isn't back yet, I'll have a session with these duds of mine and get my room to rights. To-morrow I'll start on this sitting-room ruin. Where did I put those blooming matches?" he added to himself as he opened his room door and stepped inside. "O, yes, I remember, on the corner of the mantel," and he headed for that point in the darkness of the room. He stumbled over a chair which didn't seem to be where it ought to be, certainly it wasn't there when he went out, but he reached the mantel and began to fumble for the box which he distinctly remembered was there. "There's Gleason's stein," he said half aloud, as his hand touched a gigantic creation with a pewter top that he had noticed that afternoon, "and there's the alarm clock. I'm getting hotter. The matches were near the clock, I remember now." Frank stood still and stretched his arm out trying to find the end of the shelf. His fingers touched something which made him thrill and recoil. But in spite of his quickness he felt something grasp his wrist sharply. He tried to draw away, but the hand, for such it was, tightened its grip and another came to the assistance of the first. Instantly there was the shuffling of feet, and with a rush he was surrounded. He felt many hands laid upon him roughly and insistently. Frank fought desperately, hitting, kicking and trying with all his strength to wrench himself free. By twisting his arm sharply he managed for a moment, to break the hold that someone had on him, and shot his fist sharply out into the darkness with all his force. It found a soft mark somewhere on someone's face, and hurt, too, as a grunt attested. But he was grasped still more firmly and had no more chance to fight. In the scuffle in the dark which followed, chairs were knocked over, the table was bumped into, and Gleason's gorgeous shade fell with a crash to the table, and then trickled off to the floor in many pieces. But Frank's struggles were useless, for he was borne backwards to the floor and pressed down by superior weight. Finally he lay on the floor with his hands pinioned to his sides, and a weight of bodies across his legs. Not a word had been spoken in the struggle, but now a voice whispered: "Strike a match, some of you. This Indian hit me on the nose and I'm bleeding like a stuck pig. And that won't make it any easier for him," the voice added, vindictively. There was a scratching sound and a light flared up. Frank looked up from the floor to see himself surrounded by half a dozen fellows masked and completely disguised. Coats were turned inside out, collars up and caps reversed, the better to conceal their identity. The mask itself covered the face from the middle of the forehead to the upper lip, and, simple though it was, made recognition almost impossible, particularly in the dim light from the low turned gas jet which the conspirators had set going. Frank had been neatly trapped, and was helpless as a baby before the superior numbers. He was presently more helpless, for his hands were lashed behind him with a stout leather strap. CHAPTER VI. HAZING AND THE WATER CURE. Frank studied his enemies from his lowly position on the floor, but could not remember ever having seen any of them, a thing that was not strange, since his school life had only begun that afternoon. He noted with satisfaction that one of his assailants was at the other side of the room trying to stop a flow of blood from his nose, which seemed to be copious, judging from the stains on the handkerchief which had been vigorously applied. "Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked Frank at last, as his captors let him get on his feet. He was savage at himself for having been so easily caught. "You'll see soon enough, Mr. Armstrong." "No wonder," reflected Frank, "we were unable to see the bunch of hazers when they were snugly waiting in my own room, which they prepared by darkening with drawn curtains and shutting off the gas in the entry outside my door. No wonder the place was like midnight. It would have been better if I had taken Jimmy's advice." "Come on," said the bloody-nosed one. Frank had a notion there was a familiar ring in it. It was like Dixon's voice and it wasn't. If it was Dixon's, he was trying hard to change the tone by talking down in his throat. "I'll watch that fellow," he thought. "If it's Dixon he'll give himself away." At the word of command to move, two boys grabbed Frank, one by each arm, and another stepped behind him. "Hold on," said one of them, "we've got to tie up his face or he'll be yelling for help, and that won't do." The words were hardly out of the speaker's mouth when Frank felt a muffler flung over his head and face. It was tied securely behind, effectually shutting out his vision and making it a difficult matter to raise an outcry. Then the march was continued. "Sh-h-h--, someone's coming," said a voice just as they had reached the entry outside his own door, "quick, go up the stairs," and Frank felt himself headed for the floor above the one they were on. A door banged below, and someone began mounting the stairs. "What in thunder's this light out for? Some youngster with a poor sense of humor." It was Gleason's voice, and he was scolding to himself because of the murderous blackness. He came climbing up the stairs, stopped at his door, pushed it open and entered. "Quick," commanded the voice ahead of Frank. "Make a break for the bottom and see that Armstrong doesn't get a chance to speak." In another instant the captors and captured retraced their steps, a hand being slipped over Frank's mouth in addition to the muffler, to make sure of his silence. "Bring him around back of Warren," whispered one of the leaders, and in a minute they had cut through the dark passage at the south end of Warren. Frank could not even make a guess where they were headed for, as he was not yet well enough acquainted with the lay of the buildings. He felt himself going down a grassy decline, then through some shrubbery which caught at his clothes, and then again where the grass seemed short and the turf firm. It seemed like a lawn to him, but as he had been turned around two or three times, he had not the faintest notion after five minutes' travelling where he was. "Where are you taking me?" he finally managed to mumble to the fellow who had a grip of him by the right arm. "We're going to give you the stretching treatment, my son." Frank was not acquainted with it. The voice went on: "Don't you know that you committed a grievous sin, a very grievous sin, when you talked back this afternoon?" Frank said nothing. "You don't think you're guilty. Well, the highest court of justice in this school sat on your case to-night, condemned you, and turned you over to the executioners, and them's us." "We are now on our way to the gallows," said a voice to his left in a sepulchral whisper. Still no reply from Frank. He had made up his mind, since he was in their power, to take his medicine, no matter what it was. The group tramped on in silence for several minutes, and then stopped abruptly. "Here's the spot," said one. "Got the rope?" "Yes," and there was the sound of a coil of rope falling on the soft grass. "Coffin ready?" "Yes, all ready, waiting for the fresh guy that is to occupy it." In spite of Frank's sturdy heart, a shiver ran down his spine. He felt as though he were in the grip of some horrible nightmare. Perhaps it was a dream after all. He pinched himself to see if he were awake. But the pinch made him wince, and the two fellows hanging onto his arms, one at each side, were too real to be any part of a dream. What could they be meaning to do to him? Of course, they wouldn't dare injure him, but---- "All ready," said a voice. "Prisoner, have you anything to say before you swing? No tongue, eh? Well, executioner, proceed." There was a stir in the crowd, and Frank felt himself pushed forward into what he supposed was a circle. They wouldn't dare do it, he was saying to himself, but his nerve was sorely tried. Suddenly there came the sound of someone running across the grass. "A pardon, a pardon for Frank Armstrong," said a new voice. "Hanging sentence commuted to the water cure and imprisonment for life!" "Curses," growled the chief executioner. "Snatched from me grasp! We would have had him strung up in a minute. Why didn't you lose your way, Paul Revere?" "Well, since we can't hang him, let's proceed to the water cure. Hurry it up," growled a voice, which in spite of an assumed gruffness put him strongly in mind of Dixon's. Frank was seized again and they walked rapidly for several minutes in what seemed to him an opposite direction from which he had come the first part of the journey. Soon their footsteps sounded on wood, which echoed flatly to their tread. It seemed like a platform. And there was the faint sound of lapping water. Could it be the river? It was the river, and when the bandage slipped from his face he saw that they were standing on the boat-house float. The river ran past, dark and silent. "Halt. Prisoner, attention!" commanded a voice, a new one to Frank. "You can swim?" "Yes." "He's the wonderful boy champion of Milton," said a sneering voice. "Stood the world's champion off on a ten-mile race," said one. "Set new records from 12 inches to a foot," said another. "And got the big head about it, and sassed our valiant quarterback." How Frank hated the reporter who had printed the story about his swimming. He almost hated Burton for teaching and himself for learning how to swim. It seemed to be bringing him only trouble. He had done nothing to deserve it. "We want a little exhibition, Mr. Champion Armstrong," said the voice again, which sounded more than ever like Chip's. "Strip." "The water's too cold," said Frank, startled when he found it was their intention to put him into the river. "Keep going when you are in. Who ever heard of a champion being afraid of cold water? Off with your clothes, and be quick about it. You've got a minute to shed them or in you go with them on." Frank began reluctantly to undress, looking, out of the corner of his eye, at the dark surface of the river, silvery cold under the moon's rays. He watched for a possible avenue of escape, thinking that perhaps a bold dash might give him his liberty, but his captors formed a half circle about him, and the open side of the circle lay towards the black river. Apparently there was nothing for it but to go in or be chucked in, and Frank chose the former. He slipped off his clothes, and put them in a pile on the float and turned toward the water. "You've got to go across to the other side, Armstrong. If you renig we'll chuck your clothes in after you. And don't turn your head till you get there, or it will be worse for you." Frank waited to hear no more, but sprang boldly out into the water. How the first touch of the cold water grabbed him! It was like a knife thrust, for the night was in the middle of October, and the coldness of the air had transferred itself to the surface. Below it was warmer, however, and he let his body sink to get the full benefit of the warmth, and struck out for the opposite shore, which was at this point perhaps seventy-five yards away. Soon the blood began to come back to his skin with a glow, and as he paddled away he thought it not so bad after all. About midstream he slackened up a moment and looked back to the float, thinking perhaps he would be permitted to come back. "Go on," commanded a voice, and seeing no help for it, Frank put down his head and dug for the opposite shore as fast as he could go. He reached the bank, which was gently shelving, in short order, pulled himself up and looked back. The float was deserted, nor could a soul be seen anywhere, although the moon's rays lighted up the whole place as bright as day. Even at that distance he could see his little pile of clothes by the side of the float. He heard the faint murmur of the river at his feet, and away off behind him in the marshes a big bullfrog singing his evening song with a chorus of deep-throated croakings. "They've gone, unless they're planning some more trouble for me," said Frank, bitterly, to himself. "They must have ducked behind the boat-house and are now on the way back to the school in the shadow of the trees." He pushed into the water, shivering, and set out for the float, which seemed a long distance away. The water slipped gurgling between his fingers as he drew his hands through on the stroke, giving him a creepy sensation. He felt that the denizens of the river were staring at him, this strange white body so queerly afloat at such a time of night. He shuddered and drove faster for the float, and felt a great relief when his hand touched the wooden edge. Frank pulled himself up, and looked carefully around. His tormentors had disappeared as absolutely as if they had been swallowed up in the river, and everything was as still as death except the frog chorus in the marshes, and the occasional cheep of a cricket on the river bank. Lights twinkled in the windows of Warren, and as he listened, the school bell boomed out the hour of nine thirty. "Gee, whiz, I'll be locked out if I don't hurry," he whispered to himself, and he plunged into his clothes with the greatest alacrity, his teeth chattering. How the clothes stuck to him and clasped his wet skin clammily! "Never knew till now how handy a towel is," he muttered. But he was finally clothed, and a brisk run up through the field put the blood in circulation. When Frank reached his room, Gleason was preparing for bed. "Well, my night owl, where have you been? Thought maybe you'd got homesick so soon and had started for the busy city of Milton," was Gleason's greeting. Then, seeing Frank's hair wet, he added: "Been giving the mermaids a serenade, eh?" "Yes, just been having a bit of a swim," said Frank. "Good thing for a fellow at night, you know, makes him sleep well." "Great Scott!" was all Gleason could say. "Swimming at this time of night in the river! Well, my eye, you are a funny one. Web-foot, you are for sure and all. Well, you can use the river, but I prefer the good old porcelain bathtub for mine after September first." "Nothing like the outdoors swimming, you know," said Frank, "and at night you don't startle the surrounding scenery. I'm off for bed. Good night." "Good night," called Gleason, who had also dived into his sleeping-room. "I say, what were you doing up here when I was gone? I found my lampshade busted when I came, chairs upset, curtains drawn tight and all that. Little rough-house, eh?" "Yes, just a little rough-house to celebrate my arrival at Queen's." "Oh," said Gleason, "I found a leather wristlet over by the mantel when I was picking up the debris. Maybe it belongs to one of your friends." "Maybe it does; where is it?" "On the table there; if you dig around you will find it." Frank went quickly to the table where the wristlet lay in plain sight. He picked it up, examining it curiously. It was made of leather about two inches wide, with two small brass buckles which allowed the strap to be drawn up tightly. Such wristlets were often worn to strengthen and protect a weak wrist. He had noticed that afternoon that two of the football squad wore just such wristlets as these. Could it be one of them? He turned the leather over and over, and started as his eyes fell on the initials C. D. inked on the inside of one of the straps. "Chip Dixon, by goodness! I'll keep this for future use. It may come in handy more ways than one, Mr. Dixon." CHAPTER VII. SCHOOL SPIRIT AND SCHOOL INFLUENCES. Next morning Frank made the acquaintance of Dr. Hobart, principal of Queen's School. The Doctor had the reputation of being severe, a terror to wrong doers, but gentle enough withal when things went right. He was a mere wisp of a man, about sixty years old, not over five feet tall, and with a thin, narrow face and parchment-like skin. His shoulders were bowed a little, perhaps with his weight of learning, for Dr. Hobart was considered one of the best of preparatory school leaders. Indeed, his reputation went far and wide, and the excellence of his school brought him pupils from many parts of the country. The Doctor's distinguishing feature was his eyes, or rather eye, for he only had one which nature gave him. His natural left eye had many years before been injured and removed. It was now replaced by one of glass, and the fixed and unwinking position of it when the Doctor was aroused bored straight through the soul of the culprit before him and came out the other side, or so it seemed to the unfortunate who faced him, accused of misdeeds. It would be a brazen youth, indeed, who could stand before that penetrating glance from under the shaggy brows. Frank had heard a good deal about the Doctor, and it was with some trepidation that he approached the august presence in his quarters on the first floor, third entry of Warren. "Old Glass-eye is a ring-snorter," Gleason had told him. "They say he dines off freshmen. I'm a brave man, but I was glad when he was through with me. I was so flim-fazzled when he turned that glass orb of his on me that I couldn't have told whether the amateur hundred-yard record had set at ten seconds or half an hour." But the Doctor was in one of his most amiable moods when Frank was ushered into his presence. "This is the late-comer, is it?" he inquired, gently. Frank interpreted it as a criticism, and hurried to say: "Yes, sir. But I couldn't very well help being late. I was away for my health, and my parents didn't really intend to have me go to school till after Christmas, but I made such good progress that they thought it best to get me in as early as possible, after all." "H'm; and I suppose you wanted to come?" "Oh, yes, sir. I like school, and I hope to go to college if I can keep up my work here and pass the examinations." "So you're going to college. That's good. We can give you the training here; the rest of it depends on yourself. Where do you expect to go to college, my young friend?" and the Doctor brought his baleful eye to bear on Frank. "York, sir." "Very good, very good. You are going in for athletics, Mr. Armstrong?" "Just a little, sir. Do you advise it?" "Yes, Mr. Armstrong, I advise athletics--just a little, as you say. But one thing I insist upon, that whatever you go in for, it must be wholeheartedly. The great curse of the present time is the spirit of dabbling. Don't be a dabbler." And the glass eye transfixed his hearer. "Whatever you do, do well. When you are in the class-room, do what you have to do. Make your time count. When you study, study; when you play, play. If you go out on the athletic field, make the most of it, and if you go into any sport, carry it to the highest point of development you can consistent with the time you have to give it. Athletics are only another kind of education, and carried on in the right way they very powerfully supplement the work of the class-room. And, above all things, play fair. Play hard, but play fair. Win if you can, but be a gentleman in your winning, and in your defeat, if you meet defeat, as you will in school and out of it. You have the appearance of quality in your face. You have a chance here to show what you can do in the class-room and on the field. Whatever you do, make yourself felt. Make yourself respected, but also make yourself felt. Respect your schoolmates worthy of respect, and make them respect you by your uprightness. "I did not mean to make this a lecture, my boy," added the Doctor, pleasantly, the bushy eyebrows drawing into a kindlier line. "I want to help set you straight on this school road, which is not so easy as it may appear to you. If you ever want advice, and you think I can help you, come to me without hesitation. I am not so black, maybe, as I'm painted," and the Doctor's right eye assumed a kindly twinkle. "And now," he continued, "go over to Mr. Parks, whom you will find in Russell, and he will give you an outline of your school work and assign your classes. Good morning." "By Jove! he's a brick," said Frank, as he hurried across the yard. "I thought I was going to find a bear, and he was nothing more than a kindly human being with a whole reservoir of good advice." Mr. Parks, the assistant master, inducted Frank into the school routine, and the boy's school life began that morning auspiciously. He felt that he had made a good friend in the Doctor, and he was bent on satisfying his demand as far as studies were concerned. As to how he would make his way with his schoolmates, was another matter, and he approached it with less of a feeling of certainty. In the early afternoon of that day Frank made a call on his old friend Jimmy, who was industriously working up his history; but when Frank put his head in at the door, the history book was shut with a snap. "Hello, Web-foot, how did you get along last night? No hazers, I hope." "Got along finely," said Frank, "in spite of lots of excitement. Took a forced swim in the Wampaug last night, preceded by a young scrap in No. 18, and this morning I had a session with the Doctor, who gave me enough good advice to keep me straight in line through the whole school course." "The dickens you say!" exclaimed Jimmy. "You don't mean to say that they got you after all?" "They certainly did, got me good and hard. Started out to stretch my neck down on the meadows somewhere,--that was the sentence they said,--and then changed their minds, not being willing to sacrifice a budding young genius like myself, and gave me the water cure." "The water cure?" "Yes, the water cure, which consisted in making me swim the river, after nine o'clock, and back in my bare pelt." Jimmy was indignant. "By George, that was tough. Who did it?" "Oh, I don't know; half a dozen fellows were waiting for me in my room, dumped me on the floor, tied my hands, carried me off with a muffler around my face, and then, when I was half way across the Wampaug, skipped and left me." "Was Chip Dixon in the gang that hazed you?" "I couldn't tell. The fellows were all masked." "It's a beastly shame," blurted out Jimmy. "It'll come out, see if it don't, and I wouldn't give a licked postage stamp for the chances of the fellows who did it, if it comes to the Doctor's ears. I've a notion to go out and play detective. To think that I was studying here quietly, and you were being ducked in the river not two hundred yards away!" And Jimmy jumped up and began to walk around the floor, threatening vengeance on the perpetrators of the outrage. "Oh, don't you bother about it. It gave them lots of fun, and it didn't hurt me," said Frank. "The water sure was chilly when I struck it first, but the swim wasn't long. It made me sleep like a top. And perhaps some good may come out of it." Jimmy continued to growl, but Frank laughed the incident away, and the talk turned on the afternoon's football practice which Horton had threatened would be a stiff one. "Speaking of football," said Jimmy, "why don't you go out and do a little something for your newly adopted school?" "Oh, I wouldn't be any good. I'd like to try it, all right. But I've got my work cut out for me, staying in school without mixing up in football this fall anyway. Maybe by the time hockey comes around I'll do some work if I'm standing well enough to escape the terrible eye of the Doctor. But for this fall at least I'll do most of my football work on the bleachers, and giving the right halfback of the eleven friendly advice." "No luck like that for me. I guess I'm not much good and I don't stand well enough with the ruling powers. But maybe, bye-and-bye, I'll get a chance. In the meantime I'll keep pushing and learn all I can. Horton knows the game, doesn't he?" "Yes, the way he spotted the bad play on both teams was a caution. He must have twenty pairs of eyes." At this moment in the conversation Lewis strolled into the room. "I've decided," he announced with heavy dignity, "to cut out football. I've been getting on pretty well at it, and the coach doesn't want me to drop out now when I'm pretty sure of a place" (Jimmy and Frank exchanged winks), "but I feel my studies need my time. I think I'll go out for the Whitney Fellowship. So you fellows will have to get along without my society down on the gridiron." "Bad, too bad," murmured Jimmy. "Such a chance, too, for the team, just now when you'd be put in at center. It would be a great thing for Milton, too, to have a representative on the great Queen's School eleven. It would be headlines for the papers. Sorry you can't give it the time." "And speaking of time," said Frank, "isn't it about time you were getting under way for the gym? I think I see the gathering of the clans from here," he added, looking out of the window in the direction of the field. "Wonder what Mr. Dixon will feel like when Lewis announces his intention of retiring from the squad," said Jimmy, with a wink, as he prepared to leave. "And I wonder what Mr. Dixon will do to one James Turner," retorted Lewis. "Oh, I guess he won't bother him very much," said Frank. "Is that so? Well, you don't know that youngster as well as we do. You'll hear things about him when you've been here a little longer." "I've heard some things and seen some others, and perhaps I know Mr. Dixon better than he thinks I do. And I'm not far wrong when I say that that young fellow will not bother Jimmy too much." "Yes, you'll jump in and hand our lively young quarter a few straight digs in the ribs, I suppose." "Maybe so, but he had better keep himself to himself." "Oh, come on here, stop your scrapping. Come on and watch the emaciated Second, now that Lewis has left us, being smeared by the riotous First. Oh, I hate to think of it," cried Jimmy, dashing out of the door. When the squad reported for practice at four o'clock sharp, Horton had on his business face and he lost no time in getting things moving. "I'm going to see if these two teams know anything about football at all. We've been dodging around here playing tag for a month. Now we've got to begin to play football. Let's have a little punting and see if you backs can hold the ball to-day." The backs were divided into two squads, and two of the best punters were sent up to the middle of the field, with a center to snap the ball. Boston Wheeler--his Sunday name was Worthington, but Boston was handier, and better described him, as he came from that famous city known as "the Hub"--was punting the ball in long, lazy curves which carried thirty yards, and then dropped head first, much to the disgust of the racing backs. "Mine," yelled Spud Dudley as with hands outstretched and neck craned he drove for one of Wheeler's high ones. But he misjudged, as the ball dropped too straight for him and bounced around on the group. The wrath of the coach was drawn upon him instantly. "What do you think you are catching, Dudley, a featherbed? Get under those high ones. They drop quick when they come spinning with the long axis parallel to the ground. Don't let them catch you napping. And haven't I told you to make a little pocket for the ball between your hands, which must be held closer together, and your chest? Then the ball can't get away from you. That's better, Freshman." This was directed to Jimmy, who took a low end-over-end punt from Dobson, the other punter, at top speed. "I don't know where that Freshman got it, but he has the right idea about catching punts," Horton added. Punting practice went on for five minutes or so, and then, after a brief signal drill between the First and Second elevens, the coach called both teams to the middle of the field. "Now, this is the last practice game before the Barrows game, and I want you to do your best. You can win easily if you will only forget about yourselves, and play for the team. Let's see you do it. Come on, every one into it," and the whistle spoke out shrilly for the beginning of the practice game. CHAPTER VIII. QUEEN'S MEETS BARROWS AT FOOTBALL. In spite of Horton's appeal for good playing, the sample of football that the First team gave was anything but encouraging. The coach was all over the field, exhorting his charges to their best efforts, but their best efforts fell very far short of what he wanted. After the kick-off, the First had made some good gains through the Second's Line. Then Dutton missed his signals and lost a lot of ground. He stood dumbly with the ball in his hands while the opposing tackle came ripping through the line, seized him around the waist, and ran him ten yards back towards his own goal before Dutton could yell "down." "Isn't that the limit of all things?" said the Wee One to Frank. They were sitting together on the bleachers with a bunch of other critics, passing judgment on the playing, good and bad, as they saw it enacted before them. The Wee One was a critic of no mean calibre. "Isn't that the limit of all things? If they could only perform an operation on the thing that Dutton calls his head and get some grey matter from a jackass and insert it, he might possibly remember some of the signals,--at least such little ones as 'straight through the line,' which is about all he's good for anyway." "Guess Horton's going to have apoplexy now, isn't he?" inquired Frank, as he watched the coach striding about among the players, shaking his clinched fists. But Horton recovered himself, and commanded another scrimmage. This time the First pulled itself together, and under the urgings of the quarter and the vigorous coaching of Horton, tore through the Second for great gains. It was fast and furious, slang, bang, up-and-at-it-again football, and the Second was retreating down the field, doing its best to hold its ground, but being swept aside by the rushes of the giant Dutton. It was first down on the Second's ten-yard line, and it looked like a touchdown. The First was about to take revenge for the rebuffs the Second eleven had been giving them for several days. "Now," shrilled Chip at the top of his lungs, "put it over. 16--32--11." "Hillard's signal for a tackle-shaving play," translated the Wee One, and Hillard was off like a shot for, say what you might about his uncertainty with the ball, he was extremely fast on his feet, and when he was able to hang onto the ball he could be depended on to make ground. But poor Hillard, whose star had been bright that afternoon, was in so great a hurry to start that he missed the more important matter of securing the ball firmly. It dropped to the ground. He made a step in its direction, but misfortune upon misfortune, kicked it with his foot and sent it rolling towards the end of the line where an alert end of the Second team pounced upon it. The whistle in Horton's lips shrieked savagely, a signal to stop play. The First eleven gathered together stupidly, and scowled back savagely at the members of the Second, who stepped around elastically and grinned broadly. "I wouldn't be in Hillard's place for a row of apple trees all in full bloom," ventured the Wee One. "Something's coming to him, all right. What did I tell you?" as Horton raised his voice so everyone could hear it: "Hillard, you may go to the sideline. I've got to have some one who can keep his fingers around a ball. You've thrown away all the good work your team has done. I won't need you again for some time." Horton delivered his sentence in a calm voice, and then turned towards the sidelines where some of the substitutes were seated. "Where's that Freshman who played on the Second yesterday afternoon?" he said. "Hey, there, Turner, take Hillard's place. We'll see if you can hold the ball." "Hurray!" cried Frank, jumping to his feet in excitement, "Jimmy's going to get his chance. That's great, and he's got it in spite of Mr. Dixon." "And that will peeve Dixon," chuckled the Wee One. "There they go." Jimmy was on the field in a flash, and his sweater was slung behind him as he ran. "Now," said Horton, "I'm going to give you a chance here, and if you make good you may get in the game to-morrow. Your business is just now to follow your signal, and hold onto the ball. The signals are the same you have been playing under. Come on." And the whistle sounded. "Here, First eleven, take this ball again on the fifteen-yard line and try it." On the very first play, Dixon gave the ball to Jimmy, who, following close behind his tackle, who opened a convenient door in the opposing line, went half the distance to the goal line. "Good work!" shouted the coach. Dutton on the next down sliced between tackle and guard, and got three yards and first down. "I hope they don't put it up to Jimmy to make that four yards," said Frank, "it looks like a mile." "Well, I'll bet Chip gives him the ball. He won't give him anything easy to do, and Chip would rather not score than let him cinch Hillard's place." The Wee One was right, for the next instant Jimmy had the ball, and was ploughing into the line with his head down. Then he was lost in a heaving mass, but somehow slipped out of it, emerged free, and threw himself across the goal line. The First had scored. "Good work, Freshman," said the coach, but the quarterback turned and walked up the field sulkily. For the rest of the afternoon's practice Jimmy fairly outdid himself. When he went into the line the ball seemed to be a part of him, and he rarely failed to make his distance. With his short, strong legs, thick neck and powerful back, he bored and squirmed through the smallest holes. On defence he was in every pile, and generally at the bottom of it. "That boy has real football instinct," said Horton to Mr. Parks, who came down to the gridiron to look on. "He is green yet, but he is going to make a good one, you will see. He doesn't know anything about carrying the ball, yet he carries it, and he doesn't know anything about the science of tackling, but he stops his man. Where on earth he learned what he has, I don't know." And Mr. Parks agreed that a new football player had come to town. Practice finally ended. Horton's "That's enough for to-day," brought Frank scampering down from the stand to walk joyfully along beside his old playmate to the gymnasium. "Knew you could do it, Jimmy," he said, as he trudged along with the perspiring hero of the afternoon, who was well hooded up in a blanket to keep the rather chilly October breeze off his overheated body. "It was great to see you." Frank's eyes fairly shone with pleasure. He took a greater pride in it than if it had been his own success. "Glad I gave up the game," said Lewis, now in everyday clothes. "Two great football players in one room would have been more than Warren could have supported, eh Frank?" Frank was so happy that he would have agreed to anything that afternoon. Barrows came down in great force the next afternoon, and the light blue of the Academy was flaunted everywhere on the yard of old Queen's. The followers of Barrows freely boasted a coming victory for their eleven, and, if truth must be told, the eleven was worthy of the confidence expressed. Barrows Academy drew from an older class of boys than did the Queen's School, many of its inmates on graduation going directly into business, for which it, in a measure, fitted them. "Did you see those giants on the Barrows team?" quoth the Wee One, meeting Frank on his way to a geometry recitation. "They must have imported them from the foundry." "It's a fact, they do look mountainous alongside some of our fellows," admitted Frank, "but we ought to know more football, we certainly have the best coach." "The coach part of it is all right," said the Wee One, "and we know football, or, at least, ought to, but we don't seem to be able to get it out of our system." The game was set for three o'clock, and long before that hour there was an exodus of the entire school, for class-room work on Saturdays closed at noon. The game was considered something of a test for Queen's, which had been playing very erratic ball all the year. There was a good deal of grumbling about the way that the Gamma was running things through its captain, Harding, and Chip Dixon, who seemed to have a powerful influence over Harding. A good many thought that the best players in the school were not having a fair trial, but as yet there had been no open revolt. Real rebellion against the rule of Gamma Tau still held off, but there were grumblings on the horizon which indicated a storm if things did not improve. And to-day was a chance for the crowd in control to show that they were playing the kind of ball expected from such a school as Queen's with such a coach as Horton. Frank escorted Jimmy to the gymnasium that afternoon, where the teams were to dress for the fray, and the Freshman halfback was in a fever of excitement. Frank buzzed along with encouragement in every word. "If I can only hang onto the ball," Jimmy would say, "but I had a notion yesterday two or three times that Dixon was trying to make it hard for me to get the pass. Once I nearly dropped it, and I was scared to death, for the coach was right alongside of me. My heart went as far down as my shin guards for sure." "I'll watch him for any tricks like that," thought Frank, but to Jimmy he said never a word. It might only be Jimmy's imagination in his excitement. "All I've got to say to you," said Horton to his charges when they were dressed and ready, "is to attend to business and play as a team, and think about what you are doing. These fellows are bigger than you, and you will have to outwit them. Use your heads and keep together. Now, skip." In the first collision of the game, the big fellows from Barrows swept the lighter Queen's School back as though they were made of paper, and screams of delight rose from the stand where had gathered the hosts of Barrows. Down the field they went--five yards through tackle, ten yards around the end, five yards through center. Twice the attack had bowled Jimmy over after breaking down the line, and twice he had been able to stop the rush dead, without a gain. Once he had the joy of pushing the Barrows' halfback through the hole he came for at a loss of a yard. "Look at Jimmy Turner, the Freshman," shouted the Wee One. "If they would all play like that kid we'd have a chance." "What's Dutton doing,--Oh, what's he dreaming about? Missed his man. Did you ever see such a dope?" "Turner got the Barrows' chap that time. Good for Jimmy." "Hold 'em, Queen's, hold 'em." But the Barrows' attack was not wonderfully varied, and little by little the advance was cut down as the Academy eleven began to approach the Queen's goal. "Get together, get together, Queen's, and stop them," begged Captain Harding, and working like one, the boys responded to his cry. It was third down on Queen's 12-yard line, with a yard to go, and the Barrows' backs held a consultation. The stands speculated as to whether they would try to carry it, or try a drop kick. For the latter piece of football, the aggressors were in a good position. But finally they elected to rush, and settled carefully down to position, balanced on their toes, and alert for the signal. If they could make their distance, it looked hopeless for Queen's, for the remaining yards to go for a touchdown would be easy, so the spectators figured. The whistle shrieked, and the lines came together with a bang. Humphrey, the Barrows quarter, who had been playing a fine game and directing the team like a general, now made his first mistake. Thinking that the going was too hard through the line, he sent his fleetest halfback on a delayed pass out around right end. For a moment it looked as though he had made a master stroke. Campbell, the Queen's right end, was drawn in because he believed the play was to be made on the other side of the line, but Jimmy had interpreted correctly, too late, however, to warn Campbell. The Queen's tackle came through hard, and halted the Barrows' runner a minute, just long enough to let Jimmy get under way. The Barrows' back ran behind an interference of the fullback, half and quarter, and it looked like a hopeless task to break this compact mass. Jimmy followed the interference out, crowding it back as well as he could, watching his chance. Suddenly he realized that the runner with the ball was outdistancing not only Jimmy himself, but his own interference. Jimmy felt that he could not handle them all, and he could not hope to get through the interference alone and get his hands on the runner. He did the only thing possible,--that is, he threw himself with unerring instinct against the knees of the interference, in a kind of side-dive. The effect was instantaneous. The interference was running so closely massed that there was no chance for them to dodge, and they went down over the Freshman's body in a tangle. The runner with the ball was so close that he, too, went sprawling, heels over head, and before he was able to get to his feet, big Boston Wheeler had pinned him down. It was Queen's ball. How the Queen's stand did yell: "Turner, Turner, oh, you Turner!" "Three cheers for Turner!" "Rah, rah, rah, Turner, Turner, Turner!" One might have thought there was only one man on the Queen's School eleven. At the cheers for Turner, although his halfback's action had probably saved the team from a score, Dixon's face took on a sour look. There was too much Turner in the game to suit him. It was a malicious eye he turned on Jimmy. From this point, Queen's took up the march down the field, and steadily, as Barrows had come into Queen's territory, so steadily did the Queen's eleven fight their way back, and gradually it began to dawn on the partisans of Queen's School that they had a chance. Five yards here and five yards there brought the play quickly to the Academy's 20-yard line. A penalty for holding set them back, but on a pretty fake kick Dutton went straight through center to the five-yard line. "Touchdown, touchdown," yelled the Queen's bleachers. "Good old Queen's, we have got the Wheel-barrows where we want them." "All over, but the shouting." First down and on the enemy's five-yard line. It looked certain. But there are many slips in football as well as in the everyday walks of life, for on the next play there was a fumble, and an indescribable scramble to recover it. And when the scramble was over, an Academy boy was found on top of the leather. A groan went up from the Queen's crowd. Down among the tumbled players two stood erect, one was Turner and the other Dixon, and the former had his fists clinched. "Turner fumbled," said some one. "Did you see what happened?" Frank cried, excitedly, to Patterson, with whom he was sitting. "Don't you think I have any eyes?" said the Wee One, indignantly. "It was a dirty trick. He gave the signal and threw the ball at Jimmy's hands. Didn't give him a chance to get it. It was a deliberate trick, a contemptible trick," he added. A few minutes later the half ended, and Queen's came to the sidelines. Horton was raging. "Turner, you disappointed me. Right in the time we wanted you most, you failed us." "It wasn't----" began Jimmy. "I don't want any excuses," said Horton, sharply. "Hillard, go in at right half and finish the game there." CHAPTER IX. WHAT CAME OF A FUMBLE. Things went badly for Queen's in the second half of the game. Hillard was as brilliant and erratic as ever, and made several dashing runs around the ends, but he inevitably slipped up somewhere, and his unfortunate fumbling lost his team many more yards than he gained for it. Chip played like a demon, trying to justify himself in his own mind for the trick he had played Jimmy, the team and the school. He was in every interference and worked every instant to put Queen's in a position to score, but it was all to no avail. Chip was so intent on his work with the back field that he failed to hold the team together, and as the game went on the Queen's presented a less and less organized effort. Barrows slammed into them for big gains when the Academy had the ball, and at last solved all of the Queen's attacks so completely that the old school eleven was making no headway. Finally, after an exchange of punts, Boston Wheeler, being obliged to kick against the wind, Barrows took up the march to Queen's goal from the latter's 35-yard line. Queen's line was tired physically from the pounding, and weak, for there was not enough stamina now to resist the bigger Academy fellows, who seemed to be growing stronger every minute. There was no Jimmy Turner now to drive his sturdy body fearlessly against the oncoming Barrowites. "It's all over now," said the Wee One, "the team has lost what little fighting spirit it had at first. They will be buried out of sight with not even a leg to mark the graveyard." Frank admitted that there was no help for it. Horton walked up and down the sideline, shaking his head, unable to stop what was coming. Soon the Barrows' catapult was rammed over the line for a touchdown. The angle was too difficult for the goal when the ball had been brought out, and Morton, who did the kicking, failed. From that point on, the game was a rout. Harding, having none of the qualities for leadership about him, could not hold his team together. He was useless in the emergency which was now upon the Queen's eleven. Chip tried to help by banging his men on the back, and crying desperately to "hold them, hold them, show your sand." But if they ever had any sand it had been scattered earlier in the game. And how about the Freshman halfback who had been so unkindly thrown out of the game, and who sat watching this second half going against the Queen's School eleven? He was only a Freshman, but black despair was in his heart. He was only a Freshman, but he loved the old place, and he wanted to have the privilege of helping to put the school flag uppermost in all the contests in which she had a part. And to be so meanly tricked for no fault of his, and pitched off the field before the whole school was almost more than he could stand. When the thing happened he was perfectly well aware how Chip had served him, and he sprang to his feet to settle the matter then and there with his fists, but after a tense moment his senses came back to him. Perhaps others had seen what had actually happened, and he would not have to bear the shame. But no one seemed to have noticed it. The coach evidently had not happened to see the incident, lynx-eyed though he was. "He may have been looking aside at that moment," thought Jimmy, "and I mustn't blame him. I just looked like a dummy when he turned and saw the ball rolling around on the ground, and a hole big enough to drive an ox-cart through waiting for me. But I'll settle up with Dixon some day, and I hope it isn't far off." He ground the words out between his clinched teeth, and his look boded no good for Chip Dixon when the day of settlement should arrive. What need is there to go into detail of that disastrous afternoon? Three times more did the jubilant Barrowites plough through Harding's demoralized eleven, and when the final whistle blew, the Queen's crowd saw the awful record on the board of 23 to nothing. It was the worst defeat that had ever come to Queen's at the hands of any but Warwick. It was a sting never to be forgotten, and only to be wiped out with reverse figures twice the size. "Well, I'm glad that's over," said Gleason to Frank as the crowd slowly filed down off the stand, and the tired teams drew each into a knot and gave the yell for the opponents. "If it hadn't been for that rotten fumble of young Turner I think the Wheel-barrows wouldn't have gone home so full." "It wasn't a fumble, Mr. Gleason," said the Wee One, "and if you thought it was you better run right along to the oculist and have him put his prettiest pair of specs on you!" "Oh! p'raps it was a clever little piece of legerdemain then," grunted Gleason, but neither Frank nor the Wee One heard him. They were hotfooting it after Jimmy, who was tailing after the squad with his eyes on the ground and gloom in his heart. Frank ran up behind him and slipped his arm around his shoulder. "We saw it, Jimmy," he said. "I didn't think he dare carry a grudge against you so far. But it lost him the game." "I don't know," returned Jimmy. "They were too heavy for us." But there was a lightening of his spirits when he felt that the play was not entirely misunderstood. "Dixon made it hard for me to get the ball several times, but he always did it so cleverly that no one could see him. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it and been the victim of it as well. He got me out and his room-mate in." "He got you out sure enough," said Frank. "I suspected he would swing something against you, and he was determined to get his room-mate in at any cost." "Yes, and it cost him the game," said Patterson. "That's what you get for playing favorites. I'll bet the scrub could have put up a better argument against the Academy than the First eleven, the way it played to-day. Wonder what the coach will say to them?" But the coach had little to say. "Boys," he said, simply and without any venom in his words, "there's something wrong with you, and we'll try to find it next week. The way you played to-day, you haven't the ghost of a show to win your big game two weeks from now. You are a sore disappointment. I've done the best I could to show you how, but I can't go out there on the field and play your game for you." It was quite evident from Jimmy's actions that he wanted to be let alone, so Frank and the Wee One slipped out of the gymnasium and headed for the school yard. "Frank, what are we going to do about it? I don't want Queen's to lose to those farmers up the river, or I'd go to Horton with what I know and make a clean breast of it. That would certainly get Dixon fired from the team, but we'd be no better off, for in spite of what you may say about Chip, he's a peach of a quarter." "Let's go to Dixon and tell him we know that Jimmy's failure to get the ball was due to him, and not to a stupid fumble, as it seems to have appeared to everyone else." "We'll have our trouble for our pains I think, and I wouldn't be surprised if he fired us both out of his room, and shied a few boots, with feet in them, after us. Chip's got a bad temper, and he's not in a good humor just now." "Let's try Harding. Even if he is a dummy, I don't think he'd stand for Dixon making a goat out of him and the rest of his team simply because he wants his room-mate and a brother Gamma to play." "No use, Frank. Harding hasn't spunk enough. He's a pretty fair end, but he has no more business to be captain than I have to challenge for the heavyweight championship of the world. I'm afraid we can't do anything without busting up this whole eleven." "What do you suppose the Doctor would do if it was proven to him that Chip threw the game away for a favorite?" asked Frank. "Well, if I know anything about Old Glass-eye, I'd say he'd put a stop to the meteoric career of this football eleven of ours. And that's what I don't want to see. If we can only force Chip to drop his grudge against Turner, and get down to business, we might still have a fighting chance, but it's hopeless I'm afraid. The whole of Gamma Tau is behind him. And the worst of it is he's knocked poor Jimmy, and has done it so cleverly that even Horton thinks Jimmy's unreliable in a tight pinch, and if there's anything Horton won't forgive a man for, it is to fail when he is most needed. With no one strong enough to push his case and the captain and Dixon dead against him, there's not much more chance for Turner now." Frank had been thinking hard, and now he stopped dead in his tracks. "By Jove!" he said, "I think I know a way to force Chip Dixon to do as we want to have him. If he doesn't do it, there's a fair chance of his ending his career here. I hate to be mean, but when the other fellow is mean and will not let up, we've got to meet him with his own weapons." "Well, fire away, young Sleuth; do you hold a deadly secret over his head? Out with it if you do." Frank quickly gave the Wee One a description of the hazing, which was interrupted very frequently by Patterson with snorts of indignation. "I'll bet Dixon was mixed up in that affair. If we only knew, we'd fix him." "But supposing we did know?" "We'd have him where the wool was short and the skin tender." "Well, that's just it, for when I got back to the room that night Gleason had picked up a wristlet that Chip wore the first day I came here. I haven't seen a wristlet on him since. I looked particularly to-day, and he had none on." "Any marks on the wristlet you found?" inquired the Wee One, eagerly, beginning to catch the drift of Frank's plan. "Yes, 'C. D.' inked plainly on the inside of one of the small straps, and besides that I made a hunt in the grass near the boat-house the next morning, trying to trace out the way we went to the river, and accidentally came across the strap with which they tied my hands, and on that was printed Chip's full name. It looks like one of the straps which go around an extension grip. Here it is, and here's the leather wristlet." "Jumping geewhillikins! Come to my arms, you Sherlock Holmes. We have Chip Dixon where we want him. This seems to be certain proof, and if we gave the story to Glass-eye, Chip wouldn't last long enough to pack his suit case. The old man is dead down on hazers since the accident we had here two years ago. He gives every new class a red-hot talk about it. "To-night you and I will make a call on Mr. Dixon," added the Wee One, who had now thoroughly espoused the Freshman's cause, not only for that individual's sake, but for the sake of justice to the school. "I'll come over to-night after supper, and we will have a little session with our shifty quarterback, which, I think, will make him so gentle that he'll eat off our hand. So long, see you about half-past seven," and the Wee One tore off, but not before Frank had time to shout: "This is all between ourselves." "Sure," returned the Wee One, "ourselves and Mr. Christopher." CHAPTER X. FRANK SPRINGS A SURPRISE. When Frank and the Wee One knocked on Dixon's door that night in the second entry, first floor of Russell Hall, it must be confessed that they were not as brave as they had felt themselves to be earlier in the evening when the plan of campaign had been decided. Frank felt that he had been at Queen's too short a time to be taking the high hand with the quarterback of the eleven, and he was uncertain as to how it would affect his standing in the school. "I tell you, Willie, I wish there was some other way to get at this," Frank said as they cut across the broad walk under the elms. "Have you some other plan under your bonnet?" "No, that's the worst of it. I don't like the idea of being put in the position of forcing Jimmy on the eleven." "Oh, what are you sticking at? If you don't do it the force will be on Jimmy to keep him off. It may be too late even now, for Jimmy had his chance, and to most of those who saw the game the indications were that he is not to be trusted with the ball in a tight place. We know better because we were suspicious of Chip and had a guess as to what he might be up to." "All right," said Frank, "but just the same I wish we could get at it in a different way. Probably all on account of me, Jimmy will now get in bad with the Gamma crowd. I wish I hadn't come to school at all." "Oh, come, if you are getting chills in your pedal extremities we will go back and put you to bed and warm you up with a hot water bottle. But if you are looking for victory, as Napoleon said, 'follow me into the breach.'" "Don't you worry about my feet, Wee One, they're all right. I was thinking of Jimmy only; I want to help him, not hurt him." By the time the boys had finished their discussion they had reached the entry. "Do you know his room?" inquired Frank. "Yes, second floor right," said the Wee One as he began to climb. "Rooms with Hillard, as you probably know. Hope Hillard isn't in. If he is it will make it harder to get to the subject, because Hillard would be displaced by Jimmy if he were found good enough to make the team. Here we are." The Wee One's sturdy knock drew a loud response from within: "Come in." It was Chip's voice, and the tone did not sound pleasant. Patterson pushed open the door and stalked into the room, as brave as a lion. Frank followed on his heels. "Came to see you on a little business, Dixon," volunteered the Wee One, as he took a seat over by the fireplace. "Indeed! You came at a bad time. I'm trying to get back work done." "Sorry we disturb you, but it's important. This is my friend, Frank Armstrong." Chip nodded curtly. "Yes, I've seen him before. He hasn't been here very long, has he? Quite an infant, so to speak," and a sneer played on his face. "No, he hasn't been here very long, but he's going to stay a long while, and may grow up to quarterback of the School eleven or something like that, or make something better," retorted the Wee One, who now that the battle was in sight was rather enjoying the preliminary skirmishes. "Well, what's your business?" said Chip, roughly. "I don't want to appear rude, but I've got a lot of work to do before I go to bed. Football takes most all a fellow's time just about now." "It was about football that we came over to see you," said Frank, speaking now for the first time. "Is that so? It's a little late to be going out for the squad," said Dixon, "and, besides that, I'm not the captain." "I'm aware of that," retorted Frank, "and I'm not going out for the squad this year. We are interested in a fellow who is now on the squad." "What do you think of Jimmy Turner, that young Freshman who has been showing up so well lately?" broke in the Wee One. "He'll be good by-and-by, but he is punk now on handling the ball. It was his fumble to-day when we had a chance to score on Barrows that upset the team." "It wasn't his fumble, and you know that as well as any one," and Freshman though he was, Frank looked the quarterback of the eleven straight in the eye. That individual had started back at the contradiction, but now recovered himself and, shutting up his fist, he took a step in Frank's direction. "What do you mean, you little pup? Didn't Turner drop the ball? He could have scored easily if he'd had the gumption to hang onto it." "He dropped the ball all right, but he dropped it because you didn't give him a chance to get it," said Frank, his fighting blood mounting to his cheeks. For a moment it looked as if there was to be a scrap right on the spot. At the first accusation Chip rushed over to Frank with his eyes blazing and fists clinched. Frank held his ground, and he was reinforced in an instant by the Wee One, who jumped the moment Chip made his rush. Perhaps the consciousness that he was in the wrong and that the accusation was true withheld the blows that Chip appeared ready to rain upon his visitor. "Come on, Dixon, let's talk it over," said the Wee One. "Put your bad temper in your pocket, and we will get down to business." "All right, go ahead, but I don't want any one to come to my room and tell me that I chucked the game this afternoon." "But supposing it was true." Chip blazed out again. "I've a notion to chuck you both out of the room by the way of the window." "That's neither hospitable nor kind. What we came here to find out is, are you willing to give young Turner a fair chance to make the eleven if he is good enough?" said the Wee One. "What are you driving at, anyway? I'm neither the captain nor the coach." "Of course you are not, fortunately, but you're the quarter, and as such you can make or break a halfback that is trying for a place on the team. At present your room-mate, Hillard, is playing at right half, and, naturally, since he is a fraternity brother of yours, you want him to stay there. And you don't want any one else, even though some one else might improve the eleven, to win his place. Isn't that so?" Chip sat glowering at the speaker, but did not answer. "All right. There's an old saying I've seen somewhere, and I guess it's true, that 'silence gives consent.' You admit what I've said?" "I don't admit anything of the kind," snapped Chip. "Hillard is a better back than this fellow Turner will ever be." "Since," went on the Wee One, as cool as a cucumber, and paying no attention to Chip's interruption, "since you agreed that what I say is true, I want to know if you will play square with Turner. Goodness knows this eleven has been messed up by you and your friends in Gamma Tau pretty badly, and if there's the smallest little bit of a chance to improve it, and let us have an opportunity to pull out the Warwick game, you ought to be willing for the sake of yourself, if not for the school, to drop the favorites." Chip was showing evidences of the greatest difficulty to keep from bringing the matter then and there to blows. He was opening and shutting his hands and gritting his teeth. Finally he burst forth: "I don't know what you duffers are here for, trying some kind of bullyragging on me. It's you fellows who are playing favorites, not me. Now I want you both to get out of this room and stay out. I'll play just whoever I wish on that eleven." "Oh, so you are the captain, after all--I thought you said you weren't." Chip could have bitten his tongue out for the admission, but it was too late now to change it, and, having made the statement, he went on: "I've got enough of a say to keep Turner on the side line. He's only a Freshman," he said contemptuously. "If he's good enough he can make the team some other year. He can't make it this one, not as long as I'm quarterback." "Oh, very well, Mr. Dixon, if that's the way you feel about it there's no use in our staying here and keeping you from getting that lesson," said the Wee One, "but getting it will be a waste of time because you will not have a chance to use it. We only wanted a promise from you to let Turner alone, and not to hinder him in any development he may make. Since you are not willing, we have a little story for the Doctor in the morning. If he hears it, you might as well pack your pajamas, and buy your ticket for New York. Good night, Mr. Dixon," said the Wee One, making a sweeping bow. "Come on, Frank, it's no use, the quarterback has a severe case of astigmatism." Frank rose and the two headed for the door. But Chip's curiosity was aroused. He followed them to the entry. "May I ask what you have that you think the Doctor will be interested to hear?" "Oh, no," said the Wee One, "we don't want to take your time. It wouldn't help our case any. We must be hurrying along." "But I insist on knowing," said Chip, following to the head of the stairs. "If you are going to tell the Doctor something about me I have a right to know. What is it?" Alarm began to show in his bearing. "Well, if you are dying to know about it, it is just this. We have pretty good evidence that you were one of the bunch that hazed Frank here, the night he came to school." Chip gave a sneering laugh. "Oh, that's it, is it? I guess you won't be able to prove that. And that's what you've been taking up my time for? You are a pretty pair of young sleuths, ha, ha, ha, ha!" Chip threw his head back and laughed long and noisily. The Wee One waited till Chip had laughed himself out and then said, very quietly: "Well, maybe we can't prove it, and perhaps we were wasting your time and our own. Good night." Chip stood grinning as the boys took a couple of steps down the stairs. Suddenly the Wee One stopped, put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out the leather wristlet. "Oh, by the way, Chip, is this yours?" he asked, holding it up so that Chip could see it plainly. "Sure, it's mine," said Chip. "Where did you find it----" and there he stopped as a grin spread over the faces of the two boys who were watching him intently. "No, I guess it isn't, after all; it looked like one I lost," he added, seeing that he had made a slip. "Well, I'm sure it is yours. There's a very pretty little bunch of initials inside, and they look remarkably like C. D. And how about this perfectly good little strap?" holding up the strap that Frank had picked up on the playground the morning after the hazing. "This has the legend 'C. Dixon' printed very plainly on it. You make very pretty letters, Chip. You will make a fortune as a painter of window signs when you grow up and finish your education." The Wee One's tone was smooth, but irritating, and Chip was ready to fight, but he saw at once that he was powerless, and he knew very well what the Doctor's attitude would be. The proof was before him. "Come back into the room," he said, and when they were inside the door, "What do you want me to do?" "All we want to have you do is to give Jimmy Turner a fair chance. If he is good enough to make the team we don't want you to put anything in his way," said Frank. "In return for this we agree to say nothing about the hazing." "It's a bargain," said Chip. "Now give me the straps." "Oh, dear, no," said the Wee One, "we will return those when the season is over. But for the present I think I'll hang onto them, thank you. Good night, Mr. Dixon." The Wee One put the emphasis a little on the Mister. Chip did not answer, but stood with his back towards them, looking out of the window. "Well, I guess that will hold him for a while," said the Wee One as they left the building. "And now it is up to young Freshman Turner himself." CHAPTER XI. A PROSPECTIVE PUPIL. The Monday following the interview between Frank, the Wee One and Chip Dixon, found things moving very much better down at football practice. Horton turned up with a smiling face at the gymnasium that afternoon while the squad was dressing. "Boys," he said, "we are going to let bygones be bygones. You've been playing worse ball than you knew, and after that awful game on Saturday I thought we might as well all go over to the river and jump in. But that isn't the way to win out." One of the boys, lacing a refractory shoe, grinned up at him. All had expected a heckling and were not prepared for this. "But that isn't the way," he continued. "This is the last week we have, that is, the last week of hard work before our Warwick game, for we can't do much the next week which will count for anything. It will be just the polishing-off process. So I'm going to ask you if you will give me your whole attention. We are going out to make this season a success in spite of the up-and-down game we've been playing. Are you with me?" There was a general murmur of agreement among all the fellows, and a few spoke out. "We will do our best, Mr. Horton," said big Boston Wheeler. "The trouble is that we don't seem to get together." "That's just it," returned Horton, "you are never thinking about the team; it seems to be always about your individual selves, and no team ever amounted to much that was simply eleven men. The eleven men must work as one man to make gains and stop gains by the other fellow. When you work that way and have confidence in yourselves individually as well as in yourselves as a team, there's nothing can stop you. We have a chance yet to win our big game, a fighting chance if everyone will work with a will. Now, that's all I've got to say, the rest of it is up to you fellows." It was with something a good deal like determination that the squad tramped out onto the gridiron that afternoon, and under the urgings of Horton, the First eleven gave the Second such a pummelling as it had never before received. Everything went with a rush. Jimmy was playing on the Second and putting every ounce he had into the work, but he was unable to stop the charges of Dutton, who came through the line like a bull. Three times the First scored on the Second, and twice held the Second safely inside the 10-yard line. Horton was jubilant, and the practice ended with hope high in every one's heart. Tuesday's practice was even better, and the school, which had fallen away from the support of the eleven, began to take more than a listless interest in the progress of things on the gridiron. Jimmy was still on the Second, and taking most of the punishment from big Dutton. Hillard seemed to have taken on a new grip of the ball and was playing faultlessly. Jimmy had had only one chance at the position on the First, and while he was in this position Chip had lived up to the bargain. "Wonder what's come over Dixon," said Jimmy to Frank that night, "he gave me that ball to-day as if it were the dearest possession he ever owned and was afraid I might break it. He was so careful he almost made it hard for me, but hard in a different way from the day the Barrows put it over us. No chance for a fumble there." Frank and the Wee One exchanged winks. "Oh, I guess Chip has had a change of heart," said the latter. "Reformed, maybe." "He certainly has reformed as far as I'm concerned. I grew quite fond of him before the practice was over, although I know he doesn't like me." "Whether he likes you or not makes no particular difference as long as he gives that ball to you right," said Frank. "Oh, but his sweet disposition comes too late, for I'll not get another chance. Hillard is playing like a breeze, and he's certain to go in first. My only chance is for him to break a leg or his neck or something, then I might have a lick at it." "But in the meantime you are learning the game. I saw Horton speaking to you the other day; what did he say?" "Oh, he told me to keep at it, I might make the team in a year or two." "Don't believe him," broke in Lewis. "Horton was asking for a little bit of advice from my room-mate." Lewis, since his retirement from the onerous duties of holding down the sideline, assumed the position of critic and cynic. "And that makes me think," Lewis continued, "I saw Horton talking to you the other day in the gymnasium, Frank. Was he asking you for advice, too?" "Oh, just telling me that I ought to come out and get a little practice at the game myself. He said he thought I was too light this year, but that I might thicken up next year. He put me through a course of sprouts on what I knew and what I didn't know." "Didn't take you long to tell him that latter section, I suppose," ventured the loquacious Lewis, "but please take warning from my case and recognize that even the most gifted coach sees only a small amount of the real talent." Lewis threw out his chest. "Frank, did they tell you how Lewis distinguished himself the first day he was out?" said Jimmy. "Well, that story ought not to be lost. Horton picked up a couple of elevens the first afternoon we were out, along about the end of the first week of practice. He had been showing us how to fall on the ball, which was where Lewis shone bright as the morning star. When the ball got loose and Lewis fell on it, it never got away, but it generally needed repairs, he fell on it so earnestly, and you know Lewis isn't a featherweight." "This story is a chestnut, Frank," said Lewis. "Jimmy got it out of a book somewhere and retails it about me. He is giving himself more and more to unbridled fiction." "Well," continued Jimmy, going on without seeming to notice the interruption from the hero of the story, "Lewis was placed as a halfback on one of these catch-as-catch-can teams. It was an impressive sight to see Lewis trying to run with that ball. About the time he had made up his mind which way to dodge, some one had him about the legs. Horton was good natured then and only laughed. But there was one thing that Lewis could do to the Queen's taste; as I told you, he could fall on that ball, and once, when it came popping out of the line, he dropped on it and saved the day for his side." "See him swell up at this part of the story," said Frank. "That particular afternoon," went on Jimmy, "in one of the scrimmages in which Lewis' team was on the defensive, one of the other backs came up to the line, but owing to the mix-up of the signals and a mix-up of players, some one lost his head-gear, and it rolled out on the side that Lewis was defending. He immediately fell on it while the runner recovered, swept over him and scored, and that was the last of Lewis as a real football player. He looked impressive after that coming onto the field, and I think once or twice Horton let him carry the balls, but they were the spare ones which were tied together with a string." Lewis took the chaffing good-naturedly. "But wait until next year," he said. "I'm going out again and I'll try for center. My weight and fine build will strengthen up that weak spot I can tell you." "Maybe we'll all be on the team next year," said Jimmy. "And then it will be a mess, sure," said Frank. As the boys were still joking about the possibilities of Lewis for center on the team of the following year, there came a knock at the door. "Come in," yelled Lewis, "don't stop to knock." It was a Western Union Telegraph messenger. "A telegram for Frank Armstrong," he said. "Went to your room at No. 18, and the fellow over there said to pursue my diligent way thitherwards, and ask for one Frank Armstrong who might be in company of a fat boy with pink cheeks," Jimmy snickered, "and a brick top." It was now Lewis' turn to snicker. Meantime Frank had taken the telegram and had broken the seal. He read it with the greatest surprise. "Great Scott, fellows, listen to this: "'New York, October 25. Frank Armstrong, Queen's School, Milton. David has decided to enter Queen's if possible. Will reach there Thursday. Signed, J. B. Powers.'" "Can't get along without you. Overpowering magnetism and all that sort of thing," said Lewis. "It's fine, isn't it?" said Frank. "The school is crowded, but if the Doctor has no objections I can take him over in No. 18 with me. There's barrels of room, and I'm sure Gleason wouldn't mind. He's a good old encyclopedia. He's busy just at present compiling records of the high jump since 1852." "Why doesn't he go back to 1492," suggested Lewis. "Columbus was quite a little jumper himself." "And there was the cow that jumped over the moon," said Jimmy; "tell him to get that record sure. The old bovine put them all in the shade." "Come and tell him yourself," cried Frank, at the door. "I'm going over to see if we can't squeeze another couch in my sleeping den. It's not as big as the Grand Central, but if it can be managed, David is sure going to be with me." "If the room is too small, why not try a trundle bed?" called out Lewis, but Frank was half way down the stairs and did not hear him. Frank burst into No. 18 where Gleason was scratching away in his book of records. "Say, Gleason, got any objection to having another room-mate?" "What, Web-foot, going to leave your old wife?" said Gleason, looking up in surprise. "I don't mean that. The fellow I was down south with this summer has decided to come to Queen's, if he can get in. I know the dormitories are all crowded, and I'm willing to have him bunk in with me. He's a dandy chap. You'd like him." "No objections from the Codfish," announced that individual. "We can set up a four-poster in the room here. It'll be very handy to hang our clothes on. We need more room here anyway," and he looked around at the disarray of clothes piled on chairs and tables and window seat. "Bring him in, sir, the more the merrier. Always room at the top," and Gleason returned to his scratching. "It will not be necessary to put him in here. He can have half of my room," said Frank. "If the Doctor has no objection, it's settled. I had more room than I needed anyway." "When's he coming?" inquired Gleason. "The telegram I had says he's on the way and will be here Thursday." "Is he a Web-foot, too?" "No, David hasn't any feet to speak of. He walks with crutches and can't take part in athletics, but he's about the finest little chap you ever saw." "Speaking of feet," said Gleason, "since you are not doing anything in football, why don't you go down to the track and do something there? You are a likely looking athlete, and you might be able to help old man Duffy win some points for Queen's. He needs candidates for every event. Nearly all the first string fellows graduated last year. Great chance for some young buck to distinguish himself." "Why don't you go down and show him some speed yourself?" "Me? Oh, I'd rather watch. You see I don't come of an athletic family. I'd rather set down what the other fellow does. Got to be some one to do that, you know." The notion stuck in Frank's head. "I believe I'll do it," he said half to himself. "To-morrow I'll give myself up. I don't think anything will come of it, but I'd like to do something to help the school, and father has barred me out of football this year, but says I'll be hardened up enough if I stay out of it till next fall." "You'll be hardened enough if you stay with me," said the Codfish, and Frank dived into his room, laughing. CHAPTER XII. A TRY-OUT ON THE TRACK. Track athletics at Queen's had not been in a very flourishing condition for some years prior to the opening of our story. The popular sports were baseball and football, and these took the pick of the fellows who had a desire to do some athletic work. Patsy Duffy, the trainer of all the teams, managed now and then to find some pretty good men in the sprints and short distance runs, and he had once sent a team of six down to the Interscholastic games at New Haven, which picked up eleven points in second and third places, and that, when you consider that the school had less than 200 boys to draw from, is not so bad as it might be. But although Queen's was never in any great danger of winning the Interscholastics, the school was nevertheless nearly always represented by some one. Warwick was, in track athletics, as in every other of the sports, the natural rival of Queen's, and for the last two years had made away with the annual track contest by a good, wide margin of points. The trainer had gone over the incoming class pretty thoroughly for material and had not found much of it, so he was pleased when Frank stepped up to him at the track the next afternoon and said he would like to try for a place on the team. "Where did you come from?" said Patsy. "From the Milton High School, but I never did much there in the way of athletics, excepting to play a little baseball and football." "Can you run or jump?" "Don't think so." "Can you sprint or hurdle?" "Afraid not." "Jump?" "Can't even jump, to my knowledge. But I'm willing to try any of them." "Well, this doesn't sound promising, but some of the best I've had knew nothing about it when they came here, and I've sent some of the best men they ever had to Yale and Harvard and Princeton. Ever hear of Tinker Howe, the great Yale half-miler? Yes; well, he was one of the men I trained. Came out here one day and at first couldn't run a half mile in three minutes. But he came along fast. And there was Winchester, the fellow who played tackle on Harvard last year, and who was one of the best shot-putters that ever went to Cambridge. He was one of our fellows, trained right in this little piece of ground." "I don't believe I'll ever be like those fellows, but I want to try anything you think I'm fitted for." "Well, suppose you run up to the gymnasium and get into some togs. Miggs, the rubber up there, will fit you out and if you like the work, and I like you, we'll fix you up with a regular suit. Hurry it up, and I'll have you jog around the track once or twice with Watkins here," indicating a young fellow who was prancing up and down the stretch with long, springy strides. Frank was quickly equipped at the gymnasium with a jersey and a pair of misfit running trousers which Miggs had dug out somewhere for him. "I feel like a scarecrow," thought Frank, "but maybe after this performance to-day he will not consider my efforts worth much." "Come on now," said Patsy, as Frank came trotting back to the track. "Let's try a few starts. You will run only fifteen steps or so. Don't suppose you know anything about starting, Armstrong?" "No, I guess I don't." "All right. On your marks, get set, GO." Frank, accustomed to the starting signal for swimming, went away like a shot and ran away from the half-miler, who was taking things more leisurely. "I thought you said you didn't know anything about starting," said Patsy, as he and Watkins came back to where the trainer stood. "Oh, I forgot to tell you that I have done a little swimming racing, and we start about the same." "So much the better. Some very good runners are spoiled because they can't start fast enough. When the pistol goes off you'd think they were going to take root. You don't seem to be bothered that way, but I'm afraid you haven't got stride enough for a long distance racer. Try it again." The boys lined up and started at the word "Go," and again Frank started in excellent form; but this time Watkins was watching for him, and got off his marks with more speed than before, although, even then, Frank led him a step. Patsy was smiling as they came back to him. "Did you ever run a hundred yards, Armstrong? No? Well, I'm going to try you at that now and see what you can do. You have the appearance of a sprinter, at least as far as the first twenty yards go. Do you think you can hold it at the pace you set out?" "Don't know, but I'll try." By this time a half dozen other runners, in their airy, abbreviated costumes, who had been trotting around the track or taking little dashing spurts, had gathered around to see the new boy tried out, and there was a good deal of interest manifest when Patsy said he would have the new boy try a hundred yards dash. Just at that moment the Codfish strolled up. "Hello, wifey," he said as he saw Frank in running costume; "took my advice, didn't you? You look handsome, but are you any good?" "We are just going to try to find out," said Patsy. "I'm going to run him a hundred yards. Will you go up and start him? I want to take his time. Here's a pistol. Collins, go along with Armstrong and pace him down the full distance, and bring him as fast as he can come." Collins was the best sprinter of Queen's, as Frank afterward learned. At the sound of the pistol, Collins was off with a great burst of speed, but Frank, in spite of his lack of training, followed him closely for half the distance. Then the training of the practised sprinter began to tell and Frank dropped behind, but not so far behind but that Patsy's face wore a much pleased grin when he finished. Collins, who was a Junior and slated for the captaincy if Gamma Tau didn't undertake to knock things out of gear with politics, came back and patted him on the shoulder. "It was well run, Freshman," he said. "What did he do it in?" said Gleason, coming up to Patsy when Frank, who was not in the best of condition for sprinting, was recovering his wind. Patsy held up the watch. Eleven and two-fifth seconds, it said. "By Jove, that's good time for a kid, and his first trial, and not in condition, isn't it?" "It's first rate," said Patsy. "He will be a good one or I miss my guess. He has a good build for a sprinter." Meantime Frank was taking a turn around the back stretch, and when he came back, Patsy said: "Armstrong, that's enough for to-day." Frank was turning away when Patsy continued, "Don't go yet, I want to have you try a jump for me. We need a jumper badly, and you may be the fellow we are looking for. You said you never jumped?" "No, only in fun, and the jumps were never measured." "Well, come over here and try one or two, and we will see if you have any spring in your legs. Most natural sprinters have." "You see," said Patsy as they reached the broad jump runway, "you get up your speed here and then strike this take-off board with whichever foot comes most convenient for you to jump from; lift yourself into the air and strike in that soft sawdust pit. The jump is measured from the face of the take-off to the point where you break the ground nearest to the take-off block. Do you get me?" Frank nodded and walked down the runway, measuring carefully with his eye the distance he had to go. "All ready," shouted Patsy; "come on!" Frank took a run, gathering momentum as he came. He saw ahead of him the trainer and Codfish Gleason and a dozen boys watching his effort, and in spite of his best attempts he could not concentrate his mind on that take-off block. It seemed to lie somewhere in a fog, and he simply kept on running with the result that he dashed across it into the sawdust, which is put there to break the fall of the jumpers, tried to stop, and went headlong. He picked himself up, covered with sawdust, and much chagrined at his failure. "I want to try that over again," he said. "I couldn't seem to see where that block was, and I missed it." Patsy grinned. "The best of them do that sometimes. It's one of the hardest things in jumping. As you come up to the block, you want to concentrate your mind on that place. Arrange your steps so you will come to it on the foot you can best jump from, and come down on the block as hard as you can, bouncing off it, so to speak, and going as far up in the air as you can. The momentum you have gained in your run will carry you along. That's the idea of the broad jump. And don't get nervous." Patsy communicated this information to Frank as he walked along with him to the head of the runway. "The take-off, the take-off, the take-off," was drumming through Frank's mind as he came rushing down for it. So determined was he not to overrun the block that he under-did it this time, and he "took-off" about 14 inches before he reached the block. But even in spite of this handicap, the measuring tape showed a jump of 15 feet 6 inches. "O, but," said Frank, "you are not measuring from where I jumped." "That's not the way we do it. We measure, as I told you, from the face of the block, so that as you jumped you really handicapped yourself 14 inches. It would have been a very good jump, indeed, if that 14 inches hadn't been wasted. The best jumpers contrive their run so as to hit the center of the block squarely with the ball of the jumping foot, the toe even projecting over the block. Try it once more, and try not to over or under-run the block, but to hit it squarely." "I never knew there was so much to jumping," said Frank, as he walked back for his third trial. "But this time I'm going to get it if it takes a leg." Fixing the block firmly in his mind as he had been told, and also the idea of carrying as high as possible into the air, Frank came rushing down the runway. This time he struck the take-off like a veteran, rose in the air and was carried along by his speed. As he was coming down he threw his feet out in front of him so as to get as much distance as possible, but when he struck he had more distance than he could hold and fell backwards. His heels had broken the ground at 16 feet 9-1/2 inches, but in his efforts to keep from falling he had put his hand behind him, and from the block to the break made by his hand it was only a little over 15 feet. Frank thought it hard lines not to get all he had actually jumped, but saw at once that the rule was right--that the first break in the ground from the face of the take-off was the only right thing to go by, although his actual jump had been in this case two feet farther. "That's all for to-day," said Patsy, "you've had enough for the first day." But Frank pleaded for one more try to see if he could not get it right--the very last--and Patsy relented. And this time Frank did get it right. He came carefully up to the block, got a good raise and carry, and held his footing when he struck the ground. The tape measure, held by the Codfish and Patsy, showed 16 feet 3 2-5 inches, a remarkable jump, indeed, for an unpractised schoolboy. "To-morrow at 2 o'clock I want to see you here, and we'll do a little more work. Your showing to-day is all right. Maybe I can make something out of you," said Patsy, and when Frank had trotted off in the direction of the gymnasium he said to Gleason: "There's the right sort of a chap. Doesn't know much about it, but willing to try, and crazy to make good at whatever he tries. I'll make something out of him, see if I don't. The fall trials come off a week from to-day, but I'll bet in spite of the short time he has had to work, he'll make some of the older ones hustle to keep ahead of him. I don't know yet about his sprinting, but he certainly can jump like a deer." CHAPTER XIII. LEARNING TO RUN THE HUNDRED. Frank was at the gymnasium at 2 o'clock the next afternoon, garbed in a running rig that the Codfish had given him. "How did you come to have running clothes with you?" asked Frank, surprised when the Codfish produced from the recesses of his trunk a neat blue jersey and a pair of spotless running trousers. "My fond papa said he thought I ought to take some exercise when he sent me up here. He told me he was a peach of a runner in his school days, and talked so much about the way he walloped every one in sight on the track that I got kind of ambitious, and let mother put these things in." "Why don't you go out for running yourself? You ought to make a runner," and Frank gazed admiringly at the long legs which Gleason had spread out on the window seat, the lower parts of them dressed in gorgeous green socks. "Oh, I don't like to fatigue myself. If I run I grow weary, and if I'm weary I must rest, and I'd much rather rest without being weary first. Don't feel backward about taking the duds, old chappie, because your Uncle Dudley will never put them on. If they had something like a 15-yard dash I might get out and make a record or two myself, but since the shortest distance is a hundred yards and the longest is a mile, I guess I'll put my spare time in some other way." "And how about your father's ambitions for you?" "Oh, dad won't mind. I don't believe he was much of a runner anyway. He just lets his imagination carry him away." So Frank became the possessor of a fine outfit, and wore it that afternoon with considerable pride. Patsy nodded pleasantly as he came onto the track. "See you're on time," he said. "Now jog around the track very easily two or three times just to get limbered up, and then we will have a few starts with Collins and you. Felt sore this morning, did you?" "Legs pained me when I woke up this morning. Dreamed that I fell out of an aeroplane." "It's the jumping," said Patsy. "I've known fellows when they began to jump to be so sore they'd have to walk with a cane. But you'll soon be over that." "I sincerely trust so; it's no fun." Patsy was like the manager of a three-ring circus, as any track trainer, who knows what he is there for and who is worth his salt, ought to be. He had a word of caution to the long-distance runner to run flat-footed and save himself for the sprint, if sprint he must at the end of his race; to the pole-vaulter he reiterated the oft-repeated injunction that to get over the bar when it was 10 feet up meant to pull up with the arms and not altogether a spring from the legs; to the hurdler he gave a minute of his valuable attention, indicating where his take-off for the barrier was too near or too far away, and if he lost too much time in the flight. "If you're going to hurdle on this track you've got to get down to the track and run on it and not try to sail through the air." And even when he wasn't giving direct coaching, Patsy was making mental notes for use later on when they would be of more value to the coached. Frank had jogged around several times when Patsy hailed him on one of his trips, and said: "Now I want you and Collins and Herring"--that was the other sprinter in the school, a second string man to Collins--"to come up to the start of the hundred. We will do a little work." The little work consisted in getting down at the starting line, balancing delicately on the balls of the feet--the one just on the starting line and the other about fourteen inches behind--with the tips of the fingers resting lightly on the ground, and at the sound of the pistol, shooting forward from that position without the delay of a thousandth part of an eye-wink. On the first trial Frank made a sorry mess of it. The crouching sprinter's start was new to him. He had started the day before from a straight standing position, but when he got to the crouching attitude--pictures of which he had seen many times, and as many times wondered how runners could possibly start from such an awkward position--he found it necessary to come to an upright position before he could get under way. Both Collins and Herring gained a stride on him at the very start, and a stride is a lot in a hundred yard race. "See here, Armstrong," said Patsy. "The sprinter, that is the fellow who runs the short distance, hasn't time to start off easy. From the shot he must be moving forward. Now you come straight up. Watch me," and Patsy dropped down to the racing position, and shot away from it with an astonishing swiftness that made Frank open his eyes. Patsy in his time had been one of the best runners, and knew to a nicety just how to do the trick. "Come on, now again, and remember that you shoot out and not up," and Patsy held the pistol over his head. "Get ready, set----" but Frank in his eagerness felt that the pistol shot was coming, and dashed off only to recover in a moment, and return shame-facedly to the mark. "That would cost you a yard, Armstrong, if it had been an actual race you were running. But we'll not penalize you this time. Now again." Little by little Frank began to get the science of starting. Patsy showed him the why and wherefore of hole-digging so that the starter would get a better grip with his feet. In a dozen or more starts Frank showed improvement steadily, and was overjoyed at the praise of the trainer. "You are doing well, Armstrong," said Patsy; "keep it up. Now take a little rest while I see what these high jumpers are doing. They look from here as if they were playing leap-frog. Those fellows never will learn to turn right when they get in the air," and he hurried off to correct some faults his keen eye had detected even from that distance. While he was gone the boys pranced around and took a couple of starts by themselves. "Have you run much?" inquired Herring, who was a Junior and had worked hard for what he got. He was not especially well built for sprinting, being a little too stocky and short-legged, but what he lacked in form he made up in determination. He had almost reached his limit in development and never could be a first-rater. "No," said Frank, "I've never run before; this is my first offence." "Gee whiz, you'll soon have me lashed to the mast. If you can hold the gait you strike at the start clear through to the finish, I'll be third string right off the reel. Here's Patsy back to give us our trial on the hundred." "Now, boys," said Patsy, "this is the last for you to-day. I want you to run this hundred through as fast as you can. Collins, you take the pole; Herring, you next; and you, Armstrong, have the outside. No crowding. And, Armstrong, don't forget what I told you; don't lose time getting up--the finish isn't up in the air, it's down the track a hundred yards. On your marks!----" The three stepped into the little holes they had dug for their feet. "Get set!----" They crouched and touched the tips of their fingers to the ground, leaning well forward, necks craned and eyes straight ahead. "Bang!" went the pistol, and six legs and six arms began to work like pistons. Frank had somehow remembered his instructions and got a better start even than Herring. He tore along ahead of that runner who was making a desperate effort to reach him. Collins was running freely on the pole, a half stride in advance. For half the distance the order remained the same, but then Frank's lack of training and lack of experience began to tell, and Herring reached him. At the 80 yards he was running breast to breast with Herring, but that individual's bandy but powerful legs and better wind carried him ahead from that point. Collins finished first, Herring second, and Frank a good third. "Well run," shouted a hearty voice from the side of the course as the three runners pulled up just beyond the finish line; and Frank, looking up, saw Colonel Powers and David at the side of the track. He ran over and shook hands, overjoyed to see them. "Thought you weren't coming till Thursday," said Frank, "and this is only Wednesday." "Well, you see," returned the Colonel, "David couldn't stand it any longer. We came up to Milton last night intending to go down to Eagle Island to-day to look after the house, but David persuaded me to come out here instead, and so here we are. But I didn't know you were a runner as well as a swimmer." "O, I'm a pretty poor apology for a runner. Maybe I'll be able to run some day and win a point for the school." "Well, judging by the way you were coming down the stretch with those two fellows, you would be able to put the Powers family to shame, eh, David?" "Frank can do anything he undertakes as well as the next one," said David, "and I think if he starts out to run he can do it and win. Don't you remember the race down at St. Augustine, father?" "Track work is over for the day," said Frank; "come along to the gym while I get into my everyday clothes, and we'll go up to the room; or, if you would like to, we'll go over and see the football practice. David, you remember Jimmy, don't you? Well, he is a candidate for halfback on the school eleven, and in spite of his being a Freshman, I think he'll make it." "Jimmy was the owner of the _Foam_ that sunk in the foam, was he not?" inquired the Colonel. "I remember how plucky he was when we picked him out of the water. You all were, for that matter." "And Lewis Russell is here, too, in the same class with us; they entered at the first of the term, and I came in three weeks late." "Is Lewis on the eleven, too?" inquired David. "No; Lewis' football sun set very early in his career, and now he sits on the bleachers the same as I do, and watches the other fellows get talked to by the coach. "How does it come, David, that you changed your mind about school? I thought you were going to study with a tutor the same as last year," said Frank. "The trouble was," said Colonel Powers, "that David, who has been a pretty quiet fellow all his life, got a taste of companionship this summer on the yacht, and when he went back to his tutor, old Mr. Melcher, he found the work drier than ever. So he wanted to know if he couldn't come along to Queen's with you." "Yes," said David for himself. "Before I met you I didn't think I'd go to school at all, but last summer changed me somehow. I saw what a good time Burton had, and when I thought of you over here making lots of friends and taking part in things, I wanted to come along." "Yes, and it happens," said the Colonel, "that Doctor Hobart is a personal friend of mine, and it was easily arranged that David come here, though it is nearly the end of October and half the first term gone. The only difficulty about it seems to be, for I have just had a talk with the Doctor, in getting the right kind of a room for him; they are crowded to the limit here." "Oh, I forgot to tell you that the room part of it is all arranged. He's going to bunk in with me. The night I got your telegram I put it up to Gleason, my room-mate, and he had no objections. The place is not big, but plenty big enough for us two." David beamed with joy, and the Colonel expressed his pleasure that the boys were to be together again. "David needs companionship to bring him out of himself," he said, "and it is possible that David may be a help to you, Frank." That night the Colonel and David sat down to table in the school dining hall together with Frank and Jimmy and Lewis, and when dinner was over they strolled under the great elms of the school yard and listened to the Glee Club singing on the steps of Russell Hall. To David it was like fairy-land. CHAPTER XIV. A MYSTERIOUS APPEARANCE. David saw his first football practice the next afternoon and enjoyed the spectacle of Jimmy zipping through the line or spilling the fellow with the ball when he happened to be playing on the defensive. Dixon was living up to the part of the contract forced upon him by Frank and the Wee One, and made no further obstacle for Jimmy when the coach occasionally put him over in the backfield on the First eleven. But Chip bore the Freshman halfback no very deep affection. He was, however, becoming more and more impressed with the belief that Jimmy was the genuine material and that he was pretty nearly necessary to the welfare of his eleven. Hillard generally took precedence, that is, he went in at first, but Jimmy would get in awhile toward the end of practice. During the week, practice had been very satisfactory, by far the best of the season, and when on Saturday the school eleven scored 12 to 4 against the Milldale High School eleven, hope began to run high in the school that perhaps after all Queen's might pull out that Warwick game, which was now only a week off. Friday night there was a mass-meeting under the elms in the yard, and Horton, Mr. Parks and a graduate of the school of some forty years before--a Mr. Walbridge--were the speakers. They stood on the steps of Russell and torches lighted up the scene. There had been a torchlight parade up and down the walks of the school, and the procession finally halted in front of the wide steps of Russell Hall where the speakers were in readiness. "We are going out next Saturday for a victory, boys," said Horton. "We have been down in the mouth all the season because factions have been pulling us one way and another, but that is all over now. You played good football this afternoon, but you'll have to play better next Saturday for those fellows up the river are going to give you the battle of your lives. But if you will forget all your disagreements and get together, and then stay together, we'll show them yet." "You bet we will," sang out a voice from the rear, as Horton retired. "Three cheers for Horton." Harding, the captain of the eleven, wakened from his lethargy by the enthusiasm, jumped out in front of the bunch of boys and cried: "Now a long one for Mr. Horton, get into it," and they did with a vim and a snap which made Horton's eyes brighten. "Rackety wow, rackety wow, rackety wow, Horton, Horton, Horton." The rumpus stirred the katydids in their leafy bowers overhead and they were loudly affirming and denying when Mr. Parks gave the boys a word of encouragement. Mr. Parks was followed by the elderly graduate of the school, who told them of football when he was at Queen's. "We hadn't a quarter of the number of boys to choose from in my day," he said, "and I don't think we were any bigger, but we worked together and played together and ate together, and when we went out on the field to play our games we were so completely together that the team moved like one man. And if you will look over the records of those old days, you'll find that Queen's didn't lose many games. "It's the same on the football field as it is in the daily walks of life. To be successful, I mean to have the right kind of success, you've got to play fair and hard and keep thinking. If some one slams into you, I know the feeling is to retaliate, for that's human nature; but when you're tempted to do that, just think that while you're slugging the fellow who slammed into you unnecessarily, your opponent may be getting past you, for you can't do two things at once. I remember a fellow in my own class; they called him 'Biff Scott.' He used to play center, and when he could keep his temper he was a wonder. But a hard jolt always made him mad, and then he was a very poor center. In our big game with Warwick, for our big game was with Warwick just the same as yours is now, the Warwick center knew of Scott's weak point, so he teased him into forgetting what he was there for, and they put play after play right over him and actually won the game because he fought and didn't play. "I'm of the opinion," the old graduate continued, "that what Mr. Horton says is right, that if you give up these little dissensions, get together and stay together, you may yet make this football season something to be proud of. I, for one, believe you can and will do it. That's all." Again the school yell ripped out sharply and was echoed back by the walls of Warren just across the way. Cheers were given for the team, the coaches, the captain, and a crashing one for Queen's School. Then the torches were swung over shoulders again, and the procession took up its course, the tramp of many feet following the marching melody of the school-- Tramp, tramp, tramp, old Queen's is marching, Marching onward to the fray. Can't you hear our ringing cheer, Rising loud and high and clear, Queen's will fight and win the victory to-day. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the team is marching, Onward down the field they go. They're the best in all the land, They've the heart, the brain, the sand, And the courage high to conquer every foe. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the battle's raging, Cheer the victors loud and long. They will raise the Blue and Gold Where it waved in days of old. Then a cheer, my boys, and join us in our song. Tramp, tramp, tramp, old Queen's victorious, Ever valiant in the fray. And we'll give a rousing cheer For the team that knows no fear. Then for Queen's, my boys, hurray, hurray, hurray! When it was all over Frank and Jimmy and Lewis climbed the stairs to No. 18 and found David where they had left him. "It was like fairy-land," cried David, as Jimmy and Frank came in. "Looking down from here it was like a long fire-snake twisting and turning up and down the walks." "How about the cheering?" asked Jimmy. "It sounded wonderful coming up through the branches. I'm so glad I came up after all. I had made up my mind not to go to school because I felt I would be in the way," and he looked down at his twisted and misshapen limbs, and there was a tremor in his voice. "But just the same, I'm glad I came. I can't take part in all the fun, but it will be good to see it from the window." "Go along with you," said Frank, going over to David and slipping his arm around his shoulder. "In a little while you'll be taking your part just the same as any of us, and you won't have to watch from the window as you say." "What could I do?" wailed David. "There are lots of things you can do. Maybe you can write for the _Mirror_." "That, we'd have you know, is the sparkling weekly of Queen's," broke in Jimmy. "Yes," said Frank; "you might stamp your name forever on the history of Queen's athletics by writing a good football song, and who knows but they might erect a monument to your memory, because we're a little shy on good songs." "I've been thinking of trying myself," said Lewis, "now that I've given football up for more serious things." "Because football's given you up, you mean," slung in Jimmy, "for better things!" "But I can never do anything in athletics like you fellows," said David wistfully. "It would be such fun." "I'm not so sure you can't do any athletics," said Frank. "To-night I happened to meet Patsy, he's our trainer, you know, and instructor in the gym as well. I told him about you and he said you might go into the gym, and if you develop strength in your arms there are lots of things you could do." "What, for instance?" inquired David, brightening up at the possibility of taking part in any of the sports which he had thought all closed to him forever. "Well, Patsy said there was the gymnastic work, parallel bars, horizontal bars, flying rings and rope climbing. The champion of the school gets a big 'Q' on a white sweater just the same as the football fellows. And he said you might make a good coxswain of the crew. Lots of things for you to do, so cheer up." "I'll see about it right away. I've always been strong in my arms and hands, probably because of these things," indicating the crutches. "You see my poor legs are not very heavy," and he caught the arms of the chair in which he was sitting, and raised himself with the greatest of ease, swinging his body clear of the seat and swaying backwards and forwards. "I say," said Jimmy, "wouldn't it be great if David got his 'Q' before any of us?" "Guess there's no real danger of my being burdened with a 'Q' for a while," said David laughing. "But I'll train up and be ready for it if a 'Q' should be flying around looking for some pleasant place to nest." "We're all looking that way and would be most willing to offer a nest to this much-desired but elusive letter. Jimmy is the most likely of us if he doesn't break his neck before the Warwick game," said Frank. "Come on, Fatty," cried Jimmy, after the boys had chatted for a half hour. "We must be going to our model apartment up the road, and let these old cronies get to bed. I've got to keep good hours, you know." "Speaking of beds, you see how I've fixed my room," said Frank, leading the way to the chamber. "We got them to put another couch in here alongside of mine, right by the window. From here we can look out and see you fellows laboring any fine afternoon. The football field is right over there," added Frank, pointing. He broke off short. "Gee whiz," he cried suddenly, "what's that?" The others crowded up close to the window and looked in the direction indicated by Frank's finger. The moon was shining brightly, the stars twinkled brilliantly, and the trees and the football stands threw dense black shadows on the grass which at that distance looked like a pall of black velvet. But what caught and held their attention was in the middle distance between themselves and the silvery line of the river, where a white shrouded figure moved rapidly along. It looked like a woman dressed completely in white, but the garments hung from the head rather than from the shoulders, and seemed to flow out behind. "It's a ghost," whispered Lewis, his scalp beginning to stretch with the rising hairs. The boys watched the thing intently. It did not seem to walk but rather to glide along about five or six feet from the ground. Suddenly it turned from its course parallel to the river, and started to come in the direction of the dormitory. It came on and on until within perhaps a hundred yards of the foot of the slightly higher ground on which the dormitories were built, and then swung away off in the direction of the football stands and disappeared as suddenly as it had come, while they stood watching with fascinated eyes. Frank was the first to recover himself. "Well, if that doesn't beat the Dutch," he said, turning a puzzled face to his companions. Lewis was positively blue with fear. "I thought the thing was coming right up the bank," he said. "Yes, you grabbed me as if you had been a drowning man and I had been a straw," said Jimmy. "You did some grabbing yourself," retorted Lewis, beginning to recover himself now that the apparition had gone. "Well, I'll admit the blooming thing did startle me, all right. Must have been a shadow," said Frank. "The moon plays funny tricks with shadows at night." "It wasn't a shadow," remarked David, "because I distinctly saw a black shadow following the thing, whatever it was; and if it had been a shadow it certainly wouldn't have cast a shadow, would it?" The boys stood at the window for half an hour looking for another visitation of the spook or ghost, or whatever it was, but the field appeared to be deserted. There was only the moonlight on the grass, the black shadows and the katydids calling mournfully to each other the old, old refrain. Then Lewis and Jimmy made their departure, the former keeping very close to Jimmy as they headed for their own room. Unconsciously they quickened their steps and occasionally looked fearfully over their shoulders, and on reaching their entry made a break for their room, three steps at a leap. A little while after Jimmy and Lewis had made their hasty exit to the other end of Warren Hall, Gleason came sauntering up the stairs, and into the room. "This is our new room-mate, David Powers," said Frank. David and Gleason shook hands. "Glad to see you," said the Codfish. "Hope you and Web-foot won't get lost in that big room of yours--what's the matter with the both of you?--you look as if you had seen a ghost." "That's just what we did do." "Get out, where?" "Right down there on the meadow." "Go to bed and have a little sleep, and you'll get over it all right. You're studying too hard." "I saw it too," chimed David. "There were four of us and we saw it plain as day." "What was it, the headless horseman or the slaughtering ghost of the Barrows' football team? Did it walk or skate?" "No, we're telling you the straight goods on this. Jimmy, Lewis, David and I saw it, and watched it for five minutes. It disappeared down by the river bank. It didn't walk on the ground at all, but seemed to be floating through air." "Poor fellow, poor fellow," said the Codfish mournfully. "We'll get a doctor in the morning. That algebra has gone to his brain." "Well, you can believe it or not," said Frank. "We saw it sure enough. It came apparently from the river, and seemed to go back to it down there by the football field." "By Jove," said the Codfish, after a moment's reflection. "One of the fellows at this school was drowned in the river just a little below the bath-house float three or four years ago, and they recovered his body down there by the football stand. I wonder---- I wish I'd been here." And Frank and David and Jimmy and Lewis also wondered, and the latter, when he was ready for dreamland took a long, long look out onto the silent playground. "Gee," he said to himself, "and I thought of going down there to-night, it looked so pretty in the moonlight. What do you suppose it could have been?" He took the precaution of closing the window tight that night, leaving only those windows on the yard side of the rooms open. That night he dreamed that a headless woman dressed all in white stood beside his bed, and offered him her head which she had tucked nicely away under her arm, and when he looked at it more closely, he saw it was a football and not a head at all. CHAPTER XV. FRANK WINS HONORS ON THE TRACK. David very quickly dropped into the school life, just as Frank had done. The two room-mates were always together. David was eager to see everything, and every day found him, after the school work was done, down at the track or the gridiron. He also found time to get acquainted with the muscle building apparatus in the gymnasium. A certain small amount of gymnastic work was required at Queen's, but David had determined to take up some specialty. From the nature of his infirmity those things which could be done with the arms and body were, of course, the only things open to him. Patsy's assistant in the gymnasium, Harry Buehler, took him under his wing, and set him at tasks which would help to develop his arm and shoulder muscles. "Do you think there's any chance for me to do anything for the school?" inquired David, shortly after he began his work. "Why, certainly there is. One of the best athletes we had here three or four years ago was a chap named Bascom. He had bad legs, but the way he could handle himself on the horizontal bar was a caution. He set the record here, too, for rope-climbing. I don't think it will be broken for some time to come." David made a mental note that if he could develop, he would take a whack at that record, whatever it was. In the meantime he was content to do the simple athletic tasks which were set for him. Frank, who was not much for gymnastic work, preferring the outdoor athletics, came down to see David one day, and found that youngster lying on the mat and raising dumbbells at arm's length. "Great Scott," he said, "where did you get all that strength? I don't believe I could do that so easily." David grinned. "Perhaps the explanation is that the strength I haven't got in my legs goes to my arms. I can lift heavier ones than that. Look," and he seized a 25-pound bell and swung it up and down. Frank was amazed. "I didn't think you had such strength. What will you be when you work a while under Buehler? I'll certainly not get into a fight with you. I'd have no chance at all." "I guess we will not fight right away," returned David. "But I say, you are in the track games to-morrow, are you not? I noticed a bulletin tacked up on the door giving the entries. Does football stop the afternoon of the games? I see some of the players' names there." "Yes, they give the pigskin warriors a day off, and some of them take part. The games are chiefly to give Patsy a line on what there is in the incoming class. In order to make it interesting as a contest, every one takes part, the 'Q' men as well as the new men." "You're going to try the hundred and the broad jump, I see." "Yes, Patsy says I may be good at one or the other if I live long enough. But I haven't much hopes of myself. I'm too green." "I'll bet you will make the best of them all," said David enthusiastically. "Oh, come now, David, no taffy here. It's bad enough for a fellow who can do something to have a swelled head, but when a fellow can't do anything at all, it's fatal. So don't try to puff me. I won't stay and listen or I may get the big-head microbe. See you later. Don't strain yourself with those big weights. I'm responsible to your dad for your well-being. Ta, ta." At four o'clock the next afternoon there was a sprinkling of Queen's boys, the non-athletic fellows, down on the stands, to see what the new class was likely to do for the school in the way of track athletics. Queen's had been down in the dumps in this particular line of sport for several years, and it had become almost a habit to lose to Warwick. There was always pretty good material available for the weight events, but for some singular reason no sprinters headed Queen's way. It had become noised about that a new sprinter in the person of Frank Armstrong had been turned up by Patsy, and every one wanted to see just how fast he was. The first race to be run was the quarter in which there were seven starters. Queen's track was a quarter-mile, and the runners were to start at the middle of the back stretch, and finish down the straightaway. This gave them only one turn, and it was supposed to be easier on that account. Hillard was scratch man on this event. The new men were given various handicaps--that is, Patsy set them at points from 10 to 20 yards further along, so as to even up their speed with that of Hillard, who had won the event the year before from the best that Warwick had to offer. "Nothing in that bunch," said a Senior as he looked the fellows over; "they're not strong enough. Look at that skinny Freshman with 20 yards handicap. I'll bet he'll die half way down the stretch." The little chap he referred to was a slender boy of fourteen, light haired almost to whiteness, and very spindly in his shanks. He had come from some little town in the western part of the state, and was so insignificant looking that no one paid much attention to him in the fall practice. Even Patsy's eye failed to note him. His name was Brown--Tommy Brown. After Patsy had put all his runners on their marks, he gave the usual preparatory signal for starting, and the pistol snapped. There was a rush of spectators for the end of the straightaway where the runners were to finish. Hillard, sure of himself, and moving rapidly, soon began to overhaul the inexperienced Freshmen. One by one he passed them, and as he swung into the straightaway with half the distance gone, only two were ahead of him. One of these was the fellow who had run second to Hillard the year before, and the other was Brown, the skinny one. "Look at that toothpick coming," rose a cry from the watchers. He certainly was "coming" like a locomotive, his thin legs flying and his arms working like flails. A hundred yards from the finish Hillard caught Peckham, but the little whitehead was still legging it ten yards in front of him. And now Hillard settled down to do his best. Slowly he came up on Tommy Brown while the school yelled its applause, but those thin, flying shanks still continued to move with unbroken rhythm, and despite Hillard's greatest efforts he could not overhaul the Freshman who, with a great burst of speed, broke the tape six feet ahead of the champion. Immediately there was a babel of voices. "Hurray for Skinny!" "New world-beater come to town." "Hurray for the Freshman!" "Hard luck, Hillard, old boy." Patsy who had made a short cut from the start of the quarter to the finish, and got there just in time to see the Freshman's great effort, hurried after him on the way to the gymnasium, and whispered a word of praise in his ear. Coming back he displayed a stop watch whose hand pointed to 55 3-5 seconds. "And that's going some for a kid," he said. "I'll make something of him before he gets through at Queen's." And Patsy kept his word, for Tommy Brown not only won points for his school, but when he went to college---- But that's another story. After the quarter mile came the half, but nothing worth while turned up there. The event was run in slow time, and the Freshmen who were entered made a very poor showing. Then came the first heat of the hundred yards dash. Twelve runners were entered--among them Frank Armstrong, who was drawn in the first lot to be sent over the distance. As they came from the gymnasium and trotted up to the start, their good points were commented on by the spectators. "Armstrong looks like a runner," said one. "He has a good step and a good face." "I don't care about his face," said another of the group, "if he has good legs and knows how to use them." David and Gleason were perched on the uppermost row of the stand where they could see the entire length of the hundred. David was all excitement. "Do they all run together?" he asked Gleason. "Oh, no, they run it in heats or trials. It wouldn't be fair to run them all at the same time for they couldn't all get an even start. This track will only accommodate six at one time. First, second and third in each heat qualify for the finals, so you see each runner has to go over the distance twice." "I see." "They're getting ready," announced Gleason. "See them getting down on their toes. They're off!" A white puff of smoke came from the pistol in Patsy's hand, and the sound of the explosion came sharply to their ears. Away at the top of the stretch they saw the runners spring forward. Down the track they swept for thirty yards, none having any advantage. Then the runner on the pole and Frank began to forge to the front. On they came, nip and tuck, until just near the finish the fellow on the pole made a great effort and broke the tape four or five feet ahead of Frank. The third man was a step behind Frank. "Oh, what a pity he couldn't keep up," said David mournfully. "What's the matter with you? He did exactly right," said Gleason. "How is that--he was beaten, wasn't he?" "Yes, my son," replied the Codfish, "he was beaten for first place, but he qualified for the final, and that's all you need. What was the use of his running himself out? You see what an effort the other fellow had to win, didn't you? I told Frank myself to run easy in this first heat even if he only came in third place. Third would have been just as good as where he finished." Then came the second trial of the hundred immediately on the heels of the first. This was well run, but slower, and it was won by the bandy-legged Herring. A Freshman named King was second, and Wilson, a Sophomore, third. The mile followed and showed nothing promising, no Freshmen getting nearer than fifth place. "Didn't expect anything, anyway," said Patsy. "A fellow has to learn to run the mile." But in the hurdle trials Tommy Brown, the skinny spindle-shanks, surprised everybody by galloping off with first place, beating out Morris, the Junior hurdler. In the finals, however, Morris got back at him and won, but the Freshman made him stretch himself to the limit. Patsy was as happy as a lark at finding such youngsters. "This Freshman class has some good stuff in it," he said, "the best that has come to Queen's for many moons. Armstrong and Brown are going to be corkers, you mark my words. Just watch Armstrong in the hundred. For a kid who has had no experience he is a wonder." "All out for the finals of the hundred," cried Patsy's assistant, who was helping to run off the events. The summons brought out the six who had been successful in the trials--Collins, Herring, Armstrong, King, Wilson, and a Junior named Howard. The latter two were not expected to figure very heavily in the race. "Collins and Herring will run scratch in this race," said Patsy, who was getting the six ready up at the start. "You two Freshmen go to that six-foot handicap mark; Howard and Wilson, you take an extra yard." The boys went to their places, and there was a false start, but on the next attempt they got away splendidly. The first spring took Frank ahead of King, and he never saw him again until the race was over, but Collins, who had got a magnificent start, had made up most of the distance in the first thirty yards. Frank felt him at his elbow, and determined not to let him pass that point. On they flew. The spectators were crowding out on the track and craning their necks. Collins was running desperately for his reputation as the best sprinter in the school was at stake. He had come up on Frank inch by inch, but every inch was hard won. The crowd was close above them now and shouting: "Collins!" "Armstrong!" "The Freshman's winning!" "Gee, what a race!" Inch by inch Collins gained till he was even with Frank, but past him he could not get. Frank was running with every ounce of power in his body, and still held on. He could see the little red line across his path at the finish now, and in another instant he felt the touch of it on his breast. But at the same instant Collins touched it, too. "A dead heat, a dead heat," shouted the crowd. The boys had crossed the line exactly together. "Good, Freshman!" "That's the boy, Armstrong." And half a score of his own class surrounded Frank and patted him on the back. The effort had been so great that he could hardly stand, and he was glad enough when Jimmy and Lewis took him by the shoulders and let him rest some of his weight on them, but he soon recovered a bit. Herring, who was third, and Collins came up and gave him a kindly word, and Patsy said when Frank had started for the gym, "There is a game kid, I tell you. When he knows how to run, as I mean he shall, you will all take off your hats to him. I guess we will have something to send down to the Interscholastics in New Haven next spring after all." CHAPTER XVI. WARWICK INVADES QUEEN'S. It was the morning of the closing football game of the Queen's School schedule, Saturday, November 12, and recitations were hurried the least little bit. Even the teachers felt the excitement of the day. This was shown by the generous disposition to overlook poor lessons for at least one morning of the school year, and some of them even cut the hours short. David, who had interviewed the Doctor and taken his place with his class the first of the week, felt the thrill of enthusiasm, and was burning for the slow hours to drag along till 2 o'clock when the great contest was to be called. Football was literally in the air, for everywhere in the school yard, where there was a chance for it between the recitations, groups of boys were gathered and footballs flew high from vigorous toes, and there was the resounding thwack as the ball dropped in some fellow's arms thirty yards away from the kicker. It was an ideal day for the game--just a little nip of frost in the air, the merest suggestion of the coming winter, but this was tempered by a bright, warm sun. It was not so warm that the players would be exhausted by the heat, nor was it so cold that spectators were put to the inconvenience and discomfort of heavy wraps. About noon the invading hosts of Warwick began to reach the Queen's School, and spread themselves about the grounds, flaunting the red and black colors of Warwick. Here and there groups of boys from the two schools gathered together, and there was some little fraternizing, but as a general thing the black and red and the blue and gold did not mix well. The rivalry between the two schools in everything was intense, and the members of each thought the other school just a little inferior in most things. This feeling sometimes resulted in blows being struck and blood shed from bruised noses when encounters took place between representatives of the two away from school grounds. But to-day was the day of the year, and while rivalry was strong, the feeling of antagonism was held in check, for wasn't Queen's the host to-day, and Warwick the guest? No blood should be shed this day except on the fair field of battle--the gridiron. "What's the matter, Jimmy?" said Frank to that individual, whom he chanced to meet hurrying along the path in front of Warren Hall. "Have you seen that ghost again?" "No, but I'm pretty nervous." "Been losing sleep over the apparition?" "Oh, shucks, no. The old ghost doesn't bother me, but I just met Horton and he told me that he may put me in before the game is over. I'm scared to death." "And what's to worry you about that? I thought that's what you wanted most of anything on this green, grassy earth." "Well, I do, but what would happen if I didn't make good?" "Oh, don't worry about that, you'll be Johnny on the spot, I'm willing to bet. And if you get in, you'll get your 'Q.' Just think of it--your first year!" "I'm not thinking of the 'Q' so much as whether I can do what I've got to do. I feel just like I did that day when you and I swam at the water carnival at Turner's Point last summer--shaky all over." Frank grinned as he recalled it. "I remember that well enough. Before the race came off I was sure that the moment I hit the water I'd go down, and drown, but as soon as I hit the water I thought no more about it. And you will be like that. I tell you it's a big honor to be able to get on the team the first year. Not many Freshmen get the chance. I'm proud to know you, Mr. James Turner." "Quit your jollying, Frank, and tell me if you've seen the ghost since. You never saw such a scared kid as Lewis was that night, and you couldn't get him down on the playgrounds after eight o'clock if you were to pay him real money." "Yes," said Frank, "David and I saw it night before last in exactly the same place. It seemed to come from nowhere and disappeared behind the football stand. Seems as if it went into the water. Isn't it queer?" "It is mighty queer, indeed. What did Gleason say about it?" "Oh, he wasn't in at the time. He'd gone over to the library early in the evening, and David and I were alone. When he came in and we told him about it, he said it must surely be the ghost of the drowned boy. He had inquired of old Peter Flipp, the shoemaker up on the hill, and Peter told him that the meadows were what he called 'hanted'." "Did you see it clearly this time?" "No, not so clearly as the first time; the moon, you know, is on the wane now, and the grounds were darker, but still light enough to show pretty plainly. It was the same figure, and seemed to move pretty swiftly, faster than a walk, I should say, and slower than a run, and, as before, it was above the ground." "Well, it beats me," said Jimmy. "I've never heard of anything like it. I must be getting along. Here comes Gleason now. Good-bye, old speed. I'll see you later," and Jimmy turned away, as Gleason came up. "Telling him what the score is going to be this afternoon, old Web-foot?" inquired Gleason. "No, Codfish, I was telling him about the second visitation of that thing down on the grounds by the river. When this football season is over, I'm going to lay for that old ghost or whatever it is." "Oh, I wouldn't do that," said Gleason, "you don't know what might happen. I've heard of people who tried a hand with ghosts and their hair turned white in a single night from sheer fright. I wouldn't like to see my trusty wife in such a condition as that." "Just the same I'd like to take a closer look at that thing, and I don't believe I'd be afraid; but at present there is something else to be done, and that's to get something to eat and get down to the grounds in time for a good seat." "Looks like a big crowd to-day. Guess these Warwickers have all left their happy homes to see the slaughter, and I'm afraid they're not going to be disappointed," said Gleason. "Oh, don't lose heart, you can't tell. There may be a Freshman in the game before it's through, and that will help a lot." Frank threw this last word over his shoulder to Gleason as he hurried to the dining-room. Coming from the hall, after a hastily snatched bite, he overtook the Wee One, and together they journeyed to the gymnasium, where both teams were to dress for the fray, Warwick having been given the big locker room on the second floor, while Queen's retained the lower floor. As they approached the gymnasium a big coach drove down the river road in a cloud of dust. It was positively covered with boys. It bore the football eleven of Warwick and its immediate crowd of heelers. Wherever a boy could stick, he had stuck himself, and every one swung the colors of the school. "Gee whiz, look at those mastodons," cried Wee Willie as the Warwick players began to uncoil themselves from various parts of the coach. "They'll eat us alive. I know they must be cannibals. Poor Queen's, poor Queen's." "They certainly are whales," said Frank, "but they look a bit logy to me. A good fast team ought to keep them on the jump." "Yes, but where do you see that good, fast team? It doesn't live hereabouts, does it?" "Oh, don't get discouraged so early in the game. Wait at least till they've played a few minutes." By this time the coach had unloaded, and the heelers of the eleven, reinforced by fifty or more boys of those who had come down earlier in the day, got together and gave the snappy school yell: "War I wickety-kick, War I wickety-kick, Rah, rah, rah, WARWICK." "They yell as if it were all over, don't they?" observed David, who had just come up. "There does seem to be something of jubilance in it, that's a fact," said the Wee One. "And the eleven is certainly big enough to give the York Freshmen a rub if weight amounts to anything. Come on, we'd better get to our places, the stand is filling up." Every one around the country-side within a radius of ten miles was present. Country lads and lassies making a holiday of it; fond papas and mammas to see Charlie or Freddie or Tommy take his part in the game. And mamma was very shivery about what might happen to the young man in the conflict so soon to come. And then there were the young beaux of both Warwick and Queen's who had blossomed out into their very best, each with a pretty little maid, perhaps from as far away as Milton, at his side, who simply revelled in the blue and gold or the red and black. Some of the girls even carried the color scheme into their hats and clothing. And such a hum of talk and such a clatter, as the crowds climbed the wooden bleachers looking for the best vantage points, and such a world of questions for the young beaux to answer the pretty little maidens. "Oh, dear," says one fair questioner, "what are those white H's at each end of the field for?" "White what?" says the escort. "Those big wooden things like an H--two straight pieces, and another across the middle; it looks like an H. What does it stand for?" "Stand for, stand for, why it stands to get kicked at. It's the goal post, Minnie." "O, stupid, I should have known. And those little white lines. I suppose they're out if they run across them." "Of course they are," says the escort, busy watching the corner of the field where the teams make their appearance, and not comprehending what she says. But Frank, the Wee One, David and Gleason have no attachments of any kind. Frank had written an urgent letter to his father and mother to come up, but Mrs. Armstrong was not very well, and could not make the trip, and Mr. Armstrong was too busy at the office. "Will come up when you are on the team," was the answer. And the quartet were all very well satisfied to see the game this way. Suddenly there was a great waving of red and black flags as the Warwick eleven came lumbering onto the field with Captain Channing at their head. A burst of cheering rolled up. The snappy Warwick yell floated out over the field and then a rollicking song. In the middle of the song up rose the whole Queen's side of the stand and let out a roar, for the Queen's team was seen coming 'way down by the far end. Their quick movements were in sharp contrast to the heavier Warwicks. And as the school saw their active prancing, a feeling came from somewhere that after all the hard knocks they might win to-day. The cheer leaders were busy pumping melody out of the bunch on the stands: "What are you doing, whispering? Get into it and let's hear you. It's as silent out here as the town of Milton on a summer afternoon." This brought a laugh, for Milton was not noted for its activity at any time of the year. And they got into the song which the cheer leader called for. Both teams were, meanwhile, going through a brief practice in signal drill. "My, how Channing boots that ball--see it soar!" cried Frank, and soar it did. Channing was a remarkable punter for a schoolboy, and every kick he sent off was labelled danger for the catching backs. "Jimmy is not in the line-up," observed the Wee One to Frank. "No, didn't expect he would be at first, but I think he'll get in, for I don't believe Hillard will last long. He was never very good as a defensive player anyway." "Horton wants to put him in anyway at the first of the game so as to get the best of his speed. Good plan, too." "Think it is a mistake," ventured the Codfish, "because these fellows from up the river are going to slam-bang that line of ours, and they'll need all the defence they can get, and on defense Turner is about twice as good as Hillard. If I were coaching I'd put my best backs in and try to stop these fellows' fire, and then when I had them stopped I'd put in my fast fellows and run around them." "There's wisdom in what you say, Solomon, but as you're not the coach, you can't give us a demonstration, and Mr. Horton will." By this time the teams had finished their signal drill, and gathered each in a little knot while the captains went out to midfield to toss the coin for position on the field. "There she goes," said the Wee One. "Bet you Queen's gets it." "You lose," said Gleason, "Warwick got it and Channing's taking the wind at his back. Oh, my, oh, my! That's bad, right off the bat." The Warwick captain had elected to take the wind, and the breeze now blowing would be a considerable help to him. The sun affected neither, as the football field lay nearly north and south. "There we go," cried Frank, as a piercing whistle announced the beginning of hostilities. CHAPTER XVII. THE GREAT FOOTBALL GAME. From the powerful toe of Mitchell, the right guard on the Warwick eleven, the ball, which he had carefully set at the center of the field, went flying directly between the goal posts. It was a wonderful kick, and a great yell rose from the Warwick sympathizers, who believed that Warwick had scored so soon. "What are they shouting about?" said the Codfish, contemptuously. "They'd better read the rule book. It isn't a score." "It went between the posts, fair and square," said David. "Oh, but you can't score a goal from a kick-off," said Frank. "The ball will have to come back,--there, you see the referee is bringing it back to the center of the field. Mr. Mitchell will have to do it over again." "You're wrong again," said the Codfish. "It's a touchback, and Queen's brings it out to the 25-yard line." It was now Queen's time to cheer, and the Warwick crowd, which had jumped excitedly to its feet, sat down, the points they supposed they had made having suddenly been taken away from them, as they thought. "It simply makes me sick the way some of the people who attend football games show their ignorance of the first principles of the game. They couldn't tell an off-side play from a woolly dog. Wow! there she goes," as the ball rose from Queen's kick-out and carried on a long, slicing drive away down towards the side of the field. But Warwick punted on first down and sent it once more into Queen's goal. "That's going to be a hard one to get back," said the Wee One. "It doesn't give our fellows much chance to dodge, it dropped so close to the side lines. Hillard's got it, Hillard's got it!" "Good boy, Hillard!" shouted every one, for that individual, by twisting and squirming, had carried it from Queen's 10-yard line diagonally across the field to the 25-yard line, where he was stopped from behind when a clear field was almost in sight. It was a pretty run, and brought the ball out of danger for a little while. There was great excitement in both stands as the two teams lined up for the scrimmage. Frank found himself holding onto the seat desperately as the lines crouched, and his jaw was chattering. He could see out of the corner of his eye the tense look on the faces of the other fellows. "Crash!" went the lines. There was a quick pass from Chip to Dutton, and the latter went into the line head first in what ought to have been a hole but wasn't, for the tackle didn't make it for him, and the result was that he got no further than his tackle's heels, and was there piled under a heap. "Second down, ten yards to gain," shouted the referee. "Nothing doing," cried Gleason. "They're as solid as a rock. I wonder if Chip will try it again before kicking." They had not long to wait, for in another instant Hillard was off for a run at left, and with the ball securely tucked under his arm. Hillard ran behind a good interference which kept him from turning in, but when 20 yards had been covered in a straight run across the field, he left his interference, and took his chance on an open space which had just offered. The quick change of direction bothered him, he slipped and fell, rolled head over heels for a yard or two, and was pinned down to the earth by the big Warwick halfback. "Didn't make it, did he?" "Guess not; they're going to measure." The linesmen ran out with their chain while the two teams gathered to watch the proceedings. Then the men with the chain straightened up, and ran back to the sidelines again while Queen's prepared for a scrimmage, and the Warwick defence backfield scampered backwards as hard as they could go. "Queen's ball and they are going to kick. Only a little to gain, but they don't dare take the chance. Good judgment, Mr. Dixon," said Frank. "We'd put him in a mad-house if he did anything else, particularly with those big farmers. Twenty-five-yard line's too near your own roost to monkey with fate," growled Gleason. Wheeler got off a rattling good kick which carried to the middle of the field, travelled high and dropped straight. The Warwick back was deceived. He expected it to go farther than it did and was not under it when it came down. There was a great mix-up, and when the dust cleared away Captain Harding was found on the ball. Queen's ball on the enemy's territory! How Queen's did yell! Warwick's red and black flags were as quiet as death now that the blue and gold waved jubilantly. "Well, if they do that every now and then we may get one over on them. Come on now and get into this, Queen's," shouted the Wee One. He was all excitement, now that there seemed to be a chance, and one listening to him would think he was running the eleven from his position on the stand. Frank was scarcely less excited, but he kept control of his tongue. Dutton slammed into centre for three yards, and then in the same place made more than enough for a first down. Again Chip drove him at center, but this time the Warwick backs came a little closer up and smothered Dutton when his head went through the line. "No gain that time, was there?" queried Frank. "No, the chump might have seen those backs coming in a bit if he'd used his eyes. Wonder if he thought they were going to keep on leaving the door for him there at centre? What's up, I wonder?" he added, for the Queen's team had gathered around their captain, with their heads together. "Some trick play they're going to pull off. They'd better stick to the good old bucking since it's going well." But the critics upon the bleachers were deceived,--it was not a trick play then, at any rate, for the next play Chip sent against the enemy was a delayed pass with Hillard taking the ball. He had a big hole, and went for it fast, but somehow, without any one being near him, he managed to drop the ball. It struck the ground in plain view of every one, but, providentially for him, bounced up into his hands, and on he went without the slightest check. The delay in making the pass had unsettled the Warwickians, who expected something entirely different, and before they could recover Hillard had gone fifteen yards. The Warwick quarter, who was the only player between Hillard and a touchdown, threw him hard. Queen's yells broke out afresh, and now the Warwick cheering section began to get busy, calling out in unison: "Hold them, hold them, hold them!" "Gee whiz! if Hillard doesn't stop those circus stunts," said the Wee One, "you might as well send for the ambulance right away. I'll die of heart failure. Did you ever see such luck that he recovered it?" "They ought to put tacks to his fingers, and see if they couldn't get him to hold the ball that way," grumbled Gleason. "A basket would be better for him." "No, it wouldn't, he'd lose the basket." The ball now lay about Warwick's 35-yard line, and so far Queen's had all the best of the battle, but it must be admitted that Queen's also had had all the luck. But by good luck and some skill the eleven had made good progress, and it really began to appear as if they could hold the big fellows from up the river. The hope in the Queen's stand was doomed to quick disappointment, for on the next play Dutton made a scant yard just outside of tackle, and Boston Wheeler could do no better than another yard through the weak centre. It was third down and yards still to go, so Dixon signalled a drop kick. "It's all off now," groaned the Codfish, "we haven't a drop kicker on the whole squad. More's the pity." "Well, let's all pray that he gets it over even if he kicks it with his knee. They're getting ready. Steady now. Oh, Lord,--hurray, hurray, it's over!" The ball came straight and fast, and although the Warwick players seemed to be surging all around and over him, Boston Wheeler somehow got it away, a most slovenly kick, but the ball rose out of the ring of grasping arms, and went in a wobbling fashion in the direction of the goal, struck on the cross-bar and jumped over. The Queen's cheering section was making the place echo with its yell: "Rah, rah, rah, Queen's! Rah, rah, rah, Queen's!" "Well, that helps some," said Frank. "Three points are not to be sneered at, and they came pretty easy, too." "Oh, my, but what luck!" laughed the Codfish, who had been pounding every one on the back. "It will probably make those farmers come back harder than ever, and it's early in the game, so don't get too gay yet awhile. They haven't been at it five minutes yet." The Wee One was right. The score, so unexpected for both sides, drove the big red and black team to desperation, and after the next kick-off, when the ball came into their possession near midfield, they went at Queen's like wild men, and tore their line to pieces. Wherever their backs hit they made gaping holes, and carried the ball five yards at a jump. Queen's fought with great determination, and as the enemy ploughed along they found it harder going as they neared the Queen's goal line. Most of the advance was made on Hillard's side of the line, where the Warwick quarter found gains could be made the easiest. He was not slow to take advantage of the opportunity. Finally the ball lay on the Queen's ten-yard line. Warwick was confident, and crouched for the trial, but something went wrong with the signals, and there was a loss of a yard. Big Henderson, the right half of the Warwick team, who had a reputation for being able to bore through anything short of a stone wall, was called upon, and smashed through the Queen's left side and made four of the necessary yards before he was pulled down by main force. It was third down and several yards to the goal line. "Will they try to carry it, do you think?" David asked. "Guess they don't know themselves," answered the Codfish, "they're talking it over. If I were running the team I'd slam into the line again, although it ought to be an easy drop kick for Channing." "They'll try to carry it, of course," cut in the Wee One; "see, they're getting ready; Henderson's going to take the ball, bet you a horse and cart." He was right. Henderson did take the ball. He dove head first into the hole that was offered for him, and tried to sidestep Dutton, who was coming at him like a bull. He could not avoid the tackle, however. Dutton knocked the pins clean from under him, and he came down on his elbow with so great a shock that the ball flew from his arms, and bounded away toward the goal line. Half a dozen forms dived for it, but Harding, being fortunately near at the moment, reached it first and hugged it to his breast. It was a narrow escape, for when the two teams lined up a moment later the ball was placed on the ground only two feet away from the Queen's goal, but it was Queen's ball. The Queen's sympathizers breathed easier for a while. Boston Wheeler had to go far behind his own line to kick, and Channing, who was playing back now for Warwick, received the ball from Wheeler's punt on the Queen's 25-yard line. He made no gain, as the two ends were on him almost as soon as the ball touched his fingers. Now Warwick began all over again, harder than ever. It was two yards here, five in another place, and in almost as short a time as it takes to tell it, the ball was back in dangerous territory. In spite of every effort that Queen's could put forth, the big fullback, Channing, tore through the last yards, with Henderson at his back, and fell across the goal line just outside of the post. And now it was the turn of the red and black flags to wave, and the cheers which rent the air had something of jubilance in them, because Warwick had been able to cross the line, while Queen's could only score by drop kicks, and, moreover, Warwick was two points in the lead, but only that, for the goal from touchdown failed. Her sympathizers had good reason to cheer. "There's no doubt about it, Warwick is stronger than we are, and only more luck like we had at the beginning and then some more luck, will save us," said the Wee One gloomily. For the remainder of the period the battle raged up and down the field, Warwick always the aggressor. Lack of concerted action was the chief fault of Queen's, and the captain did not seem to be able to pull his men together. When the whistle blew to end the period, the team walked off to the gymnasium to be freshened up by their handlers. The score stood 3 to 5 against Queen's. "Like Files on Parade, in Kipling's 'Danny Deever,' 'I'm dreadin' wot I got to watch' this next period," said the Wee One. "Danny Deever" was his favorite verse and he was fond of quoting it. "Will Jimmy go in this second period, do you think?" David inquired. "I don't know, but I hope so. I hope he gets a chance, and certainly Hillard hasn't distinguished himself to-day." But when the teams came out for the second period, Hillard and Dutton were still the backs. Ends of the field having been changed again, Warwick had the wind, which was now breezing up considerably. From the minute the whistle blew Warwick became the aggressor and Queen's was constantly on the defensive. Once or twice Queen's had the ball and attempted to carry it, but there was no unity in the play, and they were obliged to give it up with a punt. But somehow they managed to stave off the bigger team, helped along considerably by the latter's blunders and fumbles. The third period went in much the same way and play had been going on for five minutes of the last quarter when Warwick began to get things running to suit them. Then they began an irresistible advance. Twice Channing got around Harding's end for a pretty run. The Queen's captain seemed to be dazed. When he began to go to pieces, his team followed him. Warwick had advanced to the Queen's 15-yard line and on the third down, having two yards to go, prepared for a drop kick. But the preparation was only a fake, for on a quick pass, Channing, seeing his opportunity, made a long, sweeping end run, cleared an outlying end, threw off Chip, raced behind the goal, and touched the ball down. Of course, there was a great jubilation, for the score was now 10 to 3, and when the goal was kicked a few minutes later, still another point was added. As the team trudged back up the field to take their positions for the next kick-off, Hillard was seen walking wearily towards the sidelines. "There's your friend the Turner, my old wifie, going in," observed the Codfish. "Now things will be different. Eh, what?" "Too late, I'm afraid. Jimmy's good, but he can't play the whole game." But Jimmy came pretty near to playing the whole game, as Warwick found out. Wherever they shot their backs toward the line the Freshman was there to meet the charge. He tackled everywhere, and when he got his arms around a Warwick leg there was no further advance just then. It was wonderful to see that red shock of hair flying from point to point, defending the weak places. Warwick had penetrated Queen's territory half a dozen times, only to be held up when they thought they were about to score, and principally by Jimmy's wonderful defensive work. Finally, after one of these charges down the field, it was Queen's ball on downs on her own 20-yard line. Time was passing rapidly, and there seemed very little hope of any more scoring. Warwick was pretty tired, and Queen's was so badly disorganized that they couldn't make anything go. In desperation Chip sent Dutton against the line, but he was slammed back, and Jimmy, without any one to help him, suffered the same fate. Now he tried Jimmy at the Warwick right end. A new player had just gone in there, and Chip figured that it might be good policy to shoot a play at him before he got his bearings. And it was good judgment. Jimmy got away like a flash, Dutton acted as interference for a few steps, but he was too logy, and Jimmy cut away from his interference, bearing well out across the field. The faster players of Warwick eleven followed him out, and the slower ones, believing he would be run out of bounds, did not follow very hard. Consequently, a considerable gap was left in the line of defensive. Quick as a flash Jimmy dashed into the gap, dodging and twisting as arms reached for him, but he was through. Between him and the goal was only the Warwick quarter away down the field. Seeing Jimmy headed for him, the quarter came up to meet him, confident that he would stop him. Jimmy changed his direction a little, and bore off for the sideline, so as to draw the quarter in that direction. His trick was successful, for the quarter edged over to that side, expecting to run him out of bounds. Then when the wide, unprotected field was upon Jimmy, he swung to the left again, sidestepping the waiting arms neatly. Behind him thundered the whole of the Warwick eleven, and he imagined he could feel their hot breaths on his neck, and their hands on his body. But he threw his last ounce of energy into the business in hand, and ran on, holding onto that ball like grim death. Now he was only two chalk lines away, now one; a heavy body struck him, knocking him off his legs, but he struck the ground like a rubber ball, and rolled over and over across the goal line with that precious ball hugged tightly to his breast. It was a touchdown. Pandemonium reigned. Never had such a run been seen on Queen's field, and it had been accomplished by a Freshman. "Turner, Turner!" yelled the crowd, and they kept it up while the goal was being kicked. A few minutes after the next kick-off, the whistle blew ending the contest, and although Queen's had lost, the crowd swept down from the stand and carried the embarrassed Jimmy, the cause of all the racket, around and around the gridiron on their shoulders. It was a great afternoon for Freshman Turner, and the sting of defeat was forgotten by the whole school in the performance of one of its younger members. CHAPTER XVIII. GAMMA TAU RECEIVES A SHOCK. It was two weeks after the great game with Warwick, and things in Queen's School had settled down into their normal condition. The election of the captain had taken place a few days after the closing game, and the choice was on Boston Wheeler, the fullback. The school did not particularly like the choice, although Wheeler was really a fair player, and had, while he was a member of Gamma Tau, showed himself to be a man of rather good judgment. "He's the best of the bunch," announced the Wee One, who had kept up the friendship with Frank and his friends. The Wee One had just now dropped into Frank's room to talk over the situation. "Do you think he'll make a good leader?" questioned Frank. "Yes, if he doesn't take too much advice from Chip Dixon. It's a sure thing that as long as Dixon is on the eleven he will work it for his friends, and he will work Wheeler for his friends." "It's queer to me," said Frank, "that as bright as he is about most things, he can't see where his playing favorites hurts himself, and the team and the school. Although Jimmy was better than Hillard, he fought him off as long as he could. I believe if Jimmy had been in that game all through it the score would have been different. What do you think?" "Yes, I think the score would have been smaller for Warwick, but Jimmy alone couldn't have stopped it. The trouble was with the captain. He couldn't pull his men together when the test came. They played good ball in spots, but they had it in them to play it all the time. Gamma Tau is responsible for the poor athletic showing here at Queen's. And, speaking of Gamma Tau, have you heard that they are pledging for the March elections?" "No, I hadn't heard. Are they?" "Yes. I've been wondering if they've called on you." "Me? Gracious! You know that Chip Dixon would rather stick me than have me in Gamma Tau," said Frank. "Perhaps so, but he isn't all of the Society. There are some good fellows in it, and they don't take his view. What would you do if it were offered to you, Frank?" "I don't want it, and I wouldn't take an election." "Yes, but Alpha Beta is the only other; you're sure to get asked by their scouts. I wonder they haven't been around yet." "I don't want Alpha Beta either. I don't see that it is necessary for me to be in a society, is it? What good is Alpha, anyway?" "Well, it's made up of the left-overs from Gamma Tau, as I told you when you came here. It hasn't any weight. It's the Gamma that is the Colossus around whose legs we all crawl." "I'm not going to crawl around Gamma Tau. I don't like what it stands for, so I'm going to stand for myself. I can get along without it." "Hear, hear, fine sentiments from Mr. Frank Armstrong. Hurray for high morality----" The Wee One was interrupted by the opening of Frank's door. Jimmy entered. "Hello," he said, "glad to see you. Hope I'm not intruding." "Oh, not at all. We were just talking about Gamma Tau and her scouts who are out pledging for the elections." "Well, that's just what I came over here to talk to Frank about." "I'll be going then," said the Wee One, sliding down from the window seat. "No, don't," cried Jimmy. "You're just the Solomon whose advice I need. You are bowed down with the wisdom of the ages. Stay where you are." "I'm on my pedestal again," announced the Wee One when he had climbed back to his commanding position. "Fire away, and I'll pass judgment with the help of the whole jury, Frank Armstrong. Have they asked you to come into the fold?" "That's just it. Cuthbert, of the baseball team, and another fellow I don't know, came around half an hour ago and asked to see me alone. They fired poor Lewis out of the room, locked the door, and then began to ask me fool questions about myself. I didn't know what they were driving at, but after a while Cuthbert stopped beating around the bush, and asked me how I'd like to wear a Gamma Tau pin." "And you said you'd rather have a rose," interjected the Wee One. "No, I didn't. I just said I hadn't thought about it. Apparently he had the notion that I should have fallen head-over-heels into the plan. I hadn't been thinking about any such possibility, and I sat there like a dummy." "And what happened? You are killing me with impatience!" "Well, they began to tell me some of the advantages of belonging to it----" "And some of the disadvantages of not belonging, eh?" "No, they just hinted at those," said Jimmy, smiling. "They said that I had made a good showing in football----" "No credit to them," snorted Frank. "And that if I kept on there would be a good chance for me to make the captaincy, if I came into Gamma Tau." "They emphasized the IF, I suppose?" inquired the Wee One. "Well, it was a little like that. They intimated that with Gamma Tau behind me I could have anything I wanted." "Yes, that's exactly what they think. But maybe there'll be a change some of these fine days." "Well," said Jimmy, "I'm here for advice. What do you think I ought to do?" "Don't you know what to do?" said Frank. "I think I do, but I don't want to make mistakes, and I thought I'd like to talk it over with some one. My own notion is that Gamma Tau can go hang. I don't like the bunch that is in Gamma Tau, and I don't like the way they are running things in this school." "You don't mean to say that another Freshman has chucked down poor old Gamma Tau?" said the Wee One, in what he pretended was an awe-struck whisper. "Frank here, has just been firing hot shot into them. It's a rebellion of the Freshman class, that's what it is, I tell you." "Quit your jollying, Patty," said Jimmy. "Before Cuthbert and the other fellows got out of my room I told them that I guessed I'd take a chance on staying out, and if I couldn't make good on merits I'd have to make bad. They said not to make up my mind in a hurry, and that they'd see me again." "A throw-down for the Gammas. Hurrah, hurroo! But it's all off with you now. You have digged your grave, as they say in Shakespeare; it's your athletic grave. You're as good as dead now. Go and buy a nice, sweet little headstone and mark it: 'Sacred to the memory of the rising athletic hopes of James Turner. Erected by the Gamma Tau Society.'" It seemed like a dread prophecy to both the boys, who had come to the school hoping that they might be able to do something for the school besides their school work, something to help the honor of the school on field or river, and silence fell for a time on the gay talk. As they sat there, steps were heard on the stairs. "S-s-s-h!" whispered the Wee One. "I'll bet a dollar it's the Gamma scouts come to have a whack at Frank. Jimmy, you and I hide." They sprang from their seats and scampered to Frank's bedroom, where they drew the curtain, from behind which they could hear everything that might go on in the room. The Wee One's guess was good, for the two were scarcely concealed when the footsteps stopped at the door, and there was a knock. Frank had snatched a book from the table and placed himself in the attitude of study. "Come in," he called. The door opened and in walked the Gamma scouts, Cuthbert and his friend. "Sit down," said Frank courteously, rising and offering his visitors chairs. "What did I tell you?" whispered the Wee One to Jimmy, "They're after your young friend." "How do you like Queen's?" was Cuthbert's first query. "Pretty good place, isn't it?" "I haven't been here very long," said Frank, "but I think it's fine. If we only had some good athletic teams here! Seems to be a dandy bunch of fellows." "Yes, I guess it's one of the best schools in this part of the country," said Cuthbert. "We are not so big as Andover nor Hotchkiss nor Hill School, but size isn't always the best thing. We are closer together than these big schools, and in a small school all the best fellows get together easier." Cuthbert settled himself in his chair, and threw back his coat, displaying the handsome Gamma Tau pin on his waistcoat. It was a well-known thing that a glimpse of the Gamma pin had often settled the case of the doubting ones, when it flashed its radiant message to the candidate. But it did not dazzle Frank the least little bit. "Yes," he said, "we have everything here, I guess, excepting good athletic teams." He said it so innocently that Cuthbert, who looked up quickly, did not know whether he was hinting at Gamma's part in the "good" athletic teams or not. At Frank's words the Wee One gave Jimmy his elbow so hard behind the curtain that that individual staggered and almost lost his balance. "Well," continued Cuthbert, settling back comfortably, "we might have better teams, and we are going to have them. Things have been breaking badly for us for some time, but there are good times ahead." "I hope so," said Frank, "we need better times." Again there was a scraping sound behind the curtains, but Cuthbert, not noticing it, went on: "You have a friend named Turner, who lives in the other end of Warren, haven't you?" "Yes. He's one of my best friends." "Well, we want him in Gamma Tau," said Cuthbert, coming straight to the point. "He's a likely fellow, and we think will make good. In fact, we'd like to have you both come into our fraternity. The first elections are in March. It is considered a very great honor to get a first election. You play baseball, don't you?" "Yes, a little." "Pitcher, I hear." "Yes, pretty poor, though." "Well, that's all right. You will improve. We want you to be one of us, and to use your influence with Turner. You will be both taken in together. It doesn't often happen to Freshmen. I didn't get my election till my second year, and I thought I was pretty lucky then." "And you want me to use my influence with Turner?" "Yes; neither of you know, perhaps, that Gamma controls the school athletics, and it can help a fellow a great deal with the honors of athletics." "Doesn't a fellow stand as good a chance outside of Gamma as inside?" "No, I shouldn't say he did. Most of the athletes are with us, and we run things about as we wish them. May we have your word that you will come along and bring Turner with you? It is a distinct honor, you understand." "I thank you very much for the honor," said Frank, steadily, looking straight at Cuthbert, who expected a favorable reply, "but I do not care to accept an election. I think Turner has the same opinion." "But why?" said the amazed Cuthbert. "According to all I hear, Gamma Tau has been responsible for all the defeats in the school teams for the last three or four years. As you said yourself, you run things to suit yourselves and elect your own captains. It doesn't strike me as the right way to do it. They say a fellow who isn't in Gamma Tau has no chance. If that's the thing that decides it, I guess I'll stay outside." Cuthbert rose to his feet as though he had sat on a tack, and his friend followed suit. "You'll be sorry for this night, my boy," said he, striding to the door and jerking it open. "I can tell you now that for Freshmen you and your friend Turner have put yourselves in wrong, and if I can help it you will not have another chance." "Is that all?" said Frank, rising. "Yes, that's all," shouted Cuthbert, and out they went, and banged the door after them. The scouts were hardly off the stairs when the Wee One and Jimmy burst forth, holding their sides with laughter. "Hasn't he the nasty temper, though!" cried the Wee One. "Now you're both buried in the same grave. We'll erect a double monument for Turner and you. Wow! but Gamma will be hopping mad." "Let them," said Frank. "I don't care a hooter. If I can't get on a team without bootlicking that crowd, I'll stay off it." "Me, too," said Jimmy. "And me, too," said the Wee One, assuming a dramatic attitude, and thumping his narrow chest. "I wouldn't take the position of football captain from the Gamma if they offered it to me." At that moment a great clattering was heard on the stairs--some one pounding up in undignified haste. "They're coming back to capture you," cried the Wee One, "and take you to their lair by main force. Skip." But before any one had time to move, Lewis burst in at the door with his jaw hanging and his eyes popping out of his head. "The ghost!" he gasped, "the ghost! I was out behind Warren on the bank a minute ago, and it came walking straight for me, and I beat it for here at a mile a minute." The boys dashed for the windows which looked out on the meadow and playgrounds. Sure enough, there in the light of the half-moon went the figure in white, sailing over the ground. They all watched it with staring eyes, and while they were looking it stopped, made a small circle, then headed off down behind the football stands and disappeared. The boys watched till it had gone, and then turned and looked at each other in amazement. CHAPTER XIX. AN ENCOUNTER WITH THE MYSTERY. "Well, if that doesn't beat the Dutch," said Frank, the first to recover his tongue after the thing, whatever it was, had gone from their view. "Seems to melt right into the air, doesn't it?" exclaimed the Wee One. "I thought when I heard of there being a ghost down on the field that some one was just kidding. What do you suppose it can be?" "That's what I'd like to know," said Jimmy. "The first time we saw it was the night David came. We happened to be in the bedroom and the thing came just like it did to-night, and then went as quickly as it came. There's no kidding about it. It's something, sure as shooting." "Let's go and take a look," suggested Frank, looking around the group. "Not on your life," said Lewis. "I'm not out hunting ghosts to-night. I've got something better to do. I've got lessons to get ready. And you'd find nothing, anyway, and maybe the thing would jump out on you. I've heard of such things." And Lewis drew his coat tighter around him and shuddered. "Jimmy, will you come?" said Frank. "David can stay here and keep watch to see if anything else happens." "I'll go," said Jimmy. "Me, too," said the Wee One. "I'm big enough to keep you all out of trouble, and if any ghost dare give me any of its lip"--he drew out his chest and squared off at the imaginary assailant. "Lewis, you can stay here with David if you want to do your lessons, but be sure you shut the window, for I've known of ungentlemanly ghosts stepping right in through one if they happened to find it open," said Jimmy. "Are you afraid, David?" "No, indeed," said David. "Besides, I'm not alone. Isn't Lewis here to take care of me if anything should come? But I guess we'll be all right. You are the only fellows that are likely to get into danger." The boys started off at once, and soon reached the field by way of the path down the hill. They headed for a clump of trees by the boat-house, near which they had first seen the Thing. The crescent moon had dropped considerably, and the light was dim enough, but they held bravely on. Once Jimmy stepped on a twig of something, which snapped under his foot, and the three boys almost leaped into the air. "Gee! how you scared me," said Frank. "I'd have run if I hadn't been stuck to the spot," said the Wee One. "Please watch out where you step and don't do it again. My nerves are bad, with all the hard work I've been through this fall." They got another start as a night bird whirred up from the branches of the big elm nearby, but as Frank was determined to go on, the other two would not leave him. Presently they stood on the boat-house float and peered all around. There was no sound but the gurgle of the river as it flowed past, dark and silent. A little white mist was rising from the water, and the place was damp and chill. Even the song of the frogs, which might have lent a little cheerfulness to the place, was hushed. They listened and looked, but they might have been on a desert island in the middle of the Pacific. "Gee whiz, it's a melancholy looking place; let's get back," said the Wee One. "Whatever the thing is, it isn't here. I'd rather be up on the hill. Let's go." "Hold on there," said Frank. "I'm trying to trace the course of the Thing. Down here we can't see the dormitory lights, and I don't think we can see them till we get through that bunch of trees. Consequently we couldn't see anything that was here if we were in our room." "No, we couldn't, but what has that got to do with it?" said the Wee One, impatiently. "We'll get our deaths of cold here." But the shiver that the Wee One gave was not entirely from the cold. Now that he was on it, the mission that looked like a lark from the comfortably lighted room in the dormitory took on a different aspect. Frank was already leaving the float, where there seemed to be no sense in staying longer. He climbed the path up the bank and went out into the open field. "There," he said, "you can see our light. It was just here, I think, we saw the Thing the first time, and it headed off down towards the football stand, this way," and he turned his steps down the river. Looking, he saw both the boys standing a little way back. "Aren't you coming?" he said. "Oh, what's the use chasing the old thing? We can do it in the morning as well," said the Wee One. "It's too late to-night. Come on up to the room. It was probably only a shadow, anyway." "No, I'm going ahead, and if you fellows want to go back, you may go back. I'm going to take a look down by that football stand," and he turned his face in that direction and stepped out briskly. "They would think we were great ninnies if we went back without doing what we started to do." "Hold on, Frank, I'll come," said Jimmy. "I don't want you trapesing around alone down here." "Well, I suppose I might as well go along, too," said the Wee One, who preferred the company of the others, even on a ghost hunt, to traversing the field all alone. So he, too, swung in behind Jimmy, and the three went Indian file down along the river path. They stepped carefully and looked on each side of them. A couple of hundred yards further along loomed the dark shadow of the football stand. "That's where I think it went, down behind the stand. There's quite a high bank there, and some bushes grow at the edge of the river," said Frank, holding on his course. The others came reluctantly along, not at all pleased with the adventure. The football stand was just ahead, and the shadow it cast was as black as velvet. The space between the stand and the river looked like a pocket, so dark was it, and the river itself murmured along, singing a mournful tune at their left. "S-s-s--! what was that?" said Jimmy. "I thought I heard a noise ahead." The three boys came together, and grabbed each other. They listened with all their ears. "There's certainly something there," whispered Frank, "and it's moving about, don't you hear it? Come on, we'll see what it is;" but before he could take a step ahead both Jimmy and the Wee One grabbed him by the arms. But he shook himself clear of them, and went stealthily ahead, walking on tip-toe. There was nothing else left for Frank's companions but to follow. They felt their hair rising, and at every step they took they glanced uneasily to right and left, as though in deadly fear that something would spring from the bushes, and grab them with wet and clammy hands. Again there was a sound as of something moving in the darkness just ahead, and the boys drew close together again and waited. They themselves were in the shadow of the stand by this time, and the noise came from a point apparently only a few yards ahead. Suddenly the moon, which had been behind a cloud, shone out faintly and the boys could see something moving back and forth about half way down the stand. "Come on," said Frank, "we'll rush it." "We will not do anything of the kind," said the Wee One. "You can't tell what it might be." "Well, I'll go alone, then," said Frank, in a whisper, "I'm going to find out what that is." "I'll go with you," said Jimmy, quietly. He was not going to let his old chum take desperate chances alone. The boys, however, were saved the necessity of "rushing it," for the noise began to grow louder, and resolved itself into a definite step which came in their direction. They squeezed themselves back against the big uprights of the stand and waited, hardly knowing what to expect. In another moment the footsteps had come opposite to their hiding-place, and Frank closely followed by Jimmy, sprang out into the path and grappled with something. Down they went on the ground, a general mix-up from which proceeded groans and grunts. Finally Frank's voice rose clear: "I've got it, strike a match." The Wee One struck a match with shaking fingers, and when it blazed up it showed the scared face of no other a person than Gleason--the old Codfish! "Holy Moses in the bulrushes!" said that individual, "what do you mean by jumping on a fellow that way, knocking him down and nearly choking the daylights out of him?" gasped the Codfish, as soon as he had gulped down enough breath to fill his lungs. "Well, I'll be hanged," said Frank, ruefully, "I thought you were the ghost. Pardon me, old man." "Well, at first I thought you were the same thing, but when we'd been scrapping around here on the ground for about a minute I thought you were the devil for sure and all. My, you little rooster, I didn't know you had so much strength. You nearly choked the life out of me." "What are you doing down here, anyway?" said Frank, suspiciously. "I thought you were going over to the library." "Well, I did go over to the library, but I've heard a lot about there being a ghost down here, and I came down to investigate it myself." "And we were down on the same errand. It's a good joke," and the boys had a good laugh there together in the shade of the stand. Together they retraced their steps to Warren Hall, where they found David and Lewis holding the fort at the window. Both were considerably alarmed, for they had not expected the friends to be out so late. The chapel bell had just tolled the third quarter after nine o'clock. Lewis had been suggesting the organization of a searching party, believing that the apparition had turned on the investigators and thrown them into the river. The whole story was gone over for the amusement of Lewis and David, and they entered into the general fun. Then they agreed that nothing should be said of the adventure outside, because it was too good a joke; but somehow it leaked out, and was all around the school before noon of the next day. The matter even spread to the Milton papers, and that afternoon there was a half-column article in the Milton _Record_, telling of the encounter on Queen's field between Frank Armstrong and the ghost which had been haunting the place for some time. Frank was given great credit for having the bravery to follow the thing, whatever it might be. Of course, that was enough to set the whole school by the ears, and every night there were watching parties, but the ghost did not make its appearance again, at least while the watchers were around. And gradually the excitement about it died away. The officers of the school did not take much stock in the stories, believing, they said, that it was probably the beam from some searchlight which reflected from some window on the yard, and played fantastic tricks on the eyes of the beholders. Frank and Jimmy and the ones who had seen it the most frequently knew it was not a mere shadow, but there was nothing to do about it but to wait. "I'm going to get it yet," Frank said to David. "Ghost or no ghost, I'm going to chase it down." "It may never appear again," said David. "I think it will. We haven't seen the last of it." Gleason, who was at his desk, was listening to the conversation. "What do you think about it, Gleason?" asked Frank. "Oh, I'm not much of a judge of such things, but I suppose it will show its nose some time again and scare us all out of our boots when we least expect it. I wouldn't wonder if we had an appearance soon, it's about time." "What makes you think so?" "Oh, I don't know, I just feel that way." "Well," returned Frank, "I'm too busy with my work just now to chase it, but it better look out." "Better let it alone, it may hurt you." "What makes you think so? I thought you said you were no judge of ghosts a minute ago!" "Well, all I know is that I'm not going hunting it again. Once was enough." Nothing more was said that night, but the next night, shortly after the early dusk had fallen, Gleason, who had been bending over his studies at the table, got up, stretched himself, and said: "Well, I guess I'll go over to the library a little while. I'll be back in an hour or so." He went out and shut the door behind him. He was no sooner out of sight than Frank slammed his book down on the desk, startling David. "I have a notion there's going to be an appearance to-night. Something in my bones tells me there is something on foot, and the ghost is going to walk, or glide, or fly, or something. And, by the hocus pocus, I'm going to find out which means of locomotion it uses, and whether it is vapor or blood and bones." "How, I'd like to know?" inquired David. "See this perfectly fine piece of cord? Well, it's about a hundred feet long, a nice hempen cord, big enough for ghost or man to hang himself on. Now, I'm going to tie one end of this to that big oak tree down on the bank, and the other end to a stake at the corner of the gymnasium. Whatever the blooming thing is, it will have to go past that string. It seems to float right through the air, and if it really does that then I'll have to guess again. But I have a notion it doesn't float, and if it walks, there's going to be a tumble for it, for this nice little piece of cord will be four or five feet off the ground. "You shoot up and get Jimmy and Lewis," Frank continued, "and I'll shoot down and hitch up my trap. Have them come to the bank right under our window, and we'll wait there and see what happens." Frank was off with a rush to do his part of the work, and David started on his errand. In ten or fifteen minutes Frank had accomplished his purpose, and was back, waiting at the bank behind Warren Hall, alongside the trunk of a big oak, protected from the cold of the late November night by a thick sweater and heavy cap. He was joined there a few minutes later by the three boys and the Wee One; for on the way over they had run across the latter and brought him along. When the new arrivals came to the meeting-place, the Wee One wanted to know what it was all about. Frank gave a whispered account of what he had done. "Yes, but what gives you the notion that the great scene from Macbeth is coming off to-night?" "Never mind, I just feel that it is, and I wanted you fellows to see it. All we have to do is to watch here and keep out of sight." "If you expect us to watch here long with you," said the Wee One, "you should have provided a gas stove or something. It's blithering cold." The boys huddled up close together, and waited while the minutes passed without anything happening. "My opinion of it is, that you're a bum guesser. Get us out of our cosey corners just to see how wrong you could be," grumbled the Wee One. "Keep your nerve, Big Fellow," retorted Frank. "'Everything comes to him who waits,' so the copybook of my fast vanishing childhood told me. The night is only begun. I say, Lewis, will you run over and look in the library and see if the Codfish is there?" "Run over yourself," suggested Lewis. "'Fraid cat. I can't go," said Frank. "I'm stage manager of this act, and I can't leave the job." "I'll go," said the Wee One. "It will keep me from freezing," and he dashed off. He was back in a few minutes, and reported that Gleason had been there, but had gone a few minutes before. One of the fellows who knew Gleason was positive that he had gone out, probably to his room. "Why did you want to know?" added the messenger. "Well, I didn't want him messing around here. He'd think we were crazy, sitting out here on the cold ground, waiting for a spirit to make its appearance." "Well, if it doesn't indicate its presence in about three shakes of a lamb's tail, I, for one, will be after wishing you a hearty good ni----" He paused in the middle of his sentence and pointed. There over the clump of trees near the boat-house rose the Thing. It seemed to come right out of the trees, and headed across the field in the direction of Warren, just as it had done before. The boys watched it with bated breath, as it approached them. Lewis, who had been a little way down the bank, now hastily got to his feet and went to the rear of the group, ready to make a flying retreat if necessary, but meanwhile keeping the others in front of him as a measure of present safety. On the Thing came till it was within a hundred yards or so of where they were hidden, then it stopped and appeared to go backwards in the direction of the football stand and the river. No one moved. They sat watching, expecting every moment that it would disappear as it had in the past. And it did disappear, but not just in that way. All of a sudden the sound of a yell floated up to the ears of the watchers. The white thing took a curious circular motion in the moonlight and sank to the ground; but it did not disappear, instead it seemed to flop around and then lay quiet. "Come on, fellows," yelled Frank. "David, you stay here," and he started to run in the direction of the ghost as fast as his legs would carry him. Jimmy and the Wee One followed him. In a minute or two they were up to the ghost. There seemed to be two of it, one white and the other black. The white thing lay in a heap on the grass and the black thing rolled around in agony. "O Lord, I'm killed, I'm killed. My arms and my legs are all broken." "Great Scott! it's the Codfish!" cried Jimmy. "Here, help him. He's hurt." The three boys got on their knees beside the repentant ghost. "I was just doing it for fun," he said. "I learned to walk on stilts this summer. Oh, my arms! and I thought it would be a good joke to start a scare in the school--so I got a sheet--and wrapped it around me down there in the woods--and then walked around here and--down behind the football stand, where I hid the stilts--Oh, I know I'm going to die!" This confession came out in gasps, for the fall over Frank's cord, hampered as the "ghost" had been by the entangling sheet, had been a severe one. But, fortunately, it had broken no bones, and the worst damage it had done the Codfish was to knock all the wind out of his body. He was a very humble ghost as the investigators helped him up to his room that night. "But for heaven's sake don't tell any one about it. I'd never hear the last of it," he begged. But like the other joke on the Codfish, the story somehow got out and the "ghost" was guyed about his tumble for the rest of his school course. And the next day the Milton _Record_ had another story of how Frank Armstrong trapped the mystery of Queen's School. It was the sensation of the year. CHAPTER XX. A CONTEST AT THE GYMNASIUM. With the laying of the ghost, excitement dropped temporarily from the life of Queen's School. It was the time for work now, and right valiantly did every one study, making up for some of the lost time in the glorious fall days which invited one out in the open to waste the hours. Examinations were coming along, and the evenings were put in poring over the books. Mrs. Armstrong was a visitor at the school for a day at this time, and Frank conducted her around the grounds, to the boat-house, the football field, the baseball field and the gymnasium. She wanted to know where they had trapped the ghost, and he showed her. It was a happy day for Frank, who pointed out the various things of interest around the old school as if they belonged to him personally. Mrs. Armstrong noted the look of health on her boy's face, and was glad. She felt that he had already gained something physically, for even in the short time he had been at the school he seemed to have increased in stature. She told Frank that he was growing like a weed. "You think I'm growing. Just cast your eye on Jimmy," said Frank. "Jimmy grew bigger every day of football and he is as hard as a stone wall. Feel his muscles. Come on, Jimmy, show the lady." And Jimmy obligingly flexed his biceps and offered the bunched-up knot of muscles as a proof of his growing power. "And look at David there. He's going to be the champion strong man of Queen's, if he doesn't look out. He spends all his spare time down at the gym. You should see him dipping on the parallel bars and doing stunts on the flying rings. Patsy has to actually drive him out of the place," which was a fact. "David has made up his mind to be a 'champeen.'" "I can't do anything else, Mrs. Armstrong," said David. "And I've got so much to learn that I have to keep at it." David had set his heart on winning a place on the gymnasium team, and to do this he had taken up the work he was best fitted for. Owing to his light body and a natural strength in his arms, he was already able to do things in raising himself with his arms, which a boy fully developed, of greater general strength, might have accomplished only with the greatest difficulty. David's strength of arm was in evidence one day at the gymnasium when the four friends, David, Frank, Jimmy and Lewis, were on the floor. A certain amount of physical work in the gym was called for by the school requirements, or, at least, a certain time had to be spent in some kind of exercise. Boys who took part in any of the outdoor sports were not called upon to do work on the floor during the period of practice of the teams they represented. To Lewis, who was indolent of body, the hour in the gym was the hardest of the day, but he made his task as light as it could be. His way of exercise was to stroll over to a chest-weight and give it two or three pulls with the lightest loads he could find for it, and then walk to the other end of the gym for two or three pulls at some other piece of apparatus. Patsy kept after him, but athletic work for Lewis was like pulling teeth. On the day in question, the four boys had just about finished their work and stopped by the end of the parallel bars. "How many times can you dip?" said Jimmy. Dipping, as of course every one knows, consists in raising oneself up and down from a bent position of the arms to a straight position, the weight of the body being carried entirely on the arms during the raise and drop. "I don't know," said Frank, "never tried." "Go on and show your speed," said Jimmy, "it will be good practice for your pitching arm. All good pitchers have lots of muscle, you know." "Yes, go ahead," said David, "we'll all try." Frank, thus urged, swung up on the end of the bars. "Count for me," he said, as he let himself down between the bars and straightened up; "I'll need all the wind I've got." Jimmy began, "One, two, three, four, five, six, good boy, keep a-going--seven, eight,--getting pretty heavy, eh? Nine, ten--eleven, twelve--going, going, gone;--no, he has one more in him,--thirteen--don't stop there, it's unlucky." But Frank had stuck. He got down all right on the fourteenth dip, but could not straighten up. He dropped off, puffing. "Gee, that's work," he said, "Go ahead, you try," indicating Jimmy. "No," said that individual, "I want to see Lewis try it." "Oh, I'm not feeling very strong to-day," said Lewis, "I'll do it some other day." "Here, here, no shystering," said all hands. "We all agreed to do it. Take your turn." So Lewis reluctantly struggled to a position on the bars. "I'll count," said Frank. Lewis let himself down gingerly, and there he hung. He was heavy and fat. He made desperate efforts to push himself up again, and struggled and kicked, but although he got part of the way up, he couldn't straighten those arms, although the blood was almost bursting out of his cheeks in the effort. The boys were howling with laughter. "Kick with your left leg." "Hold your mouth straight, and you'll make it." "Get a step ladder." "Give him a push." "Get an elevator." These and other suggestions the tormentors offered Lewis as he hung there struggling. Finally, in despair, he let go and dropped to the floor. The boys were screaming with laughter, and Lewis was not any too well pleased. "Good work, Lewis, you did it just half a time. That's a record." "Try it yourself," said Lewis, "I told you I didn't feel very strong this afternoon. I've got a lame wrist, anyway." Lewis always had an excuse. It was Jimmy's turn and he mounted the bars. Frank counted, and Jimmy, who was remarkably strong for his years, being a sound and sturdy youngster, dipped down and swung back again no less than nineteen times before he gave it up. "Whew!" said Frank, "that beats me. I guess you're it." "No," said Jimmy. "David hasn't tried yet." "I guess I can't dip that many times," said David, preparing for his trial. "Patsy says it's one of the hardest things to do and shows actual strength. I can't measure up with much success against Jimmy." But nevertheless he climbed to the position on the bar. "Count for me," he said to Frank, and Frank began, while David swung up and down with the regularity of a pendulum. He passed Jimmy's figures without a bit of effort apparently, reached twenty, and then the boys began to open their eyes. He did not stop at twenty, but kept it up without fatigue until he reached the great number of forty-two times. Then he stopped, but looked as though he might have continued for five minutes longer. "Hats off to David Powers," said Frank, which, seeing that they had no hats on, was not a thing difficult of accomplishment. "Isn't he the dandy little dipper?" "He certainly is," agreed Jimmy. "How on earth do you do it?" "Oh, I'm built for it," said David, looking down at his twisted legs. "Patsy says all my strength has gone to my arms and shoulders. He says the record for the dip is 66, made five or six years ago by one of the football fellows." "I'll bet you beat it before you get through," said Frank, admiringly. "I'd like to." "Then the record you made would go down over on the wall there to stay until some other fellow did better." "I don't think I can ever do it, but as it is one of the few things I can do, I'll keep busy at it," said David. Patsy strolled up at this moment, and they told him what they had been at. "You can never beat David Powers at dipping or pulling up on the horizontal bar. Did you ever see him climbing the rope? He's been down here in the mornings, learning how to do that." "O-ho, Mr. Powers," said Frank, "is that where you sneak off to in the mornings, down to the gym, eh? Well, you are out after the records, aren't you?" But there was a note of pride in Frank's tone as he looked at the little chap. "Come on, David, show them how a cat goes up a rope," said Patsy. He loosened the climbing rope from the side of the gallery, and let it swing to its position with a clear space of twenty-five feet to the rafters, where it was attached by an eye-bolt. David moved over to the rope by the aid of his cane, with which he could get around in the gymnasium, seized the rope and went up it hand over hand, like a sailor. It seemed hardly more than a half dozen breaths before he had reached the very top of the rope, touched the rafter, slid down the rope, and was with them again on the floor. "There's only two fellows in this whole school who can beat that, and even now I think he'd give them a good tussle if it came to a contest. Before the winter is over we'll have the gym trials, and then you'll see some good contests. I'm backing this young fellow Freshman to win some points if he keeps up his improvement," said Patsy, laying his hand on David's shoulder. David smiled in a pleased manner and looked down. "Well, I'll take good care I don't get into any rope-climbing contests with him; I'd come out at the little end of the horn," said Frank. "And I'll dodge them, too," remarked Jimmy. "And I'm thinking of entering the dip contests and the rope-climbing myself," said Lewis, which raised a laugh. "Lewis, you could climb a rope if it was stretched along the ground, all right," said Jimmy, "or if you had a convenient elevator." "You are all very discouraging to a really good athlete. Some day I'll show you fellows," said the disgruntled Lewis. It was a few days after the incident in the gymnasium that the scouts of the Gamma Tau looked in on Jimmy and Frank again, but they were met with the same answer. "This is the last time," Cuthbert said to Frank. "We've got about all the men we want now. We'd like to have you both come in. And don't forget that you can't get very far in this school without the help of Gamma Tau." To this very direct threat both boys who were sought, answered firmly that if they couldn't get along without Gamma Tau they would have to do without the delightful backing of that autocrat society. Frank was so outspoken that he raised Cuthbert's ire before the call was over; and the caller intimated that if Frank had any ambitions in the direction of the baseball nine in the spring he might as well bury them, for he couldn't get on it. "Why, Simpson, the captain, is one of our biggest men, and I think you're a fool not to play for his friendship." But the argument had no strength with Frank, who saw more and more the bad effect of the fraternity in the school life. It made a clique of fellows who considered themselves a little better than the boys who were not in its membership. "You fellows are going to have a tumble some of these days. You can't run things here all the time." "Well, I guess we can run them as far as you're concerned, Mr. Frank Armstrong. You can set that down in your diary and refer to it next spring about baseball time. Good night. Remember, it's the last call for dinner." "All right, Mr. Cuthbert. I know it is considered an honor to be given the chance to come in, but I'm going to stay outside, for I think I can do better without Gamma Tau. And if I can't, well, then I'll have to do worse. If you fellows don't look out, some one will start another society." "It's been tried," said Cuthbert, now at the door with his hand on the knob. "It's been tried two or three times, but it never comes to anything. All I can say is, that you are letting a good chance go. But fools will be fools. Good night." CHAPTER XXI. THE LOSS OF A RINK. It was a very open fall that first year of Frank's at Queen's School, and despite the fact that the boys who were inclined to the game of hockey prayed fervently for good ice, Jack Frost held off. Several times it threatened to freeze up, and there was a great polishing and sharpening of skates and seeing to the leather straps. "When the ice comes we'll get up a hockey team," said Frank to Jimmy one day, meeting him in the yard. "Neither of us will get a chance at the school team, so we might as well have some fun ourselves." "And who will we play with, I'd like to know, supposing the ice did come, and supposing we could get up a team?" "I'll bet you the best hockey stick in Milton that there'll be lots of chances. There'll be so many scrub sevens out that there won't be enough ice. Are you game for it?" "Sure thing," said Jimmy. "We can rope Lewis in. There's a fellow in my entry named Hazard who drops in evenings to borrow a book. He says he can skate. Lewis isn't a half bad skater, and he's so fat that he would naturally get in the way of the puck without being very quick. So he would be a good goal tender." "Good enough," returned Frank. "That makes four, and we can pick three other fellows up somewhere. Be on the look out and I'll keep my eye out, too. Meantime, pray for the ice." But all things, as the copybooks say, come to him who waits. About the middle of December sharper weather came on, and then one afternoon the mercury began to slide down the tube of the thermometer. At six o'clock in the evening it stood at zero, and the boys covered the distance from their rooms to the dining hall supper table and back in record time, owing to the biting air. Frank was over to see Jimmy that night and reported that the big thermometer that his father had given him, and which hung outside his window, registered seven below. "And it's going down further, and what's equally good, there hasn't been a bit of wind since the cold snap came." "And what has wind to do with it?" inquired Lewis. "Hasn't anything to do with the freezing, but with wind the ice is rough. I met Potter coming up from the ice just before dark and he says it's like glass, and is so thick now he could hardly punch his heel through it." "Sounds good," said Jimmy. "We will then, to-night, organize the great Armstrong hockey club." "No, don't call it after me. I may not be good enough to stick on. But we've got to have a name. Suggest something, Lewis." "Well," said the goal-tender-to-be, "I guess we might as well call it the Lollipops. Sweet things on the end of a stick, you know." "Hurray for the goal-tender. Lollipops it will be! The Lollipop Hockey Club of Queen's School. First practice to-morrow afternoon at three thirty. How does that hit you?" said Frank. "All right for me," said Jimmy. "And me, too," piped up Lewis. "I'll show you the way to stop 'em. If you can get them past your Uncle Dudley, you will be going some." "All right, Fatty," said Jimmy. "If you play half as well as you talk we will have the real thing in a hockey team." Frank's prediction came true about the freeze, and what it would do. Before the thermometer got through on its shivering downward course it touched ten below, some time during the night, and then travelled upward again; but by the middle of the next forenoon it was back to ten degrees above. It was still pretty nippy, but just the right brace was in the air for violent exercise. The boys could hardly wait for the middle of the afternoon to come around. Some of them had already been on the glittering surface of the river, and reported it like glass, and four inches thick. Frank had selected a place about a hundred yards up the river for the site of his rink. It was a spot in a small cove, pretty well sheltered by trees and protected from the sharp winds which blew across the more exposed parts of the river. For the first day the Lollipops and a dozen others of the class, any one in fact who came along, contented themselves with tearing up and down the ice and shooting a puck between piles of coats which did duty for a cage. Wearying of this unorganized exercise after a while, Jimmy, Lewis and Frank picked up their coats and started up the river in the direction of Warwick, five miles away. They swung along easily, enjoying the freshness and crispness of the air, and the really wonderful ice under foot. Half way up to the rival school they met several of the skaters from that school, among them big Channing of the football team, who nodded pleasantly to Jimmy and came to a halt. "Are you going to have a hockey team down there this year?" Channing asked, nodding his head in the direction of Queen's. "If you are, we want to get a game or two." "Yes, there will be a school team I guess, particularly if the ice holds out, but we are only Freshmen and will probably not get a chance at it," said Jimmy. "They had a team last year, didn't they?" "Yes, but we beat it 15 to 4, and we want to get a chance to do it again. It might help Queen's to put a few lively young Freshmen on it. I'd advise you to try." "We have, or are going to have a team of our own, and we will masquerade under the splendid name of the Lollipops. We'll give you a game when we learn how to stand on our skates," said Frank, laughingly. "All right, Lollipops, that's a go, in case Dixon can't get a classy seven together." "Chip Dixon, is he the captain?" said Frank, quickly. "Yes, I think I heard he was elected. He's about the roughest player Queen's has had on the team, but when he roughed it we roughed it, and the result was while he was doing nothing else but roughing it, we were playing a little hockey. Dixon was one of the best players on Queen's, but lost his temper and hit one of our forwards a deliberate blow over the arm with his stick. It came to be pretty nearly a general row all around. Our fellows are just aching to get at Queen's again." "Well, you'd better send a challenge down. I'm not on good terms with Mr. Dixon," said Frank. "Perhaps he will take you on. But if he doesn't, we'll put you on our schedule when we learn to toddle around and hang onto a stick." The group parted company. When the trio returned to the float, scores of fellows were darting around here and there on their skates, and a large bonfire had been built on the bank, which threw a cheerful light over the sparkling ice and helped to dispel the darkness which had already begun to fall. Before night came on, however, our founders of the Lollipop Club had laid out their rink in the little cove. They set down four blocks of wood about five inches in diameter, two at each end of the "grounds," chipping out little pockets in the ice, into which the blocks were set. Then they filled these pockets with water. "Those posts will be as steady as the gate posts of Queen's School by to-morrow morning," observed Frank, "if nobody bothers them. It will certainly make a dandy place to play," he added, looking around. "It's just off the line of travel, enough so it won't interfere with general skating, and our posts will be in no one's way." Every one was well tired that night. The unusual exercise of skating and the violent way most of them had gone into it left them with aching bones and muscles. After supper Frank and Jimmy went around, and completed the Lollipop seven from the ranks of Freshmen they knew. "When we get started, I'll bet we have dozens more than we want. And when they see Lewis on the job they'll pay us money to let them in with us." The weather held sharp and clear, and the following morning two inches more had been added to the river's coating. It was now safe beyond any doubt. Frank, during the forenoon, was down to the river to see how the marks they had set were standing. He reported that they were as stiff as rocks. They were like posts which had been let down through the ice and anchored in the mud of the river. That afternoon the Lollipops made their descent on Wampaug river in full force. Jimmy had succeeded in finding a couple of other Freshmen for substitutes to complete the quota of players. When the news of the formation of a Freshman team was noised around, it was evident that there would be no trouble in finding plenty of opponents, for every one on the river had a stick, and the novelty of gliding up and down merely for skating's sake had passed. Frank was besieged by applicants. So they rushed down across the field, got into their skates at the boat-house float, and struck up the river to a chatter of excitement at the beginning the club was to have. "Well, what do you think of that for a nerve?" cried Frank, as coming around a curve from the float which had hidden the "grounds" that they had laid out the night before, they saw that the place was already occupied. "And, by George, it's Chip Dixon. I'll be jiggered if it isn't." The Lollipops skated up slowly, but their arrival seemed to have no effect on the boys who were occupying their rink. Frank recognized, besides Chip, several of the Gamma Tau men, among them Cuthbert of the nine, who had been after candidates for the society not so long before, Boston Wheeler, the fullback of the eleven, and several others. They paid not the slightest attention to the real proprietors of the territory, but kept on gaily with their play. A slashing drive sent the puck to the river bank, and while some one was recovering it Frank sculled slowly over to Chip and said, "I think you have our 'grounds,' haven't you? We laid these out last night, and planted the markers." "Oh, is that so?" said Chip, indifferently. "Very nice of you. We like the place very much, indeed." "But it is ours, and we want to play. It isn't the regular practice place of the school team, is it?" "Our regular practice place is wherever we want to play, so run along, Freshie, and don't bother us. All right, I've got you"--this to a mate who sent the puck spinning across the ice in Chip's direction. Thereafter Chip was busily engaged, and paid no attention whatever to the Lollipops, who stood around glumly, hardly daring to break out into open revolt. "Dixon has done this for spite and nothing else," said Jimmy. "The Wee One told me that the school team generally practises just below the boat-house float. I'd like to knock his head off," and Jimmy grabbed his stick and swung it around him vigorously. "I'll get even with him for this, see if I don't." "He's got it in for both of us," said Frank, who had now turned his back on the players. "We can't make a fuss, although we do know he has chucked us out of our own place. Come on, let's go up the river and find another place where----" Frank had not done speaking when a terrific collision sent him sprawling on his face, and as he got to his feet again a sarcastic voice said: "Can't you keep out of the way? Can't you give us room to play our game?" It was Chip, who had deliberately run into Frank when the latter was unprepared and given him a nasty fall. Blood was trickling from a cut over Frank's eye where he had struck the ice. The sight of the blood made Jimmy wild with anger. He helped Frank to get his balance and then turned on Chip, who had started to skate away. "That was a contemptible trick, Dixon," he said, "and for two pins I'd punch your head for you, although you are the captain." Chip heard and wheeled like a flash. He drove straight at Jimmy, and swung his stick at the latter's head. Jimmy saw him coming in time, sidestepped the rush, stuck out his foot, and Dixon went head over heels sprawling on the ice. Jimmy followed him, just as eager as Chip was to settle the matter there and then with blows, but Chip had received a tumble which took a good deal of the fight out of him, and by the time he had regained his feet a crowd of boys were in between the two. "You'll pay for this, you red-headed little chump," said Chip, savagely, rubbing his bumped skull. "I'll pound you within an inch of your life if I ever catch you where your friends can't interfere." "It's your friends who are interfering," said Jimmy, coolly, holding his ground. "I'll settle it right now if you wish, you cowardly bully." And Jimmy threw his stick on the ice, his eyes blazing. Frank, who had recovered from his cruel fall, skated over to Jimmy and slipped his arm around him, saying: "Don't mind about it, Jimmy. He isn't worth while. Let's go up the river and pick out another place, and have our little fun, for there isn't much daylight left. Come on, Lollipops." Jimmy picked up his stick slowly, keeping a savage eye on Dixon, and somewhat reluctantly followed Frank and the others a hundred yards or so up-stream. The encounter had been watched by a score or more of boys, none of whom cared much about Chip's way of doing things. But they were much attracted to the young Freshman who had dared the mighty Dixon in his own lair. So they followed Frank and Jimmy to the new place, where coat-markers were laid down. In the vigorous play that followed, the clash of the afternoon was soon forgotten. "I was a fool to get mad," said Jimmy as they trudged homeward over the frozen ground, "but he set me boiling, and I lost my red head entirely." "I'm afraid he'll try to get you some time and may do you some harm." "Not he. I can take care of myself, and don't you worry about that, Frank. I believe he has a yellow streak in him. I'm ready for him any time." And at about the same time Chip Dixon was travelling back to the yard in a group of his cronies. "I'll get that red-headed guy some day and knock that carroty nut clean off his shoulders," said Chip. But at the moment he said it, he wondered a little if it might not be a pretty hard job. CHAPTER XXII. A HEROIC RESCUE. The encounter between Chip and Jimmy on the ice that afternoon was the talk of the whole school at the supper table, and when the two boys concerned passed near each other on the way out the onlookers stepped aside fearful that something might take place there and then, but nothing happened. In general the school sympathized with the Freshman, but Dixon wielded so much influence in the school and bullied it so unmercifully that there was not much public expression of opinion. A good many thought that if it came to a matter of collision between them with a fair field that Jimmy would be Dixon's match, for they had seen the former play football, and although he was not as big as Dixon they knew how sturdy he was, and how determined he would probably be in a fight. Jimmy, although he knew in his heart that the matter would have to be settled between them before his school life was over, was very docile, and when Frank said that evening: "Jimmy, I don't want you to get into any scraps about me. I'd much rather take another cut eye from Chip, although I don't relish it a bit, than to have you get into trouble or get scrapping with anyone on my account. I wanted to go for Dixon myself this afternoon, but you know what the school rules are about it--suspension or possible dismissal." "All right, boss," said Jimmy. "I'll behave, but the big chump made me mad, first taking our rink and second smashing into you when your back was turned. You'll have to admit that he got what he deserved. I noticed that his eye was good and black where he came in contact with the ice when I tripped him that time he rushed me." "Just like mine," said Frank, laughing. Frank's eye, too, had a fine, dark tint underneath, and with a piece of sticking plaster over his eyebrow, he looked anything but attractive. "Anyone to see you, Frank, would think you had been playing football," observed David, "but it might have been worse." "Yes," returned Frank, "it might have been both eyes." "It's a better combination," laughed David, "to have one blue one and one black one; kind of gives variety to your features." There was a knock at the door, and the Wee One strolled into the room. "Hello, pugilists," he said to Frank and Jimmy. "Understand you are both matched for the heavyweight class. Can't I come in on the scrapping somewhere?" "You aren't even in the featherweight class," said Gleason. "What would you call me then?" "O, I think about the postage-stamp class." "Well," retorted the Wee One, "I'd be a good postage stamp, for I don't remember that I've been licked yet." "Old, very old," said Gleason. "I think I have the record of that here," and he pretended to search through his notebook. "Yes, here it is--'postage-stamp joke, first to be taken in out of the wet by Noah's secretary, who had the job of collecting all the old jokes. Said to have first been uttered by Adam.'" "Well, it's a good easy joke to understand; it isn't like the ones you get off, Gleason. Yours need a chart with them," retorted the Wee One. "We're going to have some big doings at the rink to-morrow afternoon, will you come down and referee, Patty?" said Frank. "Sure I'll come, and I'm the dandy little referee. Refereed for years at the St. Nicholas Rink. Yale, Princeton and Harvard cried for me, and once I was in the hospital, and they wouldn't play the game." "It's a fine thing to have a reputation," said Jimmy. "Much better to have an imagination like the Wee One's, though," said David. "What are the doings?" inquired the referee. "Are you going to take on Chip's bunch?" "Not on the picture of the Sacred Cow. We are going to play with gentlemen--that is, we are going to have a game with ourselves. Since there will be no more scrapping you will be safe. We will promise not to speak even an unkind word to you," said Frank. "And I'll be down to keep the record of all the perfectly lovely tallies," said Gleason. "You will not need to bring a large book. Lewis is goal-tender, and he's so fat that the only way to score is to throw the puck right through him, and he's so thick that that is about impossible." After more chaff and banter the Wee One got up. "I must be going," he said. "I'm tired as a whole family of dogs, and I'm going to sleep without bothering my head about that algebra which comes to-morrow morning. If you hear any loud sounds pretty soon you'll not be alarmed, but know that it's your happy referee preparing for to-morrow's fracas. My room-mate's home for a few days, so I'll have the place all to myself. Good night." "Good night," echoed the boys. Jimmy took his departure a few minutes later, and Frank, being tired from the exercise of the afternoon, turned in. David followed as he always followed Frank in everything. Gleason sat pegging away at some obstreperous lesson, and then he, too, with a prodigious yawn, slammed his book shut, and went to his own chamber. Darkness settled upon the old dormitory, and the boys slept. Frank was dreaming that he was in the middle of a most exciting hockey game. The puck was flying hither and thither, and the spectators were yelling like mad. Suddenly he woke to the realization that there was a yelling, but that it came from the outside, and not from the dream spectators. He sat up in bed and listened. There was a clattering in the entry, a confused sound of voices outside, and then the chapel bell began to ring wildly. What did it all mean? David was also awake now and staring. Suddenly through all the noise outside rose the clear cry: "Fire! fire! fire!" The terrible cry in the middle of the night brought Frank out of bed standing. He pulled David to his feet, helped him on with a few scanty clothes, and was picking up more clothes, when one of the teachers burst into the room. "Warren is on fire," he yelled; "hurry up. Fire in the next entry." Frank and David lost no time in getting down to the ground where they found half of the school already assembled, watching the smoke rolling from the entry windows. No one knew how the fire had started, but the night watchman of the school on making his rounds had smelled smoke, and on investigation located it in the first entry. Quick action by the watchman had raised the alarm, and the boys all over the dormitory were flying from their beds as Frank and David and Gleason had flown. They gathered outside to watch the progress of the flames. There was a hasty count of noses by Mr. Parks. "Thank heaven, they are all out!" he exclaimed. And it was well, for the smoke was now beginning to roll threateningly from the upper windows of the entry, and now and then a little glint of flames showed where the fire was gaining headway. Across the yard came rattling the volunteer fire apparatus manned by some of the bigger boys and the teachers. Queen's had always boasted a fire department, but there never had been a real test of it, and now that the test had come they seemed terribly slow in getting the hose attached to the hydrant which was fed from the reservoir upon the hill. All of a sudden, Frank began to look for the Wee One. A terrible thought came to him that he might still be in his room. "Where is Patterson?" he cried frantically, hoping to hear an answer from the Wee One from some safe position on the ground, but there was no answer. It was with a white face that he turned to Mr. Parks, and said: "Patterson must be in his room; he's not down here." "He couldn't sleep through all this noise, surely not," said Mr. Parks. "He was in my room last night, and said he was very tired and would sleep sound. O, he must be there and we must save him." He rushed to the doorway up which some of the volunteers were trying to carry the hose, but he was forced back by a dense cloud of black smoke which whirled down the stairway. The stairway was evidently on fire somewhere up above. "Come round to the end of Warren," yelled Frank. "One of Patterson's bedroom windows is on the end of the building." A score of boys, hearing his words, tore around to the end of the building, but the Wee One's room was dark. Frank turned his gaze on the ground, and good fortune favored him when he saw a lump of frozen turf which lay by the edge of the walk. He picked it up, and with a throw as accurate as if he were sending a ball over the plate, he sent the lump of earth smashing through Patterson's bedroom window. The signal was effective. In a moment a white-clad figure appeared at the window. "What's the matter?" it yelled. "What are you throwing rocks through my window for?" The tone was highly indignant. "The dormitory is afire," yelled the voices below. The white-robed figure left the bedroom window only to return in a moment. "The study is full of smoke," shouted the Wee One from his lofty position. "Someone get a ladder. I'll have to come down this way." He was hanging over the window sill, and leaning far out so he could make his voice heard. "It's getting mighty hot here; the fire seems to be in the entry outside my door, but I've got my door between the bedroom here and the study shut. Won't some one hurry with a ladder?" "Hurray, here comes the ladder," the crowd shouted as two fellows came running with the ladder on their shoulders. All hands gave assistance to planting the ladder firmly, and swung it end up toward the window. The Wee One had slipped up the lower sash, and was climbing out on the narrow ledge, making ready to escape. "It is too short," cried the crowd below in horror. It was true! The top of the ladder did not reach the ledge, where the Wee One maintained with difficulty his slender footing, by at least five feet. "Lift it up," cried some one, and a dozen eager hands seized the ladder and pushed its end closer to Patterson, who began to kneel down so that he could put his feet on the top round when it reached him; but just as he was feeling for it the ladder, held on its foundation of insecure human muscle, swayed, slipped, and went crashing to the ground where one of its sides snapped like a pipe-stem. When the spectators saw what had happened, a murmur of horror passed their lips. There seemed nothing now but death for the boy who clung desperately to the window thirty feet above them. There was no other ladder, and apparently no human help. By this time the fire had eaten a hole in the roof, and was shooting merrily through, lighting the whole place up with a bright glare. Evidently, too, it had eaten through the door of Patterson's study, for little puffs of smoke began to appear at the end windows of the study, and a glare filled the room. The Wee One begged piteously for help, and then, turning, looked into the room he had just left. Then he turned his face to the ground, and made a movement as if to jump. "Don't jump, don't jump, don't jump!" yelled the crowd in chorus. "Here's a rope for you." Mr. Parks now appeared with a coil of stout rope and threw it with all his might at the window. It didn't quite carry up to it. Frantically he snatched it up again and threw. This time the unwinding end dropped across the window sill, hung a moment and slipped back before Patterson could grasp it. Mr. Parks tried again, but this time failed to get the rope near the window. "Let me have it," said a calm voice at his elbow. "Let me try." It was David. All looked at him in open-mouthed astonishment. "I can't throw it, I'll carry it." "How?" David pointed to the great woodbine vine which, with its stout stem, crept over the whole end of the building. It had been planted many years before. Unmolested its tendrils had shot their way into the crevices between the bricks, making a kind of lattice work. "There's a chance," he said, "and I'll try. It's the only way to save him. Quick, tie the rope around me and help me to the wall." Willing fingers knotted the rope around his waist, and bore him to the wall, the crutches dropping from his hands. They pushed him up the wall as far as they could, and then let go. Up that mat of woodbine vine David went like a monkey, the tail of rope dangling out behind. Where the growth was large he seemed to have no difficulty, but as he advanced there was less grip for his hands, and once he stopped ten feet below the window where the Wee One was hanging. "He can't make it, he can't make it," moaned the crowd. But the little hero is only momentarily balked. Holding his weight with one hand, he tears loose a section of the vine to get a better grip, drives his bleeding fingers in between the vine and the bricks, and goes on. Now he is only a few feet below the ledge. Now he has reached it, thrown a hand over it, and climbed onto it. The crowd below are as still as death, but David works with a coolness worthy of the trained fireman. They can even see him smile a little at the Wee One, evidently encouraging him. Then he has slipped into the room, made a hitch securely to the bed leg, which is near the window, and handed the Wee One the rope. There is not a whisper as the Wee One takes it, gets a coil of the rope around his arm and another around his leg, and begins to slide. Below someone is holding the rope out from the wall so he will not tear himself on the bricks and vines, and almost before it is realized he is standing on the ground beside them, safe and sound, excepting a few bruises where he came in too close contact with the wall. And now over the window ledge slides David. He is at home on a rope, thanks to his practice in the gymnasium, and it is but a small trick for him to slip down its length. And what a cheer bursts from the crowd as he is grasped in the arms of his friends! He is carried bodily, like a baby, by half a dozen fellows to one of the Senior apartments over in Honeywell Hall, where the Wee One has already been taken, and the school, forgetting the fire in the wonderful act of bravery, follows at his heels, shouting his name. In an hour it was all over. The volunteers forced their way up the stairs, got to the fire which had originated in the air shaft, and succeeded in dampening it with water and chemicals so thoroughly that it was soon under control. Patterson's room was pretty badly burned out, and the roof at that point was burned off. But no lives were lost, thanks to David. CHAPTER XXIII. A CHALLENGE FROM WARWICK. "They are making a great deal of fuss about nothing," said David, the day after the fire. "I'm sure it wasn't half as hard as it would have been to climb a rope that distance. The vines gave me a great grip." David and Frank had just come across the yard from luncheon, and everywhere they were greeted with friendly nods from the members of all classes. "That lame fellow is the one who saved Patterson last night," spoken in low tones, was frequently heard as the two went along. In the class-room, the boys and the teachers themselves applauded David's action until he felt like running away and hiding. "I did nothing much anyway," he would say, blushing. That morning old Doctor Hobart sent for David, and David was embarrassed by his praise. "You did a fine thing, young man, a noble thing. We will not forget it. You do not look strong enough to perform the feat. I myself saw you when you were half way up the wall. I'm not sure I should have allowed you to go up had I seen you when you began your attempt. Where did you get that strength, for it must have taken a great deal?" and the old gentleman bent forward in his chair and scrutinized kindly the slender boy. "I wanted to be able to do something for the school besides my lessons and the only thing I could do was something for my hands and arms. I've been working mornings at the gymnasium, rope climbing and taking exercise on the parallel bars." "O, I see," said the Doctor. "Well, the good Lord just brought you here. It is most fortunate that you had developed yourself as you did, for I doubt if anyone else could have had the strength, to say nothing of the courage, to do it." "But he was my friend, and I had to do it when the ladder broke." "Well, it was a brave thing and we will remember it. I will take pleasure in giving the facts of your action to your father, Colonel Powers." The only one who did not credit David with anything extraordinary was Dixon. He made light of the whole thing. "No wonder he could climb, he has no legs to speak of. Patterson wouldn't have jumped or fallen anyway." This argument was meant to end it, but although he was with his cronies, he had not much support in this view. The fire and rescue were the talk of the school for several days, but the ice was good and the river sports took the attention of the active-minded boys, much to David's rejoicing. Afternoons were devoted to hockey, racing, fancy skating and just plain skating. Warwick had sent down her best seven with Channing at its head, and challenged Dixon's team to a game. A temporary rink of boards was hastily put up with the assistance of the school carpenter. Posts were let through the ice and firmly driven into the mud at intervals of every eight feet, and on these were nailed boards to the height of nearly three feet. The boards made a firm barrier for the puck. Dixon and his team-mates had practiced every minute, but when the test with Warwick came the latter wily individuals carried away the honors. It was a sharp game, but the team work which had been shown in the football game the previous month was again apparent in the game on the ice, and it bore down all obstacles. And Dixon's team was not really as strong in opposing Warwick as in football. They were not together. Twice, by sheer force and rough tactics, they got the puck past the Warwick goal-tender, but this was all. Warwick scored seven times by pretty passing and elusive dodging. As the game began to go against Queen's the latter tried rougher and rougher tactics, but they only opened their defence more and more, and Warwick piled up the tallies. "Is that the best hockey team you can get in Queen's?" asked a Warwick boy who was watching the game. "We have at least three teams that could take that aggregation into camp." The Wee One, who was standing with Frank, Jimmy and a group of Freshmen just at that point, answered him: "No, we have at least half a dozen that could trim it." "Well, why on earth don't you have them play? Those fellows, with the exception of your left forward, and Dixon there, can hardly stand on their skates, let alone play the game of hockey." "You see the captain has lots of friends, and he plays whoever he wants to on his team. The good players don't happen to be friends of his, so they don't play. See the point?" The Wee One had recovered from his scare at the fire, and while he had been very friendly with Frank and David from the very first, he was with them most of the time now. He hadn't said much to David, but his eyes spoke volumes of regard and affection for his rescuer. "Well," said the Warwick boy, "it's no fun to win a game like that. Since hockey is a closed sport to the best players down here, I'm going to try to get Channing to challenge Queen's to a series of races before this good ice gets away from us or a big snow storm comes on. Dixon couldn't keep the good skaters out of such races, could he?" "No," said the Wee One, "not if the challenge came to all the school. He probably wouldn't go into it at all since he couldn't run it." "Good--then I'll get after Channing. The way to do it would be to have tryouts in both schools and let the fastest skaters meet." The boys agreed that it would be a great plan, and promised their aid. "You'll enter, won't you, Jimmy, and you, Frank?" said Patterson. "Sure," was the answer. "Get Channing to send a challenge to the whole school," continued Patterson. "Have him send it to Mr. Parks, who is a friend of the school athletics and always willing to help." The hockey game had ended by this time, and the triumphant Warwickites went back up the river shouting a song of victory which did not strike pleasantly on the ears of the defeated Queen's team. It had been customary for the teams to cheer each other, but Dixon and his players had climbed out of the rink without a word, taken off their skates and gone sullenly to the gymnasium. True to his word, the Warwick boy, who had proposed the ice carnival on the afternoon of the hockey game, took the matter to Channing, and that young man was eager for it. "We've beaten Queen's in baseball this year, football and hockey, and we'd beat them if they had basket-ball, and we'll clean them up on the ice races. We can beat them at anything from tiddle-de-winks up to throwing the javelin. They have a society down there which runs athletics, and until they get over that disease the best fellows in the school are not allowed to play. That hockey game this afternoon was a joke." Channing got to work at once and spread the proposed plan about Warwick. It was eagerly taken up, and the result was the following challenge in the morning's mail: "To Queen's School: "Warwick School challenges you to a series of ice races on the Wampaug river on Saturday of this week. We propose a half-mile race, a hundred-yard race, and a mile race,--all to be skated straightaway, without turns--each school to hold its trials and present only its best skaters in these events. The racing to be open to everyone in each school, and the entrants are to be chosen only on merit. "(Signed) ROBERT CHANNING, "For Warwick School." Mr. Parks, thoroughly in sympathy with anything which was in the nature of a good, clean contest, particularly when it was on such a broad basis, was heartily in favor of the movement for a competition, and posted the letter conspicuously on the bulletin board in the gymnasium vestibule. The letter attracted much attention, and every boy in Queen's who could skate, or thought he could, entered his name on a long sheet of paper which Mr. Parks put there for that purpose. Of course, Frank, Jimmy and Lewis were entered. Their names were among the first to go down in their class. On the shining ice just below Queen's a measured course was laid off by Mr. Parks, and the boys who intended to skate did their practising there. The course for the contest was to be laid equi-distant from each school so that there would be no favor to either, and where the ice was not so much cut up as it was near the schools. That evening Jimmy and Lewis dropped into Frank's room to talk it over. They had all been out on the ice trying the various distances. Lewis thought his distance was the hundred yards. "All you have to do in that," he said, "is to take one big breath and let 'er go. I think I made the best time over that distance." "You did like fun," said Jimmy. "You were half way down the course when I started and I passed you before we got to the finish. If Channing had suggested a ten-yard dash, I'd have bet on you, Lewis. As it is, I don't think you'll do better than tenth in the hundred." "I wish I had a decent pair of skates," said Frank. "These old ones of mine are too small for me, and when I get to going fast they don't run well. I guess it's because they haven't enough bearing surface on the ice." "What are you going to enter, Frank?" asked David. "Seems to me," said Frank, "that the half mile is my best distance. I can't get going in the hundred. Jimmy goes the hundred like a breeze. And the whole mile is too much for me. If I had a longer pair of skates I could do better, but there's no time to get any so I'll have to do with these." "Wheeler has entered in the half mile, I see," said Jimmy, "and he's a terror. Not particularly graceful, but he's as strong as a bull. Have you noticed that Dixon hasn't entered any of the races?" "I was looking for his name, but it isn't on the list. Just the same, he was out practising this afternoon." "I didn't see him," said Frank. "What was he working at?" "The half mile," said Lewis. "He didn't come out till after you left the ice, and I think he's down there now. I met him and some of his cronies when I was coming over here, and they had their skates. I think he's after your scalp. And he's mighty fast on his skates, too." "Well, I wouldn't be afraid of him the least little bit if I had skates that fitted me. Maybe I can borrow a pair, but it's not likely, as every one who can stand on skates will be out on the day of the races. I'll do the best I can with what I've got. But maybe he won't enter since he can't run it to suit himself. Mr. Parks, you know, has taken charge of the whole thing, and he, with a Warwick School teacher, is going to be judge at the finish line." "That sounds good to me," said Jimmy; "there will be no monkey business about it now. It will be a fair race and no favors to anyone, and the fastest wins. I sent my skates to the grinder to-day, and they are as sharp as a razor--too sharp for the best skating. I'll have to take the edge off a little with emery cloth. When they're too sharp they grab the ice too hard, and don't slip easily." On Thursday came the trial for Queen's School. Mr. Parks was in charge, and saw to it that everything was fair and square. Ten boys lined up for the hundred yards. At half the distance four went out in front. Jimmy was second and going well. Hillard, of the eleven, led by a yard or two, but coming to the very end Jimmy put on a great burst of speed and overhauled him. The two crossed the mark together, breast and breast. A fellow named Robbins was third. The other seven were strung along over a distance of ten or fifteen yards. Lewis was last. He crossed, grumbling because his "old skate" was loose. "If it hadn't been for that I'd been second at least," he told Jimmy, as they skated back to the starting line. Lewis always had excuses, and most of the time he believed them himself. Next came the half mile race, which brought out seven fellows, among them Frank. Just as the skaters were getting set for the start, Chip Dixon glided over to Mr. Parks. "I've entered," he said, "and want to start." "When did you enter?" said Mr. Parks. "I didn't notice your name." "I put my name down this afternoon; didn't think I could skate till just now because I had a bad knee where a puck hit me." Mr. Parks looked undecided. He did not like Dixon, and was convinced that he had held off till the last moment deliberately so as to spring himself as something of a surprise, and maybe gain some advantage in it. So he turned to the row of skaters, who were standing on the mark and put the question to them: "Are you willing he should enter the race, boys?" Chip's unpopularity showed itself in the hesitation of the fellows in speaking up. They shuffled from one foot to the other. Finally Frank spoke up: "I have no objection. I'd like to have him in." It was a challenge to Chip, and Chip knew it, for he shot a quick glance at Frank and his black eyes snapped. The others now agreed, following Frank's lead, and Mr. Parks ordered Dixon into line. He jumped into place and at a signal they were off. It was something of a rush at first as the fellows were a little too close together. Whether it was accident or not, Dixon jostled the fellow next to him, who, in turn, got in Frank's way and almost threw him. Hoppin went down in a heap and Frank had to skate outside of him to avoid a tumble. When he was clear of Hoppin he was the tail of the bunch. But he settled down to work determinedly, and at half the distance had overhauled three of the stragglers. Dixon, Wheeler, and a lad named Tompkins were still leading, with the former well ahead of the others. Slowly Frank crept up, still reserving a little for the sprint at the end. He passed Tompkins, and was even with Wheeler a hundred yards from the finish. Then he began to put his best speed into it. He passed Wheeler, but, despite everything, he could not quite reach Chip, who shot across the finish line six feet ahead of him. As they snubbed themselves with the heels of their skates, Frank and Chip came close together and Frank caught Chip's triumphant glance which had a sneer in it as well. "Never mind, old fellow, you get in the heat to represent the school anyway," said the Wee One to Frank a little later. "Second place is just as good as first place. That lets Dixon, you, and Wheeler in to represent Queen's in the half-mile." "How did Chip come to get so far ahead of you? We were up at the curve waiting for you, and we thought you had surely dropped through a hole in the ice. There was nothing to it but Dixon. And then you began to come, but it was a close squeeze. What was the matter?" "Oh, some one got in Dixon's way and Dixon ran into him and knocked him into my way, and I nearly fell over him and lost ten yards on account of it." "I'll bet a pair of my best socks it wasn't an accident. Hoppin and Chip are great friends. I'll bet it was all cooked up to throw you." "I don't believe it," said Frank. "He wouldn't be as mean as that. I haven't hurt him." But the Wee One held his own opinion. The mile heat trial brought out some good racing, and Hasbrook was the victor. Connor and Day finished second and third. They were two Juniors who were not identified with any athletics, but they showed themselves capable of making a good race. At the gymnasium, after the trials, the names of the candidates were posted prominently as follows: 100 yards--Turner, Hillard, Robbins. Half-mile--Dixon, Wheeler, Armstrong. Mile--Hasbrook, Connor, Day. "And now," said the master, "I have a little announcement to make. I have just sent this information to Warwick, also. You will be pleased to learn that there are to be three very handsome cups for the winners of these three events. They are to be suitably engraved and awarded after the races. I assure you they are very handsome trophies, and the winners will not only bring honor to the school, but will have something to remember the event by. The giver of the cups is our young friend, David Powers." There was a spontaneous cheer for David, and all turned to look for the individual just named, but he had beaten a hasty retreat when Mr. Parks began his remarks, and was even now cutting for his room as fast as he could go. CHAPTER XXIV. A GIFT AND A THEFT. In Frank's room that night there was a conference. The Wee One was giving his advice about how a skating race should be won. It was his notion that one should lay back of the leader, let him cut out the pace, and then beat him out just before the finish. "I don't agree with you at all," cried Jimmy. "In the hundred anyway, you can't lay behind. You have to dig in for everything that's in you right from the start. I'm going to plan to go as fast as I can all the time, and get going as fast as I can as soon as I can." "And I guess in my race I can't do much laying back either," said Frank. "Channing is entered in that half-mile for Warwick, and he has a long, powerful stroke. I was noticing him the other day. He goes like a breeze, and never seems to tire. And then there's Chip. I don't think I can beat either one of them. No, Mr. Patterson, I'm going to skate for all I'm worth all of the time, like Jimmy. If I only had a pair of skates that fitted me I'd have a better chance, but as it is, I'm afraid if Queen's wins, Chip will have to do it, for Robbins isn't fast enough to get away with Channing." "Well, I'd rather see Warwick win than Chip," said the Wee One vindictively. "I'm going to pin my colors on you, Frank, and you've got the speed if you can last the distance out." "I'll do the best I can," said Frank, "and if I can beat Dixon I'll be thankful, because he has stepped on me every time he got a chance since I came. And it's natural that I should want to get back at him somehow." "Why didn't you get a pair of skates to fit you, anyway?" said the Wee One. "Well, in the first place I didn't have the time, and in the second place I didn't have the price. The kind I want are those Ruddock skates, those long, thin, light ones with plates that screw to the soles of your shoes. Both of them put together would only weigh half a pound. And they cost money, my son," added Frank. "I'll have six pairs when I'm a millionaire. I'll have to do for Freshman year on my old Christmas present of two years ago. Now I'm going to ask you fellows to skip. I've got a lesson to prepare, and I'm going to get a good, big sleep to-night and then another good, big one to-morrow night and then I'll be ready for the fray." "All right, Mr. Athlete," said the Wee One. "That means, Jimmy, that we are chucked out. Good night." Frank was early in bed for he was determined to put all the chances there were in his favor. He slept like a top and was only aroused by David who was up uncommonly early. "Going to take a little walk," said David; "it's early yet. See you later." Frank was not through his ablutions when there was a knock at the door, and a messenger appeared with an express package. It was done up in stiff, grey paper, and inside the outer wrapping was another, and inside that an oblong paper box. When he got down to the box and opened it there lay a beautiful pair of Ruddock skates with long, thin, straight blades, the very things he had been wishing for. Inside was a card and on the card in script the name: "Mr. John R. Powers." "This is David's work I'll bet a dollar, and that's the reason he dug out of here so early. He knew they were coming." There were tears of pleasure in his eyes as he tried the new skates on his shoes. They were just the thing in every way. "What a bully fellow David was to think of such a thing"; and then at the thought of what he might do with them, his heart jumped--"They may give me a better chance to win," he whispered to himself. Frank saw nothing of David till afternoon, for the latter had succeeded in dodging him, but finally he was cornered, and pleaded guilty to telephoning to his father the day the carnival was decided upon. "I knew you couldn't do your best with the old, short things you had, and, oh, Frank, I want to see you win this race. Try them this afternoon and see how you like them." "I can't help but like them," said Frank. "It was awfully good of you to do it, David. If I can't win with these I ought to be sent back to kindergarten." And Frank did try them that afternoon, and they were all he could desire. The lightness was a relief to his feet after the heavier old skates, and the way he went over the course made the fellows who happened to be on the river, open their eyes in astonishment. Chip Dixon was one of these, and he noted the flash of the new skates and Frank's increased speed. But Frank had no time to give to Chip's envious eyes. He skated back leisurely up the course, tried a few starts and then swung into a steady stroke down over the course again. Every one along the half-mile was watching as he flashed past, going at great speed, and heads went wagging wisely. "Armstrong for my money," said one of the boys. "He goes like a bird." Frank finished the half, sat down on the float, removed the skates and headed for his room. Remembering, however, that he wanted some books, he changed his course and entered the library. He laid the precious skates down on a bench in one of the little alleys of the library, the better to continue the search. He may have been five or ten minutes at the work in hand, but he found the books he wanted and turned to pick up his skates. They were gone! Frank dived frantically into the other alleys where he had been and looked everywhere. They were nowhere to be seen. He went to the desk and asked the librarian seated there, if he had seen "a paper box, so long, right over there." The assistants were called and questioned, but none of them had seen any such thing. There had been a dozen boys or more in the library, and they were coming and going, but neither the librarian nor the attendants had seen the missing package. Frank was heart-broken. "Some one has picked them up by mistake, or perhaps Jimmy or Lewis took them as a joke and they'll be at my room when I go there." But the skates were not at his room. Jimmy and Lewis were hunted up, but neither of them had been near the library. "Was Dixon around," inquired Jimmy, "when you were at the library?" "You're always thinking of him," said Frank. "I don't believe he's half as bad as you try to make him out. No, I didn't see him there, but I did see him on the ice and he saw the skates, for I saw him stop and look at them." "Well, you can bet he knows something about them." "I don't believe it," said Frank. "He couldn't be so contemptible." At supper Frank confided his loss to David. "I've got no luck at all. I shouldn't have let them leave my hands," said Frank in a passion of regret. "Serves me right." "It is too bad, that's a fact," returned David. "But you must not blame yourself. It might have happened to any one. You couldn't keep them on your feet nor in your hands all the time. Don't worry about them. They may turn up, and if they don't you'll win anyway." But Frank was inconsolable. He picked the old skates up from the corner where he had thrown them. They were as heavy as lead. He threw them down again almost discouraged, and all of David's cheerful words seemed to give him no help. He retired early, but had a bad night of it, dreaming that he was left far behind and that the crowd which watched him in the race yelled and jeered at him when he crossed the line minutes after the winner. He felt better next morning, and still better when at about ten o'clock a big grey motor car rolled through the Queen's gate and set down at the head of the yard none other than his father and mother and Colonel Powers who had come up for the day. The Colonel had run up from New York in his big six-cylinder "Crescent," and had stopped long enough at Milton to pick up the Armstrong family. Perhaps the parents only happened there on that day, but perhaps David's letter had something to do with it. Anyway, there they were. There was a reception in Frank's room, and during it the loss of the skates came out. "They may turn up yet," said Colonel Powers, "but perhaps it won't make such a difference as you think." In spite of the loss it was a jolly party which sat down at the guest table in the dining-room that noon. The term was nearly over, and it had been one full of interest and some satisfaction. Frank and Jimmy had to tell in minute detail of David's great climb to save the Wee One, who was later brought around to the table and introduced to the visitors, and he, too, added his word of praise for David who was well-nigh bursting with embarrassment. He had thought that everyone had forgotten about the incident as he himself had almost forgotten. After the meal was over the guests had to see the burned end of Warren which was now undergoing repairs. In the course of the inspection David somehow evaded the party, and when they reached Frank's room again David was not with them. "Where is David?" Frank inquired. "He was with us a minute ago," said Mr. Armstrong. "Just dropped out of the procession," said Colonel Powers. "He's a little shy and did not relish being talked about, I guess. He said he was going down to see Henry, the driver of the car. They are great cronies. He may have gone for a little ride with him." The races were set for two o'clock and it was now one o'clock. "I must leave you," said Frank, "and go to the gym. I'd like to know where in thunder David is. I want to have him with me. He's so comforting, you know," and he picked up the clumsy skates from the corner. "A good place to see the finish of the races is from the shore road," he told them. "The road comes very near to the river just at the course." Then in answer to the Colonel's offer to give him a motor ride to the racing course he said: "No, thank you, I'll skate up. But I wish I knew where David was." "Good luck to you, my boy," called out Mr. Armstrong as Frank turned to go. "Win if you can, but if you can't, it's no disgrace. I know you'll make a good fight." Mrs. Armstrong put her arm around her son's neck, and kissed him for luck, and Colonel Powers patted his shoulder kindly. "I know you're going to win, Frank. We'll find David and bring him up in the car. Good bye." Frank hurried to the gym where he found everything in a bustle with the men preparing for the great event. Every one was going. From the windows where he was getting into his jersey and sweater he could see a steady procession of skaters from down the river, attracted to the ice carnival between the two schools. But his heart was sad and heavy, and he felt slow and logy. He tried to shake the feeling off, but couldn't. "I guess it's all up with me in that half mile," he thought. "I can't do anything with these things," kicking savagely at the old skates which lay on the floor. But it was time to be going, and with Jimmy he walked to the float, strapped on his skates, and started slowly up stream. He had hardly a word to say all the way up, while Jimmy was happily cheerful, and tried to work Frank into the same frame of mind. In ten or fifteen minutes they were at the start of the hundred yard race where they found half the school crowding close to the course, and several hundred spectators waiting around. The crowd was every moment growing larger, and Mr. Parks and several assistants from both schools were hard put to it to keep the course clear. Soon the Warwick representatives in the different events were on the scene, and as it was approaching the hour of two, the guards skated up and down frantically calling: "Keep back, keep back, the race is going to start right away." Frank watched it all as though from a trance. He seemed to have no life for it, and no heart for the struggle which was coming. The skates felt like lead. And just now, to make him feel worse, Chip Dixon flashed past up the course with a brand-new pair of Ruddocks on his feet, smiling and confident. CHAPTER XXV. THE ICE CARNIVAL. "All ready for the hundred yards race," called out Mr. Parks, who was master of ceremonies. For Queen's, Jimmy Turner, Hillard and Robbins, bareheaded and dressed in jerseys and knickerbockers with long blue socks, came to the mark, followed quickly by the Warwick trio,--Sumner, Perkins and Hallowell. The latter were easily distinguished by their gray jerseys and gray socks. They looked fit to race, and the Queen's contingent eyed them respectfully. "Are the judges ready?" called Mr. Parks, who had decided to officiate at the start. An assistant dashed down over the course and answered affirmatively with a wave of a white handkerchief. "All ready, boys," shouted Mr. Parks. "Start on the pistol." The six boys set themselves in their favorite attitudes for a quick start, and at the report of the pistol, dashed off like the wind. Sumner and Turner went to the front at the first rush. Side by side they flew along, each striving for a few inches lead while on their heels came the other four bunched almost together. At the half distance it was any one's race. Jimmy had now cleared the rest of the fellows sufficiently, and was where he had a little wider space to travel. He bent his body almost at right angles to his legs, and drove ahead with all the power that was in him. Ten yards from the finish you could not have picked the winner, but in the last few feet Jimmy fairly threw himself forward and crossed a few inches ahead of his rival. A yell which echoed far over the icy river and was thrown back by the distant woods, greeted the winner, and a crowd of Queen's fellows tore after him, patted him on the back and tried to get him on their shoulders; but in the effort some one slipped and fell and pulled all the rest down with him. Jimmy tore himself free, well pleased that he had won. He and Sumner shook hands. "You beat me fair and square," said the latter. "No kick coming from me." They skated back side by side to the starting line where Frank hugged Jimmy delightedly. "I knew you could do it," he said. "Well, I'm glad I won, and I'm glad that you are more like yourself. When we started you looked like a funeral." "I do feel better," said Frank, "now that we have one of the three, but I wonder what's keeping the folks and David. They should have been here at two o'clock." "Clear the way, clear the way," shouted the clerks of the course, as they flew back and forth. "The mile race will start in a very few minutes. The skaters are on their way up the course now. Keep back and give them room!" Immediately at the finish of the hundred, Mr. Parks had headed to the mark up the river, whither he had been preceded by the Queen's representatives. The half mile was being left to the last as it was considered to be the best race. It was to be the climax of the afternoon. While the crowd strained their gaze up river, the roar of a fast traveling motor car was heard. "Here they are now," said Jimmy. "And, gee whiz, how they are coming!" The boys could see on the open road a big gray car fairly leaping toward them. Frank, even at the distance, recognized it as the one that had brought his parents and Colonel Powers that morning. A smile lighted up his face. "That'll help some to have David here," he said. In a few minutes the car came to a halt on the road opposite them, and a voice called, "Frank Armstrong, oh, Frank Armstrong, you're wanted." Frank turned and made his way through the crowd to the side of the car. Colonel Powers held a package in his hand. "David is determined that you are to skate on Ruddock blades, Frank. When we were visiting you after luncheon, he took the car and went to Milton, searched the stores and duplicated the skates that some one stole from you." Frank could not answer for the choking sensation in his throat, and when he looked at David the latter grinned back at him merrily. "Get them onto your feet," he cried, "quick. You'll find the screw holes of the other ones will be just right for these. They are exact duplicates." Frank could not answer just then, but he pulled the paper off the skates. "And in case you didn't have any screws to fit," continued David, "I brought some screws and a screw driver. Get them on quick." Frank ran to the river bank, and in a few minutes had the new skates firmly attached to his stout shoes. Then he threw the old ones down and sprang to his feet. How good they felt, how light, how different from the other clogs! He took a spin around on them, stamped his feet, and felt himself another person, fit to fight for his life, and, better still, to fight and win. His antics were watched with interest by the occupants of the car. Jimmy's amazement knew no bounds when he saw how Frank was shod. "David made a record run to Milton, ransacked the town and brought these to me." "Isn't he a brick?" said Jimmy. "They don't make many like him, I tell you." "Well, you look like a winner, now; your face isn't so long as it was," said Jimmy. "I'm betting on you. Did you notice Chip Dixon's skates? They are Ruddocks, and they look mightily like yours. They are brand new, too. I wonder!!" "I can't believe it," said Frank. "He wouldn't dare do it. But I thought he grinned sarcastically when I met him this afternoon, and he saw my old skates in my hand. But maybe we'll surprise him yet." "Here they come, here they come," shouted the crowd. Far up the river could be seen a lot of flying arms and legs. "Warwick's ahead." "No, it's Queen's; can't you see the blue jerseys?" Nearer and nearer they came. Then it was seen that two gray jerseys and a blue jersey were in the leading group, while at some distance behind, the other three plugged along. But it was plain that a gray jersey headed the first group, only a few strides ahead, but still ahead; and as the struggling skaters came flying towards the finish that gray jersey seemed to lengthen out, pulling along with it the other gray jersey. "Warwick, Warwick, Warwick," yelled the crowd. It was Warwick indeed, and all Warwick. Two of her skaters flashed over the line first and second, and the race was ended. It was now the turn of the Warwick adherents to expend their enthusiasm on the winner, and this they did with great noise and shouting. Morgan was announced as the winner, and escorted to where his team-mates were resting on a pile of blankets on the boards on the ice. "It's up to you now, Frank," said Jimmy, as Mr. Parks announced to the crowd that Warwick had won. "It's now one apiece, and a tie. The half mile race will decide it. "And you, Mr. Frank Armstrong, have got to decide that tie," added Jimmy. "You look like a winner now. Come on, I'll go a part way up. I won't go all the way because I want to see the finish. I'm going to stand about fifty yards from the finish and as you pass me I'm going to yell at the top of my lungs, GO! That will be a signal for you to put everything you have left into the business. Don't forget, put everything you have in you into these skates. I'll yell loud enough to wake the dead." "All right," said Frank, "I'll be waiting, but I'll try to put all I have into the skates before that time. I may not be near enough up to get any benefit from your plan, but I'll be hoping." They were now half way to the start of the race, and Jimmy turned back. Dixon sculled slowly past, and his face showed surprise when he glanced at the bright new runners under Frank's feet. Frank simply nodded, and Chip coldly returned the nod. Up at the start there was a testing of straps and skates and the tightening of belts, for on this race hung the school championship, as the six contestants well knew. Mr. Parks was very careful about the start. He told them that they must not cross-cut ahead of another skater unless they were well ahead. Such crossing, if not followed according to instructions, would constitute a foul and the one who committed it would be ruled out. "Do you all understand?" "Yes," came the answer. Away down the course the crowd waited breathlessly, necks stretched and eyes straining. Suddenly the pistol's flash was seen. "They're off," roared the crowd. From the start of the half to the finish was practically a straight line broken only by a slight curve about one third of the way up the course, so that the skaters could be seen almost every yard of the distance. On the racers came, the six spread across the ice in nearly a straight line. Big Channing towered above the others, a thing that could be plainly seen as the racers came sweeping along. Next to Channing was Wheeler, then Frank, while Chip had the outside course. At the half distance Channing had forged a few feet to the front, not over six or seven at the most. Chip Dixon was almost abreast with him. Frank was skating third, but was moving easily. The others were beginning to straggle back, the pace being too hot for them. The crowd was now yelling like mad, and the names of the racers were mingled by many voices. "Channing! Wheeler! Armstrong! Warwick! Queen's! Dixon!" On they came, Channing holding his own a couple of yards in advance. Do his best, Frank could not catch either him or Dixon. He felt that he might go faster, but for some reason could not make his legs drive any harder. On the skaters dashed and now they were entering the lane of human beings. True to his word, Jimmy had wormed himself through the crowd, and was stationed forty or fifty yards from the finish line. He leaned far over to get a view of the skaters, and saw with dismay that Frank was behind. As they neared him he gathered into himself a mighty breath, and as the three flashed past him, yelled "Go!" It was so shrill a cry that the spectators jumped from the very force of it. On Frank, the yell of his friend, the signal he had been waiting for and thought would never come, was as though a spring had uncoiled inside him. At the shout he fairly sprang from the ice, and in that one leap reached Channing who, at the rush of the boy at his left, turned his head. Another leap carried Frank even, and then something like the power of a six cylinder motor grew within him. He must, he would win for the school. They couldn't beat him! And driving his legs like pistons, he shot ahead of Channing who struggled desperately to make up the lost ground, but without avail. Frank went over the finish line fairly flying, at least two good yards ahead of his rival. Chip in his effort to follow Frank, when the rush of the latter carried him past, put too much strain on his tired muscles, stumbled and fell, and before he got to his feet and could cross the line, a Warwick skater slipped across ahead of him. He was officially counted out. How Queen's did yell! This time they got Frank up on their shoulders and lugged him up the course for twenty-five yards or more. "Armstrong! Armstrong! Armstrong!" "That was some race, I tell you," was the usual greeting between any two Queen's boys who happened to be within reach of each other, and then they fell upon each other, and embraced, pounding violently on each other's backs. Over in the motor car David was swinging his cap, and even the dignified seniors--Colonel Powers and Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong--were standing up, clapping their hands and shouting applause. It was a great finish to a great day. * * * * * The term closed on the following Wednesday and it was a jolly party which rolled out of the gates of Queen's in the big gray motor car bound for Christmas vacation and home. Colonel Powers, whose business had kept him in Milton, sent Henry and the car to bring the boys to town. David was the host now and he piled Frank, Jimmy, Lewis, the Codfish and even Wee Willie Patterson into the big motor. Suit cases were tucked wherever a suit case could stick. It was a happy crowd that gathered around the Armstrong table that night for supper, for Frank had insisted that they must all come to supper before they took their several ways homeward. And what a rumpus they made and what a chatter, and what stories of the doings at Queen's during that first term they unfolded to their elders. Mrs. Armstrong instead of being shocked at all the noise simply beamed with joy. Finally the leave-taking came and the boys parted with best wishes for the holidays and with great plans for the future at Queen's. And of that future of Frank Armstrong at Queen's you will hear in the next book of this series, entitled: Frank Armstrong's Second Term. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Both "postage stamp" and "postage-stamp" retained in the text. pg. 12, "Honywell" changed to "Honeywell" (Warren is Honeywell) pg. 109, "think's" changed to "thinks" (even Horton thinks) pg. 269, "punk" changed to "puck" (puck right through) pg. 311, extra "at" removed (to yell at the top) 
53414	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 53414-h.htm or 53414-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/53414/53414-h/53414-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/53414/53414-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/daveporterhiscla00straiala Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). DAVE PORTER AND HIS CLASSMATES * * * * * * EDWARD STRATEMEYER'S BOOKS Old Glory Series _Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._ UNDER DEWEY AT MANILA. UNDER OTIS IN THE PHILIPPINES. A YOUNG VOLUNTEER IN CUBA. THE CAMPAIGN OF THE JUNGLE. FIGHTING IN CUBAN WATERS. UNDER MacARTHUR IN LUZON. Soldiers of Fortune Series _Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._ ON TO PEKIN. AT THE FALL OF PORT ARTHUR. UNDER THE MIKADO'S FLAG. WITH TOGO FOR JAPAN. Colonial Series _Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._ WITH WASHINGTON IN THE WEST. ON THE TRAIL OF PONTIAC. MARCHING ON NIAGARA. THE FORT IN THE WILDERNESS. AT THE FALL OF MONTREAL. TRAIL AND TRADING POST. Mexican War Series _Cloth. Illustrated. Price Per volume $1.00._ FOR THE LIBERTY OF TEXAS. WITH TAYLOR ON THE RIO GRANDE. UNDER SCOTT IN MEXICO. Pan-American Series _Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume $1.00._ LOST ON THE ORINOCO. YOUNG EXPLORERS OF THE AMAZON. THE YOUNG VOLCANO EXPLORERS. TREASURE SEEKERS OF THE ANDES. YOUNG EXPLORERS OF THE ISTHMUS. CHASED ACROSS THE PAMPAS. Dave Porter Series _Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._ DAVE PORTER AT OAK HALL. DAVE PORTER ON CAVE ISLAND. DAVE PORTER IN THE SOUTH SEAS. DAVE PORTER AND THE RUNAWAYS. DAVE PORTER'S RETURN TO SCHOOL. DAVE PORTER IN THE GOLD FIELDS. DAVE PORTER IN THE FAR NORTH. DAVE PORTER AT BEAR CAMP. DAVE PORTER AND HIS CLASSMATES. DAVE PORTER AND HIS DOUBLE. DAVE PORTER AT STAR RANCH. DAVE PORTER'S GREAT SEARCH. DAVE PORTER AND HIS RIVALS. DAVE PORTER UNDER FIRE. DAVE PORTER'S WAR HONORS. Lakeport Series _Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._ THE GUN CLUB BOYS OF LAKEPORT. THE FOOTBALL BOYS OF LAKEPORT. THE BASEBALL BOYS OF LAKEPORT. THE AUTOMOBILE BOYS OF LAKEPORT. THE BOAT CLUB BOYS OF LAKEPORT. THE AIRCRAFT BOYS OF LAKEPORT. American Boys' Biographical Series _Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._ AMERICAN BOYS' LIFE OF WILLIAM McKINLEY. AMERICAN BOYS' LIFE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT. DEFENDING HIS FLAG. _Price $1.75._ * * * * * * [Illustration: THE BIG TOURING CAR SHOT PAST THE CARRYALL.--_Page 249._] Dave Porter Series DAVE PORTER AND HIS CLASSMATES Or For the Honor of Oak Hall by EDWARD STRATEMEYER Author of "Dave Porter at Oak Hall," "The Old Glory Series," "Colonial Series," "Pan-American Series," "Soldiers of Fortune Series," etc. Illustrated by Charles Nuttall_ [ILLUSTRATION] Boston Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. Published, March, 1909 Copyright, 1909, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. All rights reserved DAVE PORTER AND HIS CLASSMATES Norwood Press Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass. U. S. A. PREFACE "Dave Porter and His Classmates" is a complete story in itself, but forms the fifth volume in a line issued under the general title of "Dave Porter Series." The first book of this series, "Dave Porter at Oak Hall," introduced to the reader a typical American youth of to-day, full of vim and vigor, and with a true sense of manliness, and related the particulars of some doings at a modern boarding school. At this institution of learning Dave, by pluck and perseverance, fought his way to the front, and was admired accordingly. There was a cloud on the youth's parentage, and in order to clear this away he took a long and eventful sea voyage, as related in the second volume of the series, called "Dave Porter in the South Seas." Thousands of miles from home he found an uncle and learned something of his father and sister, who were then traveling in Europe. As was but natural, the lad was anxious to meet all his relatives, but the address of his father and sister could not be obtained, and while waiting for this he returned to Oak Hall, as related in the next volume, entitled "Dave Porter's Return to School." At school Dave lived a truly strenuous life, becoming innocently involved in some robberies, aiding to win some great football games, and helping to bring the bully of the academy to a realization of his better self. In the midst of his school life Dave learned that his father had been heard from. More anxious than ever to meet his parent he, in company with an old chum, set sail for England, and then went to Norway, as related in "Dave Porter in the Far North." Here, amid the ice and snow of the Land of the Midnight Sun, Dave found his father, and learned much of his sister, which filled him with great satisfaction. It was now time for the youth to return to school, and in the present volume I have related some of the things that took place at Oak Hall after Dave got back,--how he worked hard, played hard, overcame his enemies, and what he did for the honor of the academy. Once more I thank the young people for the interest they have shown in my books. I trust that the reading of the present volume will do them much good. EDWARD STRATEMEYER. _February 1, 1909_ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. DAVE AND HIS PAST 1 II. WHAT LAURA HAD TO TELL 11 III. ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL 21 IV. THE FUN OF A NIGHT 31 V. WHAT HAPPENED TO NAT POOLE 41 VI. WHAT A BIG SNOWBALL DID 51 VII. PRISONERS IN THE SCHOOL 61 VIII. A MOVE IN THE DARK 71 IX. VERA ROCKWELL 81 X. DAVE SPEAKS HIS MIND 91 XI. AT THE OLD GRANARY 101 XII. GUS PLUM'S STORY 111 XIII. THE GEE EYES' INITIATION 121 XIV. IN WHICH JOB HASKERS GETS LEFT IN THE COLD 131 XV. WHAT MIKE MARCY HAD TO TELL 141 XVI. SOMETHING ABOUT LESSONS 151 XVII. SHADOW HAMILTON'S PERIL 161 XVIII. THE BOXING BOUT 171 XIX. AT THE EXPRESS OFFICE 181 XX. A MISUNDERSTANDING 191 XXI. IN WHICH THE BOYS GIVE AN ENTERTAINMENT 201 XXII. FORMING THE BASEBALL CLUB 211 XXIII. A GREAT VICTORY 221 XXIV. ON BUSH ISLAND 231 XXV. WHAT AN AUTOMOBILE DID 241 XXVI. A DEFEAT FOR OAK HALL 250 XXVII. STUCK ON A SANDBAR 260 XXVIII. LINK MERWELL HAS HIS SAY 270 XXIX. DAVE MAKES UP HIS MIND 280 XXX. DAVE TAKES THE LAW IN HIS OWN HANDS 289 XXXI. MORE VICTORIES--CONCLUSION 298 ILLUSTRATIONS The big touring car shot past the carryall (page 249) _Frontispiece_ PAGE The big snowball hit the craft and bowled it over, (_missing_) 52 "It's a shame to make you eat without a fork, Phil" 74 "Now to Jackson's Gully with him!" 124 Dave pointed out the form of the sleep-walker, (_missing_) 164 Down went the back part, letting him fall most unexpectedly 208 "Well, you can row if you want to," sneered Poole 232 Raising his oar, he hit the bully a blow on the shoulder 274 DAVE PORTER AND HIS CLASSMATES CHAPTER I DAVE AND HIS PAST "I suppose you feel very happy to-day, Dave." "Yes, Roger, happy and anxious," answered Dave Porter. "And who wouldn't feel so if he was in my place? Just think of it! I am to see my sister at last--somebody I've never seen before in my life! Why, sometimes I have to pinch myself to make certain I am really awake." "More than likely Laura is just as anxious as you are," went on Roger Morr. "She'll surely want to know how her long-missing brother looks. Remember, she hasn't had a photograph of you, while you have seen several of her." "That is so," answered Dave. His usually smiling face took on a serious look. "I trust she isn't disappointed in me or my looks." "Oh, she won't be, don't worry about that. You're a good-looking fellow, even if I do have to say it for you, Dave. If you don't believe it, just ask Jessie Wadsworth." And Roger Morr began to grin. "I know Jessie will say at once that you are the dearest, sweetest----" "Come now, Roger, let up!" interrupted Dave, growing red in the face. "Supposing Jessie should hear you?" And he looked anxiously toward the sitting-room door, which was partly open. "There is no harm in telling the truth," returned Roger, with a calmness that made Dave blush still more. "But joking aside, Dave, I really hope this day proves to be the happiest of your life, and Laura turns out to be the jolliest of sisters." "Hello, in there!" came a pleasant, boyish voice from the doorway, and a youth showed himself, with a pair of bright, nickel-plated skates on his arm. "Thought you were going skating, Roger?" "So I am, Phil. I just stopped to speak to Dave for a moment. He is going off now to meet his sister." "Oh!" Phil Lawrence came into the room and faced his chum. "Well, I can't say any more than what I've said before, Dave--I wish you the best of luck. I am sure you'll find it awfully nice to have a sister--especially after what you've had to put up with in the past." "Don't you fellows really want to go with me?" asked Dave. "Of course we do, but---- Well, Roger and I talked it over and we--that is--well, we thought it would be nice to let you go with your father and uncle--kind of family gathering, you know. We'll be on hand by the time you get back to the house." At that moment the merry jingle of sleighbells sounded from outside the mansion and a comfortable two-seated sleigh came up to the door, driven by one of the men from the barn. "There is your turnout ready for you!" cried Roger. "What time does that Western train get in?" "Ten-twenty, if it's on time," replied Dave promptly, for he had the time-table well in mind. "But the snowstorm may have delayed it." "Well, I hope for your sake the train is on time," said Phil Lawrence. "If it isn't, I suppose every minute's delay will seem like an hour to you." "More like two," answered Dave, and then, as he heard his father calling to him, he hurried out into the hall. There stood Mr. David Porter and his brother Dunston, both ready for the long drive to the depot. Behind the pair were a lady and gentleman of middle age, Mr. and Mrs. Wadsworth, and their daughter Jessie, while in the library door, holding a ponderous volume on botany in his hands, was an elderly man with white hair, Caspar Potts. All of the party looked at Dave, for they knew what was in the youth's mind and what was on his heart. He had waited a long, long time for this day to come, and now he was a little timid about the result; why, he could not exactly tell. Perhaps because he had pictured his sister Laura to be one kind of a person and he was afraid she might prove something different. "We mustn't be late," said Mr. Porter, breaking a momentary silence. He, too, was anxious over the coming meeting of son and daughter. It made his heart bound with pleasure to think that his little family were to be united at last. "Remember, dinner will be waiting for you, no matter if the train is late," said Mrs. Wadsworth. "And I'm to sit on one side of Laura and Dave on the other," put in Jessie, flinging back her curls that insisted at times on falling about her face. "Oh, won't it be glorious, Dave! I know I am going to love Laura, and I know she is going to love me--at least, I hope so." Dave looked at her and smiled--he thought a great deal of Jessie, he simply couldn't help it. Then he turned and followed his father and Uncle Dunston down to the sleigh. The three got in and Mr. Porter took up the reins. A word to the stylish team and off they sped, through the spacious grounds of the Wadsworth mansion and down the road leading to the railroad station. Dave wanted to talk to his father and uncle, but somehow his heart was too full and the words would not come. His whole mind was centered upon meeting his sister, whom, so far as he could remember, he had never seen. He did not dream of the unexpected news Laura would bring him. To those who have read the former volumes of this "Dave Porter Series," the characters already mentioned will need no special introduction. For the benefit of others let me state that Dave Porter was a youth who had had a varied experience in life. When a small boy he had been found wandering along the railroad tracks just outside of the village of Crumville. Nobody knew who he was or where he came from, and as a consequence he was put in the local poorhouse, where he remained until about nine years old. Then an old college professor, Caspar Potts, who on account of broken health had taken up farming, took the boy to live with him. Caspar Potts meant well, but he got in the grasp of a money-lender, Aaron Poole, as related in detail in my first story, called "Dave Porter at Oak Hall." Times looked exceedingly black for the old man and for Dave when there came a happening which turned the whole aspect of affairs. In an elegant mansion of the outskirts of the town lived Mr. Oliver Wadsworth, a rich manufacturer, with his wife and daughter Jessie, the latter a beautiful miss some years younger than Dave. One day Dave called at the mansion on business. Jessie was waiting for an automobile ride, and through an accident to the gasoline tank of the car the girl's clothing took fire, and she might have been burned to death had not Dave rushed to her assistance and put out the flames. Of course the Wadsworths were exceedingly grateful, and when the gentleman of the place learned that Caspar Potts was one of his old college professors he at once interested himself in the old man's behalf. "You must come and live with me," he said. "You can do some work around the place and in arranging my library--and you must bring the boy with you." He had had a son who had died, and Dave reminded him strongly of that offspring. At the Wadsworth home Dave made himself a great favorite, and he and Jessie became the closest of friends. The rich manufacturer wanted the lad to have a good education, and so he was sent off to Oak Hall, a fine institution of learning. With Dave went Ben Basswood, a youth of Crumville who had been the poorhouse lad's chum for some years. At Oak Hall, Dave proved himself a leader in many sports, and as a consequence he gained a host of friends, including Roger Morr, the son of a United States senator, and Phil Lawrence, the offspring of a wealthy shipowner. He also made several enemies, not the least of whom was Nat Poole, the son of the money-lender who had caused Caspar Potts so much worry. One day Dave's enemies raised the cry of "poorhouse nobody" against him. This cut the high-spirited lad to the quick. A fight ensued, in which Dave was victorious, and then the boy resolved, at any cost, to solve the mystery of his parentage. How this was accomplished has been related in detail in "Dave Porter in the South Seas." With information obtained from an old sailor the youth journeyed almost half around the world, and there fell in with his uncle, Dunston Porter, who gave him much information concerning his father, David Breslow Porter, and also about his sister Laura, one year younger than himself, and told how the family had become separated. Happy in the knowledge that he was no longer a "poorhouse nobody," but a well-to-do lad with a large sum of money coming to him when he should be of age, Dave returned to the United States. His father and sister were in Europe, and while waiting to hear from them he went back to Oak Hall, as told in "Dave Porter's Return to School." Here he made many more friends. His enemies could no longer twit him about his parentage, yet some of them, notably a fellow named Jasniff and Nat Poole, and a bully named Gus Plum, did what they could to torment him. Plum, when Dave did him a great service, tried to reform, but Jasniff, who was a hot-tempered fellow, attempted to strike Dave down with a heavy Indian club. This was a dastardly attack, roundly condemned by those who saw it, and fearful of what might follow, Nick Jasniff ran away from school and set sail for England. Dave had waited long to hear from his father and sister, and at last when he learned that Jasniff had met them in London, he resolved to go in quest of them, although he did not yet have their address. In company with Roger Morr he crossed the Atlantic, only to find that his parent had joined an expedition for the upper part of Norway. How he and his chum journeyed to the land of the Midnight Sun has been told in all its particulars in "Dave Porter in the Far North." Here Dave at last met his father face to face,--a joyous reunion no words can express. Then the boy learned that his sister Laura had gone to the United States some time before, in company with some friends named Endicott, who owned a ranch in the Far West. "We must telegraph at once for Laura," said Mr. Porter, and several telegrams were sent without delay, and, as a consequence, word came back that Laura would come as fast as the overland express could bring her. When Dave's friends heard the good news that he had found his father some of them came to the Wadsworth home to congratulate him. Among the number was Phil Lawrence, and he and Roger were invited to remain with Dave until the latter returned to Oak Hall. "You can all go back together--after Dave has seen his sister," said Mr. Porter. "I will fix it up with Doctor Clay, so you won't have any trouble over staying out of school a week longer." And so it was arranged. Just before leaving school for his trip to Europe Dave had had a bitter quarrel with Nat Poole and a new student at Oak Hall named Link Merwell. Merwell was an aggressive fellow, tall and powerful, the son of a cattle-owner of the West. His taunting remarks to Dave had led to a fight in which the cattle-owner's son had gotten the worse of it. "I'll get square for this," Link Merwell had said to his crony. "I'll make Dave Porter eat humble pie before I am done with him." Then had come another quarrel between the Western boy and Mr. Dale, the head assistant teacher, and Merwell had come close to being expelled. He had gone home for a vacation, stating that he believed Phil Lawrence had gotten him into "the mess," as he expressed it, and he had added that he would not forgive either Dave or Phil as long as he lived. "Well, what did you do?" questioned Dave, when he and the shipowner's son talked this affair over. "I didn't do anything," answered Phil. "Merwell wanted me to say that he hadn't gone out one night when I knew he did go out. I refused, and then he was found out. Oh, but wasn't he mad when he left on his vacation! He pounded his fist on a desk and vowed he'd fix me as soon as he got back,--and then he added that he'd fix you, too, as soon as you got back." "Mighty interesting," said Dave. "We'll have to watch him and see what comes of it." And there the subject was dropped. But it was to come up very soon again, and in a manner not anticipated. CHAPTER II WHAT LAURA HAD TO TELL The train was nearly an hour late, and during that time Dave walked impatiently up and down the railroad platform. Occasionally he thought of school matters, and his friends and enemies, but most of the time his mind was on his sister. His father and his uncle talked together and did not interrupt his meditations. At last a far-away whistle proclaimed the coming of the Western express, and Dave's face took on a more eager look than ever. His father gazed into his clear eyes and caught him by the arm. "I trust with all my heart you find Laura all you desire," he said in a low tone, and Dave nodded, for his throat was so choked up that he could not speak. The long train rolled in and the passengers for Crumville began to alight. "There she is!" cried Dunston Porter and ran forward, with his brother and Dave at his heels. A mist seemed to come over the boy's eyes and his heart thumped furiously. Then he saw a tall girl standing before him, her eyes looking deeply into his own. "Laura, this is Dave," he heard his father say. Then the girl came closer, reached out her arms, and in a moment more brother and sister were locked in the closest of embraces. It was such a moment Dave had longed for--prayed for--and all on the instant he knew that Laura was what he had hoped she would be and that they should love each other with the sweetest of sisterly and brotherly love as long as they lived. Laura was handsome rather than pretty. She had an aristocratic air which had come down to her from her mother and grandmother. She was stately in her movements and her voice charmed Dave the moment he heard it. "Just to think, you are really and truly my brother!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it wonderful!" "It's wonderful for me to find a sister--and a father," answered Dave. "Sometimes I am afraid I'll wake up and find it all a dream." "When I got papa's telegram I thought it was a dream. One of the cowboys on the ranch brought it over from the railroad station. At first I thought there must be some mistake, but Mr. Endicott said there couldn't be, and so I arranged to come east at once. A gentleman and his wife, who had been stopping at the ranch, came with me as far as Buffalo. Oh, I really couldn't get here fast enough! Did you get the telegram I sent from Chicago?" "Yes," answered her father. "And the one from the ranch, too." "I want to hear the whole of the wonderful story just as soon as possible," continued Laura. "I promised Belle Endicott I'd send her the particulars, for she is dying to know. Belle is my friend, you know. Her father is a railroad president, but he owns that ranch, too, and they go out there whenever they feel like it, winter or summer. Belle said she'd rather read my next letter than a story book." And Laura smiled brightly. "And I shall want to hear all about you and your travels," answered Dave. "Oh, I guess we'll have enough to talk about to last a week." The party of four were soon in the sleigh, with Laura and Dave on the front seat. The youth showed how he could handle the team, and in a short while drove up to the stepping-stone of the Wadsworth mansion. At once there was a rush from within, and the girl was introduced to those who had in the past done so much for her brother, and those who were Dave's chums. Jessie was a trifle shy at first, but this presently wore away, and when Laura heard what the Wadsworths had done for her brother she speedily took mother and daughter to her heart, and Jessie and she became the best of friends. It was assuredly a grand gathering around the bountiful table which the Wadsworths had supplied, and all lingered long, listening to what the various members of the Porter family had to tell: of Dave's doings on the Potts farm, at school, and in quest of his relatives; of Dunston Porter's treasure hunt in the South Seas; of Mr. David Porter's trip to Europe with Laura; and of the girl's adventures on the ranch and elsewhere. "Strange as it may seem, I have met two boys who knew Dave," said Laura, during the course of the conversation. "One was that scamp, Nick Jasniff, who tried to make himself agreeable in London." "Yes, I know about him," answered Dave. "But who was the other?" "The other is the son of the man who owns the cattle ranch next to Mr. Endicott's, Mr. Felix Merwell." "Merwell!" cried Dave, Roger, and Phil in a breath. "Yes. Why do you look so astonished?" "Do you mean Link Merwell's father?" asked her brother. "Yes. Link came out there just a few days before I started for the East. He seemed to be a nice sort, and he is one of the best horseback riders I ever saw." "Did you--er--go out with him?" stammered Dave. "Yes, twice, but not alone--Belle was along." Laura looked at her brother, whose face was a study. "What makes you look so queer? You know Mr. Merwell, don't you?" "Oh, yes, we know him," answered Phil, before Dave could speak. "We'd like to know less of him," added Roger. "Oh!" And now Laura's face showed her wonder. "You see, it's this way," continued the senator's son, thinking it might be difficult for Dave to explain. "Link Merwell tried to lord it over a lot of us fellows at Oak Hall. He's a domineering chap, and some of us wouldn't stand for it. I gave him a piece of my mind once, and so did Phil, and Dave did more--gave him a sound thrashing." "Oh, Dave, did you really!" Laura's face showed her distress. "Why, I--I thought he was nice enough. Maybe it was only a boyish quarrel," she added, hopefully. "I know boys do fight sometimes with hardly a reason for it." "Dave had a good reason for hitting Merwell," said Phil. "The best reason in the world." He looked at Jessie and Mrs. Wadsworth and the others. "I'll not spoil this gathering by saying what it was. But it was something very mean, and Merwell deserved the drubbing he got." "Oh, I am so sorry! That is, I don't mean I am sorry Dave thrashed him--if he deserved it--but I am sorry that I--I went out with him, and that I--I started a correspondence with him. I thought he was nice, by his general looks." "Oh, he can make himself look well, when he dresses up," said Roger. "And he can act the gentleman on the outside. But if you get to know him thoroughly you'll find him a different sort." "I don't wish to know him if he's that kind," answered Laura, quickly. "But I thought he was all right, especially as he was the son of the owner of the next ranch. I am sorry now I ever spoke to him." "And you have been writing to him?" asked Dave. "I thought you said you had met him only a few days before you came away?" "So I did. But he wanted me to buy something for him in Chicago--a lens for his camera, and asked me to write from there, and I did. And, just for fun, I sent him two letters I wrote on the train--along with some letters to Belle and some other folks I know. I did it to pass the time,--so I wouldn't know how long it was taking me to get here. It was foolish to do so, and it will teach me a lesson to be careful about writing in the future." "I'm sorry you wrote to him," answered Dave, soberly. But how sorry he was to be, and how distressed his sister was to become, he was still to learn. Not further to mar the joy of the occasion Link Merwell's name was dropped, and Roger and Phil told of some funny initiations into the secret society at Oak Hall, which set everybody to laughing, and then Dunston Porter related the particulars of a hunt after bears he had once made in the Rockies. Thus the afternoon and evening wore away swiftly and all too soon it was time to retire. Laura was given a room next to that occupied by Dave, and long after the rest of the house was quiet brother and sister sat by a window, looking out at the moonlight on the snow and discussing the past. "You look very much like father," said Laura, "and much like Uncle Dunston, too. No wonder that old sailor, Billy Dill, thought he had seen you when he only saw Uncle Dunston." "And father tells me you look like mother," answered Dave, softly. "I do not remember her, but if she looked like you she must have been very handsome," and Dave smiled and brushed a stray lock back from his sister's brow. "It is too bad she cannot see us now, Dave--how happy it would make her! I have missed her so much--it is no easy thing to get along without a mother's care, is it?--or a father's care, either. Perhaps if mamma were alive I'd be different in some things. I shouldn't be so careless in what I do--in making friends with that Link Merwell, for instance, and sending him letters." Laura looked genuinely distressed as she uttered the last words. "Well, you didn't know him, so you are not to blame. But I shouldn't send him any more letters." "You can depend upon it I won't." "He is the kind who would laugh at you for doing it, and make fun of you to all his friends." "He'll not get another line from me, and if he writes I'll return the letters," answered Laura, firmly. "Did he say when he was going back to Oak Hall?" "Inside of two weeks. He said he had had a little trouble with a teacher, and the master of the school had advised him to take a short vacation and give the matter a chance to blow over." Laura had arrived at Crumville on Thursday, and it was decided that Dave, Roger, and Phil should not return to Oak Hall until the following Monday. On Friday and Saturday the young folks went sleighing and skating, Jessie being one of the party, and on Sunday the entire household attended church. It was a service into which Dave entered with all his heart, and he thanked God from the bottom of his soul that at last his sister, as well as his father and his uncle, had been restored to him. "After I go back to boarding school where are you and Laura and Uncle Dunston going to stay?" questioned Dave of his father. Mr. Porter smiled faintly. "I have a little secret about that, Dave," he answered. "I'll tell you later--after everything is ripe." "I know the Wadsworths would hate to have me leave them--and Professor Potts won't want me to go either." "Well, you wait, Dave,--and see what comes," answered his father; and with this the lad had to be content. Bright and early Monday morning the three boys had breakfast and started for the depot, to take the train for Oakdale, the nearest town to Oak Hall. Laura, Jessie, and Mr. David Porter went along to see them off. "Now, Dave, I want to see you make the most of this term at school," said Mr. Porter. "Now you have Laura and me, you won't have so much to worry about." "I'll do my level best, father," he answered. "We want you to come out at the top of the class," said Laura. "And Dave can do it too--I know he can," remarked Jessie, and gave him a sunny smile of encouragement. "How about us poor chaps?" asked Roger. "Can't we come in somewhere?" "Yes, you must come in right after Dave," answered Laura, and this made everybody laugh. "The higher we get in school the harder the work becomes," came from Phil. "But I am going to peg away at it--provided the other fellows will let me." "Phil always was very studious," said Dave, with an old-time grin spreading over his face. "He'd rather study a problem in geometry or translate Latin than read a story book or play baseball; wouldn't you, Phil?" "Not much! and you know it. But if a fellow has got to grind, why----" "He can grind--and play baseball, too," added Mr. Porter. "My parting advice is: when you study, study for all you are worth, and when you play, play for all you are worth." "Here comes the train!" cried Laura, and turning, she kissed her brother. "Good-bye, Roger; good-bye, Phil!" "Good-bye!" came from the others, and a general handshaking followed. Then the three chums ran for the train, got aboard, and were off for school once more. CHAPTER III ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL "There is one thing I've forgotten to mention to you," said Phil, as the train rolled on its way and Crumville was left far behind. "That is that this term Doctor Clay has offered a special set of prizes to the students standing highest in various subjects. There is a prize for history, another for Latin, and a third for English literature and theme-writing. In addition there is to be a special prize for the student who can write the best paper on 'The Past and Future of our Country.' This last contest is open only to those who stand above the eighty per cent. level in their classes." "That's interesting," answered Dave. "How many reach that level, do you think, Phil?" "Not more than thirty all told, and of those I don't believe more than twenty will send in papers." "Dave, you ought to try," said Roger. "You were always good at composition." "So are you, Roger." "I'm not as good as you, and I know it. I like history more than anything else, and I guess I'll try for that prize." "Well, what is the past of our country but history?" continued Dave, with a smile. "That part might be easy; but what of the future? I'm no good at prophesying." "Oh, couldn't you speak of the recent inventions and of what is coming--marvelous submarine boats, airships, wireless telegraphy, wonderful cures by means of up-to-date surgery, and then of the big cities of the West, of the new railroads stretching out everywhere, and of the fast ocean liners, and the Panama Canal, and the irrigation of the Western dry lands, and----" "Hold on, Dave!" cried Phil. "You are giving Roger all your ammunition. Put that in your own paper." "Oh, there's a whole lot more," was the smiling answer. "The thirty-and forty-storied buildings in our big cities, the underground railways, the tubes under the rivers, the tremendous suspension bridges, the automobile carriages and business trucks,--not to mention the railroad trains that are to run on one rail at a speed of a hundred miles an hour. Oh, there are lots of things--if one only stops to think of them." "The prize is yours, Dave!" exclaimed the senator's son. "You've mentioned more in three minutes than I would have thought of in three weeks. I'll stick to history." "And I'll stick to English literature--I'm pretty well up on that, thank goodness!" said the shipowner's son. After that the talk drifted to other things--of the doings of the students at Oak Hall, and of how Job Haskers, one of the assistant teachers, had caught some of the lads playing a trick on Pop Swingly, the janitor, and punished them severely for it. "The trick didn't amount to much," said Phil, "and I rather believe Swingly enjoyed it. But old Haskers was in a bilious mood and made the fellows stay in after school for three days." "Were you in it?" asked Dave. "Yes; and all of us have vowed to get square on Haskers." "It's a wonder Doctor Clay doesn't get rid of Haskers--he is so unpopular," was Roger's comment. "Haskers is a fine teacher, that's why he is kept. But I like Mr. Dale much better," said Dave. "Oh, everybody does!" "All but Link Merwell," said Phil. "Isn't it strange, he seems to get along very well with Haskers." "Two of a kind maybe," returned the senator's son. After a long run the Junction was reached, where the boys had to change cars for Oakdale. They got off and found they had twenty-five minutes to wait. "Remember the time we were here and had the trouble with Isaac Pludding?" asked Roger. "I'll never forget it," answered Dave, with a grin. "By the way, as we have time to spare let us go around to Denman's restaurant and have a cup of chocolate and a piece of pie. That car was so cold it chilled me." Growing boys are always hungry, so, despite the generous breakfast they had had, they walked over to the restaurant named. The man who kept it remembered them well and smiled broadly as they took seats at a table. "On your way to school, I suppose," he said, as he served them. "Ain't following up Ike Pludding this trip, are you?" "Hardly," answered Dave. "What do you know of him?" "I know he is about down and out," answered Amos Denman. "And served him right too." The boys were about to leave the restaurant when Dave chanced to glance in one of the windows. There, on a big platter, was an inviting heap of chicken salad, above which was a sign announcing it was for sale at thirty cents a pint. "Let me try that salad, will you?" Dave asked. "Certainly. Want to take some along?" And Amos Denman passed over a forkful. "What are you going to do with chicken salad?" questioned Roger. "Oh, I thought we might want to celebrate our return by a little feast, Roger." "Hurrah! just the thing!" ejaculated the senator's son. "Is it good? It is? All right, I'll take a quart." "I'll take a quart, too," said Dave. "I guess you can put it all together." "Are those mince pies fresh?" asked Phil, pointing to some in a case. "Just out of the oven. Feel of them." "Then I'll take two." In the end the three youths purchased quite a number of things from the restaurant keeper, who tied up the articles in pasteboard boxes wrapped in brown paper. Then the lads had to run for the train and were the last on board. It had begun to snow again and the white flakes were coming down thickly when the train rolled into the neat little station at Oakdale. The boys were the only ones to alight and they looked around eagerly to see if the school carryall was waiting for them. "Hello, fellows!" cried a voice from the end of the platform, and Joseph Beggs, usually called Buster because of his fatness, waddled up. "Thought you'd be on this train." "How are you, Buster?" answered Dave, shaking hands. "My, but aren't you getting thin!" And he looked the fat boy over with a grin. "It's worry that's doing it," answered Buster, calmly. "Haven't slept a night since you went away, Dave. So you really found your dad and your sister! Sounds like a regular six-act-and-fourteen-scene drama. We'll have to write it up and get Horsehair to star in it. First Act: Found on the Railroad Tracks; Second Act: The Faithful Farm Boy; Third Act: The King of the School; Fourth Act----" "Waiting for the Stage," interrupted Dave. "Keep it, Buster, until we're on the way to Oak Hall. Did you come down alone?" "Not much he didn't come down alone!" cried a voice at Dave's elbow, and Maurice Hamilton, always called Shadow, appeared. Maurice was as tall and thin as Buster was stout. "Let me feel your hand and know you are really here, Dave," he went on. "Why, your story is--is--what shall I say?" "Great," suggested Roger. "Marvelous," added Phil. "Out of sight," put in Buster Beggs. "All good--and that puts me in mind of a story. One time there was a----" "Shadow--so early in the day!" cried the senator's son, reproachfully. "Oh, you can't shut him off," exploded Buster. "He's been telling chestnuts ever since we left the Hall." "This isn't a chestnut, it's a----" "Hickory nut," finished Phil; "hard to crack--as the darky said of the china egg he wanted to fry." "It isn't a chestnut or a hickory nut either," expostulated the story-teller of the school. "It's a brand-new one. One time there was a county----" "If it's new you ought to have it copyrighted, Shadow," said Roger. "Perhaps a trade-mark might do," added Dave. "You can get one for----" "Say, don't you want to hear this story?" demanded Shadow. "Yes, yes, go on!" was the chorus. "Now we've had the first installment we'll have to have the finish or die," continued Phil, tragically. "Well, one time there was a county fair, with a number of side shows, snakes, acrobats, and such things. One tent had a big sign over it, 'The Greatest and Most Marvelous Wonder of the Age--A man who plays the piano better with his feet than most skilled musicians can play with their hands. Admission 10 cents.' That sign attracted a big crowd and brought in a lot of money. When the folks got inside a man came out, sat down in front of a piano that played with paper rolls, and pumped the thing for all he was worth with his feet!" "Oh, what a sell!" roared Phil. "Shadow, that's the worst you ever told." "Quite a feat," said Dave. "But painful to the understanding," added Roger. He looked around. "Hello, here's Horsehair at last." He referred to Jackson Lemond, the driver for the school, who was always called Horsehair because of the hairs which invariably clung to his clothing. The driver was coming down the main street of the town with a package of harness dressing in his hand. "Had to git this," he explained. "How de do, young gents? All ready to go to the Hall?" "Horsehair, we're going to write a play about Dave's discoveries," said Buster. "We want you to star in it. We know you can make a hit." "No starrin' fer me," answered the driver, who had once played minor parts in a barn-storming theatrical company. "I'll stick to the hosses." "But think of it, Horsehair," went on Buster. "We'll have you eaten up by cannibals of the South Seas, frozen to death in Norway snowstorms, shooting bears as big as elephants, and----" "Oh, Buster, do let up!" cried Dave. "None of those things are true, and you know it. Come ahead, I am anxious to see the rest of the fellows," and Dave ran for the carryall, with his dress-suit case in one hand and one of the packages from the restaurant in the other. Soon the crowd had piled into the turnout, Phil on the front seat beside the driver, and away they went. The carryall had been put on runners and ran as easily as a cutter, having two powerful horses to pull it. All of the boys were in high spirits and as they sped over the snow they sang and cracked jokes to their hearts' content. They did not forget the old school song, sung to the tune of "Auld Lang Syne," and sang this with a vigor that tested their lungs to the uttermost: "Oak Hall we never shall forget, No matter where we roam; It is the very best of schools, To us it's just like home! Then give three cheers, and let them ring Throughout this world so wide, To let the people know that we Elect to here abide!" "By the way, how is Gus Plum getting along these days?" asked Dave of Shadow Hamilton, during a pause in the fun. He referred, as my old readers know, to a youth who in days gone by had been a great bully at the Hall. "Gus Plum needs watching," was the low answer, so that none of the other boys might hear. "He is better in some ways, Dave, and much worse in others." "How do you mean, Shadow?" "I can't explain here--but I'll do it in private some day," answered Shadow; and then the carryall swept up to the school steps and a number of students ran forth from the building to greet the new arrivals. CHAPTER IV THE FUN OF A NIGHT As my old readers know, Oak Hall was a large structure of brick and stone, built in the shape of a broad cross, with wide hallways running from north to south and east to west. All of the classrooms were on the ground floor, as were also the dining hall and kitchen, and the head master's private office. On the second floor were the majority of the dormitories, furnished to hold four, six, and eight pupils each. The school was surrounded by a wide campus, running down to the Leming River, where was located a good-sized boathouse. Some distance away from the river was a neat gymnasium, and, to the rear of the school, were commodious stables and sheds. At the four corners of the campus grew great clumps of giant oaks, and two oaks stood like sentinels on either side of the gateway--thus giving the Hall its name. As Dave leaped to the piazza of the school he was met by Sam Day, another of his old chums, who gave his hand a squeeze that made him wince. Close by was Chip Macklin, once the toady of Gus Plum, but now "quite a decent sort," as most of the lads would say. Further in the rear was Gus Plum, looking pale and troubled. Evidently something was wrong with him, as Shadow had intimated. "Sorry I couldn't get down to the depot," said Sam. "But I had some examples in algebra to do and they kept me until after the carryall had left." There was more handshaking, and Dave did not forget Macklin or Gus Plum. When he took the hand of the former bully he found it icy cold and he noticed that it trembled considerably. "How are you, Gus?" he said, pleasantly. "Oh, I'm fair," was the hesitating answer. "I--I am glad to see you back, and doubly glad to know you found your father." "And sister, Gus; don't forget that." "Yes, and your sister." And then Gus Plum let Dave's hand fall and stepped back into the crowd and vanished. Dave saw that he had something on his mind, and he wondered more than ever what Shadow might have to tell him. Soon Doctor Clay appeared, a man well along in years, with gray, penetrating eyes and a face that could be either kindly or stern as the occasion demanded. "As the boys say, it is all very wonderful, and I am rejoiced for your sake, Porter," he said. "Your trip to Norway certainly turned out well, and you need not begrudge the time lost from school. Now, with your mind free, you can go at your studies with vigor, and such a bright pupil as you ought to be able to make up all the ground lost." "I intend to try my best, sir," answered Dave. The only lad at Oak Hall who did not seem to enjoy Dave's reappearance was Nat Poole. The dudish youth from Crumville, whose father had, in times past, caused old Caspar Potts so much trouble, kept himself aloof, and when he met Dave in a hallway he turned his head the other way and pretended not to notice. "Nat Poole certainly feels sore," said Dave to Ben Basswood, his old friend from home, when Ben came to meet him, having been kept in a classroom by Job Haskers. "Yes, he is sore on everybody," answered Ben. "Well, he is having a hard time of it, seems to me. First Chip Macklin cut him, and then Gus Plum. Then he got mixed up with Nick Jasniff, and Jasniff had to run away. Then he and Link Merwell became chums, and you know what happened to both. Now Merwell is away and Nat is about left to himself. He is a bigger dude than ever, and spends a lot of money that the doctor doesn't know anything about, and yet he can't make himself popular." "Well, I'm glad money doesn't count at Oak Hall, Ben." "I know you feel that way, Dave, and it does you credit. I guess now you are about as rich as anybody, and if money did the trick----" "I want to stand on my merits, not on my pocketbook. Perhaps Nat would make friends if he wasn't forever showing off and telling how wealthy his father is." "I believe you there." "By the way, Ben, do you know anything about Gus Plum? There seems to be a big change in him." "There is a change, but I can't tell you what it is. Shadow Hamilton knows. He and Plum came home late one night, both having been to Oakdale, and Shadow was greatly excited and greatly worried. Some of us fellows wanted to know what it was about, but Shadow refused to say a word, excepting that he was going to let you know some time, because you appeared to have some influence over Gus." Ben's words surprised Dave, coming so shortly after what Shadow himself had said. He was on the point of asking Ben some more questions, but reconsidered the matter and said nothing. He could wait until such a time as Shadow felt in the humor to unburden his mind. Dave and his chums roomed in dormitories Nos. 11 and 12, two large and well-lighted apartments, with a connecting door between. Not far away was dormitory No. 13, which was now occupied by Nat Poole and some others, including Link Merwell when that individual was at Oak Hall. One bed was vacant, that which Nick Jasniff had left so hurriedly. In a quiet way the news was spread that Dave and his chums had provided some good things for a feast, and that night about twenty boys gathered in No. 11 and No. 12 to celebrate "the return of our leader," as Luke Watson expressed it. Luke was on hand with his banjo and his guitar, to add a little music if wanted. "Say, boys, we couldn't have chosen a better time for this sort of thing than to-night," announced Sam Day. "Haskers has gone to town and Mr. Dale is paying a visit to a neighbor; I heard the doctor tell Mr. Dale he was tired and was going to bed early, and best of all Jim Murphy says he won't hear a thing, provided we set out a big piece of mince pie for him." Murphy was monitor of the halls. "Good for Jim!" cried Dave. "I'll cut that piece of pie myself," and he did, and placed it where he felt certain that the monitor would find it. The boys were allowed to do as they pleased until half-past nine, and they sang songs and cracked jokes innumerable. But then the monitor stuck his head in at the door. "Got to be a little quiet from now on," he said, in a hoarse whisper and with a broad grin on his face. "I'm awfully deaf to-night, but the doctor will wake up if there's too much racket." "Did you get the pie?" questioned Dave. "Not yet, and I'll take it now, if you don't mind." "Jim, do you mean to say you didn't get that pie?" demanded Dave. "Oh, he's fooling," interrupted Phil. "He wants a second piece." "That's it," came from Shadow. "Puts me in mind of a story about a boy who----" "Never mind the story now, Shadow," interrupted Dave. "Tell me honestly, Jim, whether you got the pie or not? Of course you can have another piece, or some chicken salad----" "I didn't get any pie,--or anything else," answered the monitor. "I put it on the bottom of the stand in the upper hallway." "Nothing there when I went to look." "Then somebody took it on the sly," said Roger. "For I was with Dave when he put it there. Anybody in these rooms guilty?" And he gazed around sternly. All of the boys shook their heads. Then of a sudden a delicate youth who looked like a girl arose in astonishment and held up his hands. "Well, I declare!" he lisped. "What now, Polly?" asked Phil. "I wonder if it is really possible," went on Bertram Vane. "What possible?" questioned Dave. "Why, when I was coming through the hall a while ago I almost ran into Nat Poole. He had something in one hand, under his handkerchief, and as I passed him I really thought I smelt mince pie!" "Nat Poole!" cried several. "Oh, the sneak!" burst out Roger. "He must have been watching Dave. Maybe he heard us promise Murphy the pie." "Bad luck to him if he stole what was coming to me," muttered the monitor. "I hope the pie choked him." "If Nat Poole took the pie we'll fix him for it," said Dave. "Just you leave it to me." Then he got another portion of the dainty and handed it to the monitor, who disappeared immediately. "What will you do?" questioned Roger. "Since Nat has had some pie I think I'll treat him to some chicken salad," was the reply. "Nothing like being generous, you know." "Why, Dave, you don't mean you are going to let Nat Poole have any of this nice salad!" cried Phil. "I'd see him in Guinea first!" "He shall have some--after it has been properly doctored." "Eh? Oh, I see," and the shipowner's son began to grin. "All right then. But doctor it good." "I shall make no mistake about that," returned Dave. While Shadow was telling a story of a little boy who had fallen down a well and wanted somebody to "put the staircase down" so he could climb up, Dave went to a small medicine closet which he had purchased during his previous term at Oak Hall. From this he got various bottles and powders and began to "doctor" a nice portion of the chicken salad. "Say, Dave, that won't hurt anybody, will it?" asked Ben, who saw the movement. "It may hurt Nat Poole, Ben." "Oh, you don't want to injure him." "This won't do any harm. I am going to give him what Professor Potts called green peppers. Once, when he was particularly talkative, he related how he had played the joke on a fellow-student at college. It won't injure Nat Poole, but if he eats this salad there will surely be fun, I can promise you that." "How are you going to get it to him?" "Take it to him myself." "You! He'll be suspicious at once and won't touch it." "Perhaps not--we'll wait and see." When the feast was practically at an end, Dave put the doctored salad in a dessert dish, topping it with some that was sweet and good. On all he laid some fancy crackers which one of the boys had contributed. "Now, here is where I try the trick," he said, and put on a sweater, leaving the upper portion partly over his face. Then, leaving his dormitory, he tiptoed his way to No. 13 and pushed open the door softly. As he had surmised, Nat Poole had gone to bed and had just fallen asleep. Going noiselessly to his side, Dave bent over him and whispered into his ear: "Here, Nat, is something I stole for you from that crowd that was having the feast. Eat it up and don't tell the other fellows." "Eh, what? The feast?" stammered Nat, and took the plate in his hand. "Who are you?" "Hush!" whispered Dave, warningly. "Don't wake the others. I stole it for you. Eat it up. I'll tell you how I did it in the morning. It's a joke on Dave Porter!" And then Dave glided away from the bed and out of the room like a ghost, shutting the door noiselessly after him. Half asleep, Nat Poole was completely bewildered by what he heard. In the semi-darkness he could not imagine who had brought the dish full of stuff. But he remembered the words, "eat it up" and "don't tell the other fellows" and "a joke on Dave Porter." That was enough for Nat. He sat up, looked at the fancy crackers and the salad, and smacked his lips. "Must have been one of our old crowd," he mused. "Maybe Shingle or Remney. Well, it's a joke on Dave Porter right enough, and better than taking that pie he left for Murphy." And then he began to munch the crackers and eat the salad, using a tiny fork Dave had thoughtfully provided. He liked chicken salad very much, and this seemed particularly good, although at times it had a bitter flavor for which he could not account. Peering through the keyhole of the door, Dave saw his intended victim make way with the salad. Then he ran back to his dormitory. "It's all right," he said. "Now all of you undress and go to bed,--and watch for what comes!" CHAPTER V WHAT HAPPENED TO NAT POOLE The students of dormitories No. 11 and No. 12 scarcely had time to get to bed when they heard a noise in the apartment Nat Poole and some others occupied. First came a subdued groan, followed by another, and then they heard Nat Poole get up. "What's the matter?" they heard a student named Belcher ask. "Why--er--I'm burning up!" gasped Nat Poole. "Let me get a drink of water!" And he leaped from his bedside to where there was a stand with a pitcher of ice-water and a glass. He was so eager to get the water that, in the semi-darkness, he hit the stand with his arm. Over it went, and the pitcher and glass fell to the floor with a crash. The noise aroused everybody in the dormitory. "What's the matter?" "Are burglars breaking in?" "Confound the luck!" muttered Nat Poole. "Oh, I must get some water! I am burning up alive!" "What's done it?" questioned Belcher. "I--er--never mind now. I am burning up and must have some water!" roared the dudish pupil, and dashed out of the dormitory in the direction of a water tank located at the end of the hall. Here he was a little more careful and got the drink he desired. But scarcely had he taken a mouthful when he ejected it with great force. "Wow! how bitter that tastes!" he gasped. Then of a sudden he commenced to shiver. "Wonder if that salad poisoned me? Who gave it to me, anyhow?" He tried the water again, but it was just as bitter as before. Then he ran to a bathroom, to try the water there. By this time his mouth and throat felt like fire, and, thoroughly scared, he ran back to his sleeping apartment and began to yell for help. His cries aroused a good portion of the inmates of Oak Hall, and students came from all directions to see what was the matter. They found poor Nat sitting on a chair, the picture of misery. "I--I guess I'm poisoned and I'm going to die!" he wailed. "Somebody better get a doctor." "What did you eat?" demanded half a dozen boys. "I--er--I ate some salad a fellow brought to me in the dark. I don't know who he was. Oh, my throat! It feels as if a red-hot poker was in it! And I can't drink water either! Oh, I know I am going to die!" "Try oil--that's good for a burn," suggested one student, and he brought forth some cod liver oil. Nat hated cod liver oil almost as much as poison, but he was scared and took the dose without a murmur. It helped a little, but his throat felt far from comfortable and soon it commenced to burn as much as ever. By this time Doctor Clay had been aroused and he came to the dormitory in a dressing gown and slippers. "Nat Poole has been poisoned!" cried several. "Poisoned!" ejaculated the master of the Hall. "How is this, Poole?" and he strode to the suffering pupil's side. "I--I don't know," groaned Nat. "I--er--ate some mince pie and some salad----" "Perhaps it is only indigestion," was the doctor's comment. "You may get over it in a little while." "But my throat----" And then the dudish boy stopped short. The fire in his mouth and throat had suddenly gone down--like a tooth stopping its aching. "What were you going to say?" asked Doctor Clay. "Why, I--that is--my throat isn't so bad now." And Nat's face took on a sudden sheepish look. In some way he realized he had been more scared than hurt. "Let me have a look at your throat," went on the master of the Hall and took his pupil to a strong light. "It is a little red, but that is all. Is your stomach all right?" "It seems to be--and the pain in my throat and mouth is all gone now," added Nat. The doctor handed him a glass of water a boy had brought and Nat tried it. The liquid tasted natural, much to his surprise, and the drink made him feel quite like himself once more. "I--I guess I am all right now," he said after an awkward pause. "I--er--am sorry I woke you up." "After this be careful of how much you eat," said the doctor, stiffly. "If a boy stuffs himself on mince pie and salad he is bound to suffer for it." Then he directed all the students to go to bed at once, and retired to his own apartment. If ever a lad was puzzled that lad was Nat Poole. For the life of him he could not determine whether he had suffered naturally or whether a trick had been played on him. He wanted very much to know who had brought him the salad, but could not find out. For days after the boys would yell "mince pie" and "salad" at him, much to his annoyance. "That certainly was a good one," was Phil's comment. "I reckon Nat will learn to keep his hands off of things after this." And he and the others had a good laugh over the trick Dave had played. It proved to be perfectly harmless, for the next day Poole felt as well as ever. As Dave had said, he was determined to make up the lessons lost during his trip to England and Norway, and he consequently applied himself with vigor to all his studies. At this, Mr. Dale, who was head teacher, was particularly pleased, and he did all he could to aid the youth. As during previous terms, Dave had much trouble with Job Haskers. A brilliant teacher, Haskers was as arbitrary and dictatorial as could be imagined, and he occasionally said things which were so sarcastic they cut to the quick. Very few of the boys liked him, and some positively hated him. "I always feel like fighting when I run up against old Haskers," was the way Roger expressed himself. "I'd give ten dollars if he'd pack his trunk and leave." "And then come back the next day," put in Phil, with a grin. "Not much! When he leaves I want him to stay away!" "That puts me in mind of a story," said Shadow, who was present. "What, another!" cried Dave, with a mock groan. "Oh, but this is dreadful!" "Not so bad--as you'll soon see. A boy had a little dog, who could howl morning, noon, and night, to beat the band. Next door to the boy lived a very nervous man. Said he to the boy one day: 'Will you sell me that dog for a dollar?' 'Make it two dollars and the dog is yours,' answered the boy. So the man, to get rid of that howling dog, paid the boy the two dollars and shipped the dog to the pound. Then he asked the boy: 'What are you going to do with the two dollars?' 'Buy two more dogs,' said the boy. Then the man went away and wept." "That's all right!" cried Sam Day, and everybody laughed. Then he added: "What can disturb a fellow more than a howling dog at night?" "I know," answered Dave, quietly. "What?" "Two dogs," and then Dave ducked to avoid a book that Sam threw at him. "Speaking of dogs reminds me of something," said Buster Beggs. "You all remember Mike Marcy, the miserly old farmer whose mule we returned some time ago." "I am not likely to forget him," answered Dave, who had had more than one encounter with the fellow, as my old readers are aware. "Well, he has got a very savage dog and has posted signs all over his place, 'Beware of the Dog!' Two or three of the fellows, who were crossing his corner lot one day, came near being bitten." "Were you one of them?" asked Roger. "Yes, and we weren't doing anything either--only crossing the vacant lot to take a short-cut to the school, to avoid being late." "I was in the crowd," said Luke Watson, "and I had a good mind to kill the dog." "We'll have to go over some day and see Marcy," said Phil. "I haven't forgotten how he accused me of stealing his apples." "He once accused me of stealing a chicken," put in a boy named Messmer. "I'd like to take him down a peg or two for that." "Let us go over to his place next week some time and tease him," suggested another boy named Henshaw, and some of the others said they would bear his words in mind. Messmer and Henshaw were the owners of an ice-boat named the _Snowbird_. They had built the craft themselves, and, while it was not very handsome, it had good going qualities, and that was all the boys wanted. "Come on out in the _Snowbird_," said Henshaw, to Dave and several of the others, on the following Saturday afternoon, when there was no school. "The ice on the river is very good, and the wind is just right for a spin." "Thanks, I'll go with pleasure," answered Dave; and soon the party was off. The river, frozen over from end to end, was alive with skaters and ice-boats, and presented a scene of light-heartedness and pleasure. "There goes an ice-boat from the Rockville military academy," said Messmer, presently. "I guess they don't want to race. They haven't forgotten how we beat them." And he was right; the Rockville ice-boat soon tacked to the other side of the river, the cadets on board paying no attention to the Oak Hall students. The boys on the ice-boat did not go to their favorite spot, Robber Island, but allowed the _Snowbird_ to sweep up an arm of the river, between several large hills. The hills were covered with hemlocks and cedars, between which the snow lay to a depth of one or two feet. "Do you know what I'd like to do some day?" remarked Roger. "Come up here after rabbits." He had a shotgun, of which he was quite proud. "I believe you'd find plenty," answered Dave. "I'd like to go myself. I used to hunt, when I was on the farm." "Let us walk up the hills and take a look around--now we are here," continued the senator's son. "If we see any rabbits' tracks we'll know they are on hand." Dave agreed, and he, Roger, and Phil left the ice-boat, stating they would be back in half an hour. "All right!" sang out Messmer. "We'll cruise around in the meantime. When we get back we'll whistle for you." The tramp through the deep snow was not easy, yet the three chums enjoyed it, for it made them feel good to be out in the clear, cold atmosphere, every breath of which was invigorating. They went on silently, so as not to disturb any game that might be near. "Here are rabbit tracks!" said Dave, in a low tone, after the top of the first hill was gained, and he pointed to the prints, running around the trees and bushes. "Shooting ought certainly to be good in this neighborhood." From one hill they tramped to another, the base of which came down to the river at a point where there was a deep spot known as Lagger's Hole. Here the ice was usually full of air-holes and unsafe, and skaters and ice-boats avoided the locality. From the top of the hill the boys commenced to throw snowballs down on the ice, seeing who could throw the farthest. Then Phil suggested they make a big snowball and roll it down. "I'll bet, if it reaches the ice, it will go clear across the river," said the shipowner's son. "All right, let's try it," answered Dave and Roger, and the three set to work to make a round, hard ball. They rolled it around the top of the hill until it was all of three feet in diameter and then pushed it to the edge. "Now then, send her down!" cried Phil, and the three boys gave a push that took the big snowball over the edge of the hill. Slowly at first and then faster and faster, it rolled down the hill, increasing in size as it progressed. "It's getting there!" sang out Roger. "See how it is shooting along!" "Look!" yelled Dave, pointing up the river. "An ice-boat is coming!" All looked and saw that he was right. It was a craft from the Rockville academy, and it was headed straight for the spot where the big snowball was about to cross. "If the snowball hits them, there will be a smash-up!" cried Roger. "And that is just what is going to happen, I fear," answered Dave. CHAPTER VI WHAT A BIG SNOWBALL DID As the ice-boat came closer the boys on the hill saw that it contained four persons, two cadets and two young ladies. The latter were evidently guests, for they sat in the stern and took no part in handling the craft. Dave set up a loud cry of warning and his chums joined in. But if those on the ice-boat heard, they paid no heed. On and on they came, heading for the very spot for which the great snowball, now all of six feet in diameter, was shooting. "The ice is full of holes, maybe the snowball will drop into one of them," said Phil. But this was not to be. The snowball kept straight on, until it and the ice-boat were less than a hundred feet apart. It was then that one of the cadets on the craft saw the peril and uttered a cry of alarm. He tried to bring the ice-boat around, and his fellow-student aided him. But it was too late, and in a few seconds more the big snowball hit the craft, bowled it over, and sent it spinning along the ice toward some of the largest of the air-holes. "They are going into the water!" gasped Roger. "Come on--let us see if we can help them!" returned Dave, and plunged down the hill. He took the course the big snowball had taken, and his chums came after him. More than once they fell, but picked themselves up quickly and kept on until the ice was gained. At the edge they came to a halt, for the air-holes told them plainly of the danger ahead. "There they go--into the water!" cried Dave, and waiting no longer, he ran out on the ice, picking his way between the air-holes as best he could. Several times the ice cracked beneath his weight, but he did not turn back. He felt that the occupants of the ice-boat were in peril of their lives and that in a measure he was responsible for this crisis. The river at this point was all of a hundred yards wide and the accident had occurred close to the farther side. The ice-boat had been sent to where two air-holes were close together, and the weight of the craft and its occupants had caused it to crack the ice, and it now rested half in and half out of the water. One of the cadets and one of the young ladies had been flung off to a safe place, but the other pair were clinging desperately to the framework. "Oh, we shall be drowned! We shall be drowned!" cried the maiden in distress. "Can't you jump off?" asked the cadet who was safe on the ice. "I--I am afraid!" wailed the girl. "Oh, the ice is sinking!" she added, as an ominous sound reached her ears. To the credit of the cadet on the ice-boat, he remained the cooler of the two, and he called to his fellow-student to run for a fence-rail which might be used to rescue the girl and himself. But the nearest fence was a long way off, and time, just then, was precious. "Cut a couple of ropes!" sang out Dave, as he dashed up. "Cut one and throw it over here!" The cadet left on the overturned craft understood the suggestion, and taking out his pocketknife, he cut two of the ropes. He tied one fast to the other and sent an end spinning out toward Dave and the cadet on the ice. The other end of the united ropes remained fast to the ice-boat. By this time Phil and Roger had come up, and all the lads on the firm ice took hold of the rope and pulled with all their might. Dave directed the operation, and slowly the ice-boat came up from the hole into which it had partly sunk and slid over toward the shore. "Hurrah! we've got her!" cried Phil. "Vera, are you hurt?" asked the girl on the ice, anxiously. "Not at all, Mary; only one foot is wet," answered the girl who had been rescued. "Oh, I'm so glad!" And then the two girls embraced in the joy of their escape. "I'd like to know where that big snowball came from," growled the cadet who had been flung off the ice-boat when the shock came. He looked at Dave and his companions. "Did you start that thing?" "We did," answered Dave, "but we didn't know you were coming." "It was a mighty careless thing to do," put in the cadet who had been rescued. "We might have been drowned!" "I believe they did it on purpose," said the other cadet. He looked at the letters on a sweater Roger wore. "You're from Oak Hall, aren't you?" "Yes." "Thought you'd have some sport, eh?" This was said with a sneer. "Say, Cabot, we ought to give 'em something for this," he added, turning to his fellow-cadet. "So we should," growled Cabot, who chanced to be the owner of the craft that had been damaged. "They have got to pay for breaking the ice-boat, anyway." "Oh, Mr. Anderson, please don't get into a quarrel!" pleaded one of the girls. "Well, those rowdies deserve a thrashing," answered Anderson. He was a big fellow, with rather a hard look on his face. "Thank you, but we are not rowdies," retorted Roger. "We were having a little fun and did not dream of striking you with the snowball." "If you know anything about the river, you know ice-boats and skaters rarely if ever come this way," added Phil. "The ice around here is always full of air-holes and consequently dangerous." "Oh, you haven't got to teach me where to go," growled Anderson. "I'm only stating a fact." "The ice is certainly not very nice around here," said one of the girls. "Perhaps we might have gotten into a hole even if the big snowball hadn't struck us." At this remark Dave and his chums gave the girl a grateful look. The cadets were annoyed, and one whispered something to the other. "You fellows get to work and fix the ice-boat," said Cabot. "And do it quick, too," added Anderson. "I--I think I'll walk the rest of the way home," said one of the girls. "Will you come along, Vera?" "Yes," answered the other. She stepped up to Dave's side. "Thank you for telling Mr. Cabot what to do, and for pulling us out of the hole," she went on, and gave the boys a warm smile. "Going to leave us?" growled Anderson. "Yes." "That ain't fair. You promised----" "To take a ride on the ice-boat," finished the girl named Vera. "We did it, and now I am going home." "And so am I," added the other girl. "Good-bye." "But see here----" went on Anderson, and caught the girl named Vera by the arm. "Please let go, Mr. Anderson." "I want----" "Let the young lady go if she wishes to," said Dave, stepping up. "This isn't your affair," blustered Anderson. "No gentleman would detain a lady against her will." "Good-bye," said the girl, and stepped back several paces when released by the cadet. "All right, Vera Rockwell, I'll not take you out again," growled Anderson, seeing she was bound to go. "You'll not have the chance, thank you!" flung back the girl, and then she joined her companion, and both hurried away from the shore and to a road running near by. After the girls had gone there was an awkward silence. Both Cabot and Anderson felt sore to be treated in this fashion, and especially in the presence of those from Oak Hall, a rival institution to that where they belonged. "Well, what are you going to do about the damage done?" grumbled Anderson. "I don't think the ice-boat is damaged much," answered Dave. "Let us look her over and see." "If she is, you'll pay the bill," came from Cabot. "Well, we can do that easily enough," answered Roger lightly. The craft was righted and inspected. The damage proved to be trifling and the ice-boat was speedily made fit for use. "If I find she isn't all right, I'll make some of you foot the bill," said Cabot. "I am willing to pay for all damage done," answered Dave. "My name is Dave Porter." "Oh! I've heard of you," said Anderson. "You're on the Oak Hall football team." "Yes, and I've had the pleasure of helping to beat Rockville," answered Dave, and could not help grinning. "Humph! Wait till next season! We'll show you a thing or two," growled Anderson, and then he and Cabot boarded the ice-boat, trimmed the sail, and stood off down the river. "Well, they are what I call a couple of pills," was Phil's comment. "I don't see how two nice girls could go out with them." "They certainly were two nice girls," answered Roger. "That Vera Rockwell had beautiful eyes and hair. And did you see the smile she gave Dave! Dave, you're the lucky one!" "That other girl is named Mary Feversham," answered Phil. "Her father is connected with the express company. I met her once, but she doesn't seem to remember me. I think she is better-looking than Miss Rockwell." "Gracious, Phil must be smitten!" cried Dave. "When is it to come off, Phil?" asked the senator's son. "We want time to buy presents, you know." "Oh, you can poke fun if you want to," grumbled the shipowner's son. "She's a nice girl and I'd like to have the chance to meet her. Somebody said she was a good skater." "Well, if you go skating with her, ask Miss Rockwell to come, too, and I'll be at the corner waiting for you," said the senator's son. "That is, if Dave don't try to cut me out." "No danger--Jessie wouldn't allow it," replied Phil. "You leave Jessie out of it," answered Dave, flushing a trifle. "Just the same, I agree with both of you, those girls looked to be very nice." The three boys walked along the river bank for nearly half a mile before they came in sight of the _Snowbird_. Then Messmer and Henshaw wanted to know what had kept them so long. "I'd not go in there with my boat," said Messmer, after he had heard their story. "Those air-holes are too dangerous." When the lads got back to Oak Hall they found a free-for-all snowball fight in progress. One crowd was on the campus and the other in the road beyond. "This suits me!" cried Roger. "Come on, Dave," and he joined the force on the road. His chums did the same, and sent the snowballs flying at a brisk rate. The fight was a furious one for over an hour. The force on the campus outnumbered those in the road and the latter were driven to where the highway made a turn and where there were several clumps of trees and bushes. Here, Dave called on those around him to make a stand, and the other crowd was halted in its onward rush. "Here comes Horsehair in a cutter!" cried one of the students, presently. "Let us give him a salute." "All right!" called back Dave. "Some snow will make him strong, and brush off some of the hair he carries around with him." The boys made a number of snowballs and, led by Dave, waited for the appearance of the cutter. Soon it turned the bend, the horse on a trot and the sleighbells jingling merrily. "Now then, all together!" shouted Dave, and prepared to hurl a snowball at the man who was driving. "Hold on!" yelled Roger, suddenly. But the warning cry came too late for Dave and Phil, who were in the lead. They let fly their snowballs, and the man in the cutter was struck in the chin and the ear. He fell backward, but speedily recovered and stopped his horse. "You young rascals!" he spluttered hoarsely. "What do you mean by snowballing me in this fashion!" "Job Haskers!" murmured Dave, in consternation. "What a mistake!" groaned Phil. "We are in for it now!" CHAPTER VII PRISONERS IN THE SCHOOL Dave and Phil had indeed made a serious mistake, and they knew at once that they were in for a severe lecture, and worse. Job Haskers was naturally an irascible man, and for the past few days he had been in a particularly bad humor. "Excuse me, Mr. Haskers," said Dave, respectfully. "I didn't know you were in the cutter." "You did it on purpose--don't deny it, Porter!" fumed the teacher. "It is outrageous, infamous, that a pupil of Oak Hall should act so!" "Really, Mr. Haskers, it was a mistake," spoke up Phil. "We thought it was Horsehair--I mean Lemond, who was driving." "Bah! Do I look like Lemond? And, anyway, what right would you have to snowball the driver for this school? It is scandalous! I shall make an example of you. Report to me at the office in five minutes, both of you!" The boys' hearts sank at this order, and they felt worse when they suddenly remembered that both Doctor Clay and Mr. Dale were away and that, consequently, Job Haskers was, for the time being, in authority. The teacher went back to the cutter, took up the reins, and drove out of sight around the campus entrance. "Too bad!" was Roger's comment. "I yelled to you not to throw." "I know you did, but I had already done so," answered Dave. "And so had I," added Phil. "Say, that puts me in mind of a story," exclaimed Shadow, who was in the crowd. "A man once had a mule----" "Who wants to listen to a story at this time?" broke in Ben Basswood. "Never mind, let's have the yarn," said Dave. "Perhaps it will serve to brighten our gloom," and he smiled feebly. "This man had a mule in which a neighbor was very much interested," continued Shadow. "One day the mule got sick, and every day after that the neighbor would tell the owner of some new remedy for curing him. One day he came over to where the mule-owner lived. 'Say,' he says, 'I've got the best remedy a-going. You must try it.' 'Don't think I will,' answered the mule-owner. 'Oh, but you must, I insist,' said the neighbor. 'It will sure cure your mule and set him on his feet again.' 'I don't think so,' said the mule-owner. 'But I am positive,' cried the neighbor. 'Just give it a trial.' 'Never,' said the mule-owner. Then the neighbor got mad. 'Say, why won't you try this remedy?' he growled. 'I won't because the mule is dead,' answered the other man. Then the neighbor went home in deep thought." "Well, that's to the point," said the senator's son, laughing. "For I told them to stop after the damage was done." In no enviable frame of mind Dave and Phil walked into the school, took off their outer garments and caps, and made their way to the office. Job Haskers had not yet come in, and they had to wait several minutes for him. As has been said, the teacher was in far from a friendly humor. Some months before he had invested a portion of his savings in some mining stock, thinking that he would be able to make money fast. Now the stock had become practically worthless, and that very morning he had learned that he would never be able to get more than ten per cent. of his money back. "You are a couple of scamps," he said, harshly. "I am going to teach you a needed lesson." And then the two boys saw that he held behind him a carriage-whip. Dave and Phil were astonished, and with good reason. So far as they knew, corporal punishment was not permitted at Oak Hall excepting on very rare occasions,--where a pupil had taken his choice of a whipping or expulsion. Was it possible that Job Haskers intended to chastise them bodily? "Mr. Haskers, I am very sorry that I hit you with that snowball," said Dave. "As I said before, I did not know it was you, and it was only thrown in fun." "What Dave says is true," added Phil. "I hope you will accept my apology for what happened." "I'll accept no apologies!" fumed Job Haskers. "It was done on purpose, and you must both suffer for it," and the teacher brandished the whip as if to strike them then and there. "Mr. Haskers, what do you intend to do?" asked Dave, quietly but firmly. "I intend to give you the thrashing you deserve!" "With that whip?" "Yes, with this whip." "You'll not do it, sir!" "What!" "I say, you'll not do it, sir." "Hum! We'll see about this!" And the teacher glared at Dave as if to eat him up. "You have no authority to whip us," put in Phil. "Who says so?" "I say so." "And Phil is right," added Dave. "I'll not allow it, so you may as well put that whip away." "I'd like to know who is master here, you or I?" demanded Job Haskers, turning red with rage. "Doctor Clay is master here, and we are under his care. If you try to strike me with that whip I'll report the matter to him," answered Dave. "You may punish me any other way, if you wish, but I won't put up with a whipping." "And I won't be whipped either," added Phil. "I'll show you!" roared Job Haskers, and raising the whip he tried to bring it down on Dave's head. The youth dodged, turned, and caught the whip in his hands. "Let go that whip, Porter!" "I will not--not until you promise not to strike at me again." "I'll promise nothing! Let go, I say!" The teacher struggled to get the whip free of Dave's grasp, and a scuffle ensued. Dave was forced up against a side stand, upon which stood a beautiful marble statue of Mercury. "Look out for the statue!" cried Phil, in alarm, but even as he spoke Dave was shoved back, and over went the stand and ornament, the statue breaking into several pieces. "There, now see what you've done!" cried Job Haskers, as the battle ceased for the moment, and Dave let go the whip. "It wasn't my fault--you shoved me into it," answered Dave. "It was your fault, and you'll pay the damages. That statue was worth at least fifty dollars. And you'll take your thrashing, too," added the teacher, vindictively. "Don't you dare to hit Dave," cried Phil, "or me either, Mr. Haskers. You can punish us, but you can't whip us, so there!" "Ha! Both of you defy me, eh?" "We are not to be whipped, and that settles it," said Dave. "I presume you think, because you are two to one, you can get the better of me," sneered the teacher. He knew the two boys were strong, and he did not wish to risk a fight with them. "I don't want to get the better of anybody, but I am not going to let you whip me," answered Dave, stubbornly. "If you are willing, we'll leave the matter to Doctor Clay," suggested the shipowner's son. "You come with me," returned the teacher abruptly, and led the way out of the office to a small room used for the storage of schoolbooks and writing-pads. The room had nothing but a big closet and had a small window, set up high in the wall. The shelves on the walls were full of new books and on the floor were piles of volumes that had seen better days. "Going to lock us in, I guess," whispered Phil. "Well, he can do it if he wants to, but he shan't whip me," answered Dave, in an equally low tone. "Now, you can stay here for the present," growled Job Haskers, as he held open the door. "And don't you dare to make any noise either." "What about supper?" asked Dave, for he was hungry. "You shall have something to eat when the proper time comes." The boys walked into the room, and Job Haskers immediately closed the door and locked it, placing the key in his pocket. Then the lads heard him walk away, and all became silent, for the book-room was located between two classrooms which were not in use on Saturdays and Sundays. "Well, what do you make of this?" asked the shipowner's son, after an awkward pause. "Nothing--what is there to make, Phil? Here we are, and likely to stay for a while." "Are you going to pay for that broken statue?" "Was it my fault it was broken?" "No--he ran you into the stand." "Then I don't see why I ought to pay." "He may claim you had no right to fight him off." "He had no right to attack me with the whip. I don't think Doctor Clay will stand for that." "If he does, he isn't the man I thought he was." The two youths walked around the little room, gazing at the rows of books. Then Dave stood on a pile of old books and looked out of the small window. "See anything worth looking at?" asked his chum. "No, all I can see is a corner of the campus and a lot of snow. Nobody is in sight." "Wonder how long old Haskers intends to keep us here?" "I'm sure I don't know." With nothing to do, the boys looked over some schoolbooks. They were not of great interest, and soon it grew too dark to read. Phil gave a long sigh. "This is exciting, I must say," he said, sarcastically. "Never mind, it will be exciting enough when we face Doctor Clay." "I'd rather face him than old Haskers, Dave." "Oh, so would I! When will the doctor be back?" "I don't know." An hour went by, and the two prisoners heard a muffled tramping of feet which told them that the other students had assembled in the dining hall for supper. The thought of the bountiful tables made them both more hungry than ever. "I'd give as much as a dollar for a couple of good sandwiches," said the shipowner's son, dismally. "Seems to me, I'm hollow clear down to my heels!" "Wait, I've got an idea!" returned Dave. He felt in his pocket and brought forth several keys. Just as he did this they heard footsteps in the hallway, and Dave slipped the keys back in his pocket. The door was flung open and Job Haskers appeared, followed by one of the dining room waiters, who carried a tray containing two glasses of milk and half a dozen slices of bread and butter. "Here is something for you to eat," said the teacher, and directed the waiter to place the tray on a pile of books. "Is this all we are to have?" demanded Dave. "Yes." "I'm hungry!" growled Phil. "That won't satisfy me." "It will have to satisfy you, Lawrence." "I think it's a shame!" "I want no more words with you," retorted Job Haskers, and motioned the waiter to leave the room. Then he went out, locking the door and pocketing the key as before. "Well, if this isn't the limit!" growled Phil. "A glass of milk and three slices of bread and butter apiece!" "Well, we shan't starve, Phil," and Dave grinned to himself in the semi-darkness. "And no light to eat by--and the room more than half cold. Dave, are you going to stand this?" "I am not," was the firm response. "What are you going to do?" "Get out of here--if I possibly can," was Dave's reply. CHAPTER VIII A MOVE IN THE DARK Dave took the bunch of keys from his pocket and approached the door. He tried one key after another, but none of them appeared to fit. Then Phil brought out such keys as he possessed, but all proved unavailable. "That is one idea knocked in the head," said Dave, and heaved a sigh. "I am going to tackle the bread and milk," said Phil. "It is better than nothing." "It won't make us suffer from indigestion either," answered Dave, with a short laugh. Sitting on some of the old schoolbooks the two youths ate the scanty meal Job Haskers had provided. To help pass the time they made the meal last as long as possible, eating every crumb of the bread and draining the milk to the last drop. The bread was stale, and they felt certain the teacher had furnished that which was old on purpose. "I'll wager he'd like to hammer the life out of us," was Phil's comment. "Just wait and see the story he cooks up to tell Doctor Clay!" "Wonder what the other fellows think of our absence, Phil?" "Maybe they have asked Haskers about it." Having disposed of all there was to eat and drink, the two lads walked around the little room to keep warm. Then Dave went at the door again, examining the lock with great care, and feeling of the hinges. "Well, I declare!" he cried, almost joyfully. "What now, Dave?" "This door has hinges that set into this room and are held together by little rods running from the top to the bottom of each hinge. If we can take out the two rods, I am almost certain we can open the door from the hinge side!" This was interesting news, and Phil came forward to aid Dave in removing the tiny rod which held the two parts of each hinge together. It was no easy task, for the rods were somewhat rusted, but at last both were removed, and then the boys felt the door give way at that point. Now that they could get out, Phil wanted to know what was to be done next. "I think I'll go out and hunt up something to eat on the sly," answered Dave. "Then we can come back here and wait for Doctor Clay's arrival." "Good! I'll go with you. I don't want you to run the risk alone." They waited until they felt that the dining room was deserted and then pried the door open and stole from their prison. Tiptoeing their way through the side hall, they reached a door which led to a big pantry, connecting the dining room and the kitchen. As they had anticipated, the pantry held many good things on its shelves, and a waiter was bringing in more food from the tables. "Quick--take what you want!" whispered Dave, when the waiter had disappeared, and catching up a plate that contained some cold sliced tongue he added to it some baked beans, some bread and jam, and two generous slices of cake. Phil understood, and taking another plate he got some of the baked beans, some cold ham, some bread and cheese, and a pitcher of milk. Then the two boys espied some crullers and stuffed several in their pockets. Then Dave saw a candle and captured that. "He's coming back--skip!" whispered Phil, and ran out of the pantry with Dave at his heels. A moment later the waiter came in with more things, but he did not catch them, nor did he notice what they had taken. As quickly as they could, the two boys returned to the book-room, and setting the stuff on the books, they lit the candle, and placed the rods back into the hinges of the door. So that nobody might see the light, they placed a sheet of paper over the keyhole of the door, and a row of books on the floor against the doorsill. "Now we'll have a little better layout than that provided by Mr. Dictatorial Haskers," said Dave, and he proceeded to arrange some of the schoolbooks in a square in the center of the floor. "Might as well have a table while we are at it." "And a couple of chairs," added Phil, and arranged more books for that purpose. Then they spread a sheet of paper over the "table," put a plate at either end, and the two sat down. "It's a shame to make you eat without a fork, Phil," said Dave, solemnly. "But if you'd rather go hungry----" "Not on your collar-button!" cried the shipowner's son. "A pocketknife is good enough for me this trip," and he fell to eating with great gusto, and Dave did the same, for what food they had had before had only been "a flea bite," as Dave expressed it. Having eaten the most of the food taken from the pantry they placed the remainder on the plates on a bookshelf. Then Dave looked at his watch. "Half-past eight," he said. "Wonder how long we are to be kept here?" "Don't ask me, I was never good at conundrums," answered Phil, lightly. Plenty to eat had put him in a good humor. "Maybe till morning, Dave." [Illustration: "It's a shame to make you eat without a fork, Phil."] "I shan't stay here until morning--without a bed or coverings." "What will you do?" "Go up to the dormitory--after all the lights are out." "Good! Wonder why I didn't think of that?" "You ate too much, that's why." And Dave grinned. He, too, felt better now that he had fully satisfied his appetite. Slowly the time went by till ten o'clock came. The prisoners heard tramping overhead, which told them the other students were retiring. They looked for a visit from Job Haskers, but the teacher did not show himself. "He is going to keep us here until the doctor gets back, that is certain," said Dave. "But the doctor may not come back to-night. I heard him say something the other day about going to Boston." At last the school became quiet. By this time the boys' candle had burnt itself out, leaving them in total darkness. By common impulse they moved toward the door. "What if we meet Murphy?" asked Phil. "We'll do our best to avoid him, but if we do see him I rather think he'll side with us and keep quiet," answered Dave. "I know he hates Haskers as much as we do." Hiding what was left of their meal in a corner of a shelf, behind some books, the two lads stole into the semi-dark hall and up one of the broad stairs. They met nobody and gained their dormitory with ease. Going inside, each undressed in the dark and prepared to retire. "Who's up?" came sleepily from Roger. "Hush, Roger," whispered Dave. "Oh, so it's you! Where have you been, and what did old Haskers do to you?" In a few brief words Dave and Phil explained what had taken place. "We'll tell you the rest in the morning," said Phil, and then he and Dave hopped into bed and under the warm covers. Less than a minute later, however, Dave sat up and listened intently. He had heard the front door of the school building bang shut in the rising wind. "Phil!" "What is it now, Dave?" "I think I just heard Doctor Clay come in." "Oh, bother! I'm going to sleep," said the shipowner's son, with a yawn. "I don't think he'll trouble us to-night." "I'm going to see what happens," answered Dave, and got up again. Soon he had on a dressing gown and slippers, and was tiptoeing his way down the hallway. He heard a murmur of voices below, and knew then that both the doctor and Mr. Dale had arrived. Then he heard Mr. Dale walk to the rear of the lower floor, and heard somebody else come out of the library. "Mr. Haskers, what is it?" he heard Doctor Clay say. "I must consult you about two of the students, sir," answered Job Haskers. "They have acted in a most disgraceful manner. They attacked me on the road with icy snowballs, nearly ruining my right ear, and when I called them to account in the office one of them began to fight and broke your statue of Mercury." "Is it possible!" ejaculated the doctor, in pained surprise. "Who were the pupils?" "David Porter and Philip Lawrence." "Is this true, Mr. Haskers? Porter and Lawrence are usually well-behaved students." "They acted like ruffians, sir--especially Porter, who attacked me and broke the statue." "I will look into this without delay. Where are they now--in their room?" "No, I locked them up in the book-room, to await your arrival. I did not deem it wise to give them their liberty." "Ahem! prisoners in the book-room, eh? This is certainly serious. They cannot remain in the room all night." "It would serve them right to keep them there," grumbled Job Haskers. "There are no cots in that room for them to rest on." "Then let them rest on the floor! The young rascals deserve it." "Perhaps I'd better talk it over with the boys and see what they have to say, Mr. Haskers," went on the doctor, in a mild tone. "I do not believe in being too harsh with the students. Perhaps they only snowballed you as a bit of sport." "Doctor Clay, do you uphold them in such an action?" demanded the irascible instructor. "By no means, Mr. Haskers, but--boys will be boys, you know, and we mustn't be too hard on them if they occasionally go too far." "Porter broke that statue,--and defied me!" "If he broke the statue, he'll have to pay for it,--and if he defied you in the exercise of your proper authority, he shall be punished. But I want to hear what they have to say. We'll go to the book-room at once, release them, and take them to my office." "It won't be necessary to go to the book-room, Doctor Clay," called out Dave from the upper landing. "Why--er--is that you, Porter!" "How did you get out?" cried Job Haskers, in consternation. "Didn't I lock that door?" "You did, but Phil Lawrence and I got out, nevertheless," answered Dave. "Where is Lawrence?" "Up in our room in bed, and I was in bed, too, but got up when the doctor came in," added Dave. "Well, I never!" stormed Job Haskers. "You see how it is, Doctor Clay; they have even broken out of the book-room after I told them to stay there!" "We weren't going to stay in a cold room all night with no beds to sleep on, and only bread and milk for supper," went on Dave. "I wouldn't treat my worst enemy that way." "Did you say you were in bed when I came in?" questioned Doctor Clay. "Yes, sir--and Phil is there now, unless he just got up." "Here I am," came a voice from behind Dave, and the shipowner's son put in an appearance. "Do you want us to come downstairs, Doctor? If you do, I'll have to go back and put on my clothes and shoes." "And I'll have to go back and dress, too," added Dave. Doctor Clay mused a moment. "As you are undressed you may as well retire," he said. "I will look into this matter to-morrow morning, or Monday morning." "Thank you, sir," said both boys. "But, sir----" commenced Job Haskers. "It is too late to take up the case now," interrupted Doctor Clay. "There is no use in arousing anybody at this time of night. Besides, I am very tired. We'll all go to bed, and sift this thing out later. Boys, you may go." "Thank you, sir. Good-night." And without waiting for another word the two chums hurried to their dormitory, leaving Job Haskers and the doctor alone. CHAPTER IX VERA ROCKWELL Sunday passed, and nothing was said to Dave and Phil concerning the unfortunate snowballing incident; but on Monday morning, immediately after breakfast, both were summoned to Doctor Clay's office. "I suppose we are in for it now," said the shipowner's son, dolefully. "Never mind, Phil; we didn't mean to do wrong, and I am going to tell the doctor so. I think he will be fair in the matter." But though Dave spoke thus, he was by no means easy in his mind. He had had trouble with Job Haskers before and he well knew how the teacher could distort facts to make himself out to be a much-injured individual. When the two youths entered the office they found Doctor Clay seated at his desk, looking over the mail Jackson Lemond had just brought in from town. Job Haskers was not present, which fact caused the boys to breathe a sigh of relief. "Now, boys, I want you to give me the particulars of what occurred Saturday afternoon," said the master of the Hall, as he laid down a letter he had been perusing. "Porter, you may relate your story first." Without unnecessary details, Dave told his tale in a straightforward manner,--how the boys had been having a snowball fight, how somebody had cried out that Horsehair was coming in a cutter, and how they had thought to have a little fun with the school driver by pelting him with snowballs. "We have often done it before," went on Dave. "Horsehair--I mean Lemond--doesn't seem to mind it, and sometimes he snowballs us in return." "Then you did not know it was Mr. Haskers?" "No, sir--not until I had thrown the snowball." Then Dave told of Haskers's anger, and of how they had been ordered to the office and had gone there. "I told him I was sorry I had hit him, but he would not listen to me, and he wouldn't listen when Phil apologized. He said he would accept no apologies, but was going to give us the thrashing we deserved. Then he took the whip he carried and tried to strike me. I wouldn't stand for that and I caught hold of the whip. He told me to let go and I said I wouldn't unless he promised not to strike at me again. Then he struggled to get the whip from my grasp and pushed me backward, against the stand with the statue. The stand went over and the statue was broken." "Wait a moment, Porter." Doctor Clay's voice was oddly strained. "Are you certain Mr. Haskers tried to strike you with the whip?" "I certainly am, sir. He raised the whip over my head, and if I hadn't dodged I'd have been struck, and struck hard." "Mr. Haskers tells me that he simply carried the whip to the office to subdue you--that he was afraid both of you might jump on him and do him bodily injury." "Does he say he didn't strike at me?" cried Dave, in astonishment, for this was a turn of affairs he had not dreamed would occur. "He says he brandished the whip when you came toward him as if to strike him." "I made no move to strike him, Doctor Clay--Phil will testify to that." "Dave has told the strict truth, sir," said the shipowner's son. "Mr. Haskers did strike at him, and it was only by luck that Dave escaped the blow. I thought sure he was going to get a sound whack on the head." At these words Doctor Clay's face became a study. The teacher had had his say on Sunday afternoon, but this version put an entirely different aspect on the affair. "Go on with your story," he said, after a pause. "I am very sorry that the statue was broken," continued Dave. "And I wish to say right here, sir, that if you think it was my fault I will willingly pay for the damage done. But I think it was entirely Mr. Haskers's fault. I always understood that no corporal punishment was permitted in this school." "Your understanding on that point is correct, Porter. The only exception to the rule is when a student becomes violent himself and has to be subdued." "I wasn't violent." "Please tell the rest of your story." Then Dave told of the wordy war which had followed, and of how he and Phil had been locked up and given bread and milk for supper, and of how he and his chum had found the book-room more than cheerless. He had resolved to make a clean breast of it, and so gave the particulars of taking the door off its hinges, getting extra food, and of finally going upstairs to bed. The latter part of the story caused Doctor Clay to turn his head away and look out of a window, so that the boys might not see the smile that came to his face. In his imagination he could see the lads feasting on the purloined things in the book-room by candlelight. "Now, Lawrence, what have you to say?" he asked, when Dave had finished. "I can't say much, sir--excepting that Dave has told you the truth, and the whole truth at that. And I might add, sir, had Mr. Dale or yourself been in the cutter I think the whole trouble would have been patched up very quickly. But Mr. Haskers is so--so--impulsive--he never will listen to a fellow,--and he rushed at Dave like a mad bull. I was ready to jump on him when the whip went up, and I guess I would have done it if Dave had been struck." "And you are positive you didn't snowball Mr. Haskers on purpose?" "Positive, sir--and I can prove it by the other boys who were in the crowd." "Hum!" Doctor Clay was silent for fully a minute. "You can both go to your classes. If I wish to see you further in regard to this--ahem--unfortunate affair I will let you know." The boys bowed and went out, and quarter of an hour later each was deep in the studies for the day. Occasionally their minds wandered to what had occurred, and they tried to imagine what the outcome would be. "I don't think the doctor will stand for the whip," was the way Dave expressed himself, and in this surmise he was correct. That very afternoon the master of the Hall called the teacher to his office, and a warm discussion followed. But what was said was never made public. Yet one thing the boys knew--Dave was never called upon to pay for the broken statue--Job Haskers had to settle that bill. With the ice so fine on the river, much of the boys' off-time was spent in ice-boating and skating. One afternoon there was an ice-boat race between the _Snowbird_ from Oak Hall, a boat from Rockville Military Academy, and two craft owned by young men of Oakdale. This brought out a large crowd, and each person was enthusiastic over his favorite. "I hope our boat wins!" said Roger, who was on skates, as were Dave and Phil and many others. "So do I," said Dave. "I don't care who comes in ahead so long as it's an ice-boat belonging to Oak Hall." "That's pretty good!" cried Sam Day, "seeing that we have but one boat in the race." "Say, that puts me in mind of a story," came from Shadow. "One time a lot of young fellows in a village organized a fire company. They voted to get uniforms and the question came up as to what color of shirts they should buy. They talked it over, and at last an old fire-fighter in a corner got up. 'Buy any color you please,' said he, 'any color you please, but be sure it's red!'" And the story caused a smile to go around. The four ice-boats were soon ready for the contest, and at a pistol shot they started on the fivemile course which had been laid out. Messmer and Henshaw were on the _Snowbird_, which speedily took the second place, one of the town boats, named the _Whistler_, leading. "Hurrah! they are off!" "What's the matter with the Military Academy boat? She's a tail-ender." "The _Lark_ is third!" So the cries ran on, as the ice-boats skimmed along over the smooth ice, swept clear of nearly all the snow by the wind. Dave and his chums skated some distance after the boats and then halted, to await their return. "Hurrah, the _Snowbird_ is crawling up on the _Whistler_!" cried Buster Beggs. "They are neck and neck!" said Luke Watson. "Yes, but the _Venus_ is coming up, too," answered Phil. "Gracious, but I'll wager those Rockville fellows would like to win!" "The _Venus_ must be a new boat," said Ben Basswood. "I never saw her before." "She is new--some of the Military Academy fellows purchased her last week," answered another boy. The crowd moved on, Dave stopping to fix one of his skates, which had become loose. As he straightened up, a girl brushed past him and looked him full in the face. He saw that she was one of the two who had been on the ice-boat at the time of the accident. She gave him a sunny smile and he very politely tipped his cap to her. "I suppose you hope your boat will win," she said, coming to a halt near him. "You mean the Oak Hall boat, I suppose?" "Of course, Mr. Porter." "Yes, I hope we do win," answered Dave, and wondered how she had learned his name. "Don't you hope we'll win, too, Miss Rockwell?" he continued, seeing that the others had gone on and he was practically alone with his new acquaintance. "Well, I--I really don't know," she answered, and smiled again. "You see, the _Whistler_ belongs to some friends of my big brother, so I suppose I ought to want that to win." "But if the _Snowbird_ is a better boat----" Vera Rockwell gave a merry laugh--it was her nature to laugh a good deal. "Of course if your boat is the better of the two---- But I am keeping you from your friends," she broke off. "Oh, I shan't mind that," said Dave politely, and he did not mind in the least, for Vera seemed so good-natured that he was glad to have a chance to talk to her. "I wanted to meet you," Vera went on, as, without hardly noticing it, they skated off side by side. "I wanted to thank you for what you and your friend did for us the other day." "I guess you had better blame us. If we hadn't rolled that big snowball down the hill----" "Oh, but you said you didn't mean to hit the ice-boat----" "Which was true--we didn't see the ice-boat until it was too late. I hope you and your friend got home safely?" "We did. When we reached the road we met a farmer we knew with a big sled, and he took Mary and me right to our doors." "Do you live in Oakdale?" "Yes,--just on the outskirts of the town,--the big brick house with the iron fence around the garden." "Oh, I've seen that place often. You used to have a little black dog who was very friendly and would sit up on his hind legs and beg." "Gyp! Yes, and I have him yet--and he's the cutest you ever saw! He can do all kinds of tricks. Some day, when you are passing, if you'll stop I'll show you." "Thank you, I'll remember, and I'll be sure to stop," answered Dave, much pleased with the invitation. "Here they come! Here they come!" was the cry, and suddenly the youth and the girl found themselves in a big body of skaters. Vera was struck on the arm by one burly man, and would have gone down had not Dave supported her. "Better take my hand," said Dave, and the girl did so, for she was a little frightened. Then the crowd increased, and they had to fall back a little, to get out of the jam. Dave looked around for his chums, but they were nowhere in sight. Then all strained their eyes to behold the finish of the ice-boat contest. CHAPTER X DAVE SPEAKS HIS MIND "Here they come!" "The _Whistler_ is ahead!" "Yes, but the _Snowbird_ is crawling up!" "See, the _Venus_ has given up." So the cries ran on, as the ice-boats drew closer and closer to the finishing line of the contest. It was true the _Venus_, the craft from the Rockville Military Academy, had fallen far behind and had given up. The third boat was also well to the rear, so the struggle was between the Oak Hall craft and the _Whistler_ only. "I hope we win!" cried Dave, enthusiastically. "Oh, how mean!" answered Vera, reproachfully. "Well, I--er--I don't mean that exactly, but I'd like to see my brother's friends come in ahead." "One thing is sure--it's going to be close," continued Dave. "Can you see at all?" "Not much--there is such a crowd in front." "Too bad! Now if you were a little girl, I'd lift you on my shoulder," and he smiled merrily. "Oh, the idea!" And Vera laughed roundly. "I can see the tops of the masts, anyway. They seem to be about even." "They are. I think----" "A tie! a tie!" was the cry. Then a wild cheer went up, as both ice-boats crossed the line side by side. A second later the crowd broke out on the course and began skating hither and thither. "Is it really a tie?" asked the girl. "So it seems." "Well, I am glad, for now we can both be satisfied." Vera looked around somewhat anxiously. "Have you seen anything of Mary Feversham? She came skating when I did." "You mean the other young lady who was with you on that ice-boat?" "Yes." "No, I haven't seen her. Perhaps we can find her if we skate around a bit." "Oh, but I don't want to trouble you." "It is no trouble, it will be a pleasure. We might----" At that moment a number of skaters swept by, including Nat Poole. The dudish student smiled at Vera and then, noticing Dave, stared in astonishment. "Do you know him?" asked Vera, and for a moment she frowned. "Yes, he belongs to our school." "Oh!" She drew down the corners of her pretty mouth. "I--I didn't know that." "We are not very friendly--he doesn't belong to my set," Dave went on, for he had not liked that smile from Poole, and he was sure Vera had not liked it either. "He spoke to us once--Mary and me--one day last week when we were skating. He was dressed in the height of fashion, and I suppose he thought we would be glad to know him. But we didn't answer him. Ever since that time he has been smiling at us. I wish he'd stop. If he doesn't I shall tell my big brother about it." "If he annoys you too much let me know and I'll go at him myself," answered Dave, readily. "I've had plenty of trouble with him in the past, but I shan't mind a little more." And then he told of some of the encounters with the dudish student. Vera was greatly interested and laughed heartily over the jokes that had been played. "You boys must have splendid times!" she cried. "Oh, don't you know, sometimes I wish I were a boy!" And then she told something of her own doings and the doings of Mary Feversham, who was her one chum. Along with their relatives, the girls had spent the summer on the St. Lawrence, and the previous winter they had been to Florida, which made Dave conclude that they were well-to-do. They skated around a little more and soon met Mary Feversham, who was with Vera's big brother. Then Roger and Phil came up; and all were introduced to each other. "The girls told me about the big snowball affair," said Rob Rockwell. "I told 'em it served 'em right for going out with those Military Academy chaps. Those fellows never struck me right--they put on too many airs. We wouldn't stand for that sort of thing at my college." "Well, the race was a tie between our boat and the boat of your friend," said Dave, to change the subject. "They'll have to race over again some day." "Jackson let one of his ropes break at the turn," answered Rob Rockwell. "That threw his sail over and put him behind--otherwise he might have won." Rob was a college youth, big, round-faced, and with a loud voice and somewhat positive manner. But he was a good fellow, and Dave and his chums took to him immediately, and the two parties did not separate until it was time for the Oak Hall students to return to that institution. At parting Vera gave Dave a pleasant smile. "Remember the dog," she said. "I certainly shall," he answered, and smiled in return. "What did she mean about a dog?" questioned Roger, a minute later, when the chums were skating for the school dock. "Oh, not much," answered Dave, evasively. "She told me where she lived and I said I remembered seeing her little black dog, and then she said he could do all kinds of tricks, and if I'd stop there some time she'd show me." And hardly knowing why, Dave blushed slightly. "Oh, that's it," answered the senator's son, and then said no more. But in his heart he was just a little bit jealous because he had not been invited to call too. Vera's open-hearted, jolly manner pleased him fully as much as it pleased Dave. "They are all-right girls," was Phil's comment, when the boys were taking off their skates. "That Vera Rockwell is full of fun, I suspect. But I rather prefer Mary Feversham, even if she is more quiet." "Going to marry her soon, Phil?" asked Dave, quizzically. "Sure," was the unabashed reply. "The ceremony will take place on the thirty-first of next February, at four minutes past two o'clock in the evening. Omit flowers, but send in all the solid silver dollars you wish." And this remark caused the others to laugh. Two days later Link Merwell came back to school. Dave did not see the bully on his arrival, and the pair did not meet until Dave went to one of the classrooms to recite. Then, much to his surprise, Merwell greeted him with a friendly nod. "How do you do, Porter?" he said, pleasantly. "How are you, Merwell?" was the cold response. "Oh, I'm pretty well, thank you," went on Link Merwell, easily. "Fine weather we are having. I suppose skating is just elegant. I brought along a new pair of skates and I hope to have lots of fun on them." The bully came closer. "Had the pleasure of meeting your sister out West," he continued in a lower tone. "My! but I was surprised! You were a lucky dog to find your father and Laura. See you later." And the bully passed on to his seat. Dave's face flushed and his heart beat rapidly. As my old readers know he had good cause to feel a resentment against Link Merwell, and it was maddening to have the bully mention Laura's name. He could see why the fellow was acting so cordially--it was solely on Laura's account. Evidently he considered his acquaintanceship with Laura quite an intimate one. "I'll have to open his eyes to the truth," thought Dave. "And the sooner it is done the better." Then he turned to his lessons. But it was hard work to get the bully out of his mind, and he made several mistakes in reciting ancient history, much to Mr. Dale's surprise. "You will have to study this over again," said the head teacher, kindly. And he marked a 6 against Dave's name, when the pupil might have had a 10. Dave's opportunity to "have it out" with Link Merwell came the next afternoon, when he had gone for a short skate, previous to starting work on the essay which he hoped would win the prize. The two met at the boathouse, and fortunately nobody else was near. "Going skating, I see," said Merwell, airily. "Finest sport going, I think. I wish your sister was here to enjoy it with us, don't you? I sent her a letter to-day. I suppose she told you we were having a little correspondence--just for fun, you know." "See here, Link Merwell, we may as well have an understanding now as later," began Dave, earnestly. "I want to talk to you before anybody comes. I want you to leave my sister alone,--I want you to stop speaking about her, and stop writing to her. She told me about her trip west, and how she met you, and all that. At that time she didn't know you as I know you. But I've told her about you, and you can take it from me that she doesn't want to hear from you again. She is very sorry she ever met you and wrote to you." "Oh, that's it, eh?" Link Merwell's face had grown first red and then deathly pale. "So you put in your oar, eh? Blackened my character all you could, I suppose." He shut his teeth with a snap. "You'd better take care!" "I simply told her the truth." "Oh, yes, I know just how you can talk, Porter! And did she say she wouldn't write to me any more?" "She did. Now I want to know something more. What did you do with the letters she sent you?" "I kept them." "I want you to give them to me." "To you?" "Yes, and I will send them to her." "Not much! They are my letters and I intend to keep them!" cried Link Merwell. His face took on a cunning look. "If you think you are going to get those letters away from me you are mistaken." "Maybe I can force you to give them up, Merwell." "What will you do--fight? If you try that game, Porter, I'll let every fellow in this school know what brought the fight about--and let them read the letters." "You are a gentleman, I must say," answered Dave. He paused for a moment. "Then you won't give them up?" "Positively, no." "Then listen to me, Link Merwell. Sooner or later I'll make you give them up. In the meantime, if I hear of your letting anybody else read those letters, or know of them, I'll give you a ten times worse thrashing than I did before I left this school to go to Europe. Now remember that, for I mean every word I say." "You can't make me give up the letters," said Merwell, doggedly. He was somewhat cowed by Dave's earnest manner. "I can and I will." "Maybe you think I've got them in my trunk? If so, you are mistaken." "I don't care where you have them--I'll get them sometime. And remember, don't you dare to write to my sister again, or don't you dare to speak to her when you meet her." "To listen to your talk, you'd think you were my master, Porter," sneered the bully, but his lips trembled slightly as he spoke. "Not at all. But I want you to let my sister alone, that's all. All the decent fellows in this school know what you are, and it is no credit to any young lady to know you." "Bah! I consider myself a better fellow than you are," snarled the bully. "You are rich now, but we all know how you were brought up,--among a lot of poorhou----" Link Merwell stopped suddenly and took a hasty step backward. At his last words Dave's fists had doubled up and a light as of fire had come into his eyes. "Not another word, Merwell," said Dave, in a strained voice. "Not one--or I'll bang your head against the wall until you yell for mercy. I can stand some things, but I can't stand that--and I won't!" A silence followed, during which each youth glared at the other. Merwell had his skates in his hand and made a movement as if to lift them up and bring them down on Dave's head. But then his arm dropped to his side, for that terrible look of danger was still in the eyes of the youth who had spent some years of his life in the Crumville poorhouse. "We'll have this out some other time," he muttered, and slunk out of the boathouse like a whipped cur. CHAPTER XI AT THE OLD GRANARY There was to be a skating race that afternoon and Dave had thought to take part. But now he was in no humor for mingling with his fellow-students and so took a long walk, along the snow-covered road beyond Oak Hall. At first his mind was entirely on Link Merwell, and on his sister Laura and the letters she had written to the bully. To be sure, Laura had told him that the letters contained only a lot of girlish nonsense, yet he was more than sorry Merwell held them and he would have given much to have gotten them away from the fellow he despised. Returning to the Hall some time before supper, Dave went up to his dormitory. Only Bertram Vane was there, translating Latin. "Come to study, Dave?" he questioned pleasantly, hardly glancing up from his work. "I've come to work on that essay, Polly," Dave answered. "You mean the Past and Future of Our Country?" "Yes. Shall you try for the prize?" "I may--I haven't got that far yet. It seems to me you are beginning early." "Oh, I am merely going to jot down some ideas I have. Then, from time to time, I'll add to those ideas, and do the real writing later." "That's a good plan. Maybe----" And then Polly Vane stopped speaking and lost himself in his Latin lesson. He was very studious as well as girlish, but one of the best fellows in the school. Dave went to work, and so easily did his ideas flow that it was supper time before he had them all transferred to paper. The subject interested him greatly and he felt in his heart that he could do it full justice. "But I must work carefully," he told himself. "If I don't, some other paper may be better than mine." The students were flocking in from the campus, the gymnasium, and the river. Some came upstairs, to wash up before going to the dining room. Among the number was Chip Macklin, the young pupil who had in times gone by been the toady of Gus Plum when Plum had been the Hall bully. "Oh, Dave Porter!" cried Chip, and running up, he clutched Dave by the arm. "What is it, Chip?" asked Dave, seeing the little boy was white and trembling. "What's wrong?" "I--I--I don't know whether to tell you or not," whispered Chip. "It's awful--dreadful!" He looked around, to make certain nobody else was near. "What is awful?" Again Chip looked around. "You won't say that I told you, will you? I suppose I ought to tell somebody--or do something--but perhaps Plum wouldn't like it. He can't be left out where he is,--he might freeze to death!" "See here, Chip, explain yourself," and Dave's voice became somewhat stern. "I will! I will! But it is so awful! Why, the Doctor may suspend Gus! And I thought he was going to reform!" Chip Macklin's voice trembled so he could hardly frame the words. "Will you tell me just what you mean?" "I will if--if you'll try to help Gus, Dave. Oh, I know you'll help him--you did before! It's such a shame to see him throw himself away!" Dave looked the small student in the eyes and there was a moment of silence. "I guess I know what you mean, Chip. Where is Gus?" "Come on and I'll show you." The pair hurried downstairs. In the lower hall they ran into Shadow. "I was looking for you, Dave," said the story-teller of the school. "I want you to do something for me and--and for Gus Plum." "Why, Shadow, Chip---- What do you know about Gus?" The three boys stared at each other. On the instant they felt all knew what was wrong. "Was that what you said you'd tell me about sometime, Shadow?" asked Dave, in a whisper. "Yes." "Then it has happened before?" "Yes, about three weeks after you and Roger went to Europe. I met him on the road, coming to the school after spending several hours at some tavern in Oakdale. He wouldn't say where he got the liquor. I wouldn't let him come to Oak Hall until late at night. Then we got in by a side door and I helped him to get to bed. In the morning he was quite sick, but I don't think anybody suspected the cause. That afternoon he told me he would never touch liquor again." While Shadow was talking the three boys had left the school buildings and were hurrying around to the rear of one of the carriage sheds. Here was a small building which had once been used as a granary but was now partly filled with old garden implements and cut wood. It was dark in the building and from a corner came the sounds of somebody breathing heavily. Shadow struck a match and held it up. There, upon a pile of old potato sacks, lay Gus Plum, sleeping soundly. Close at hand lay a small flask which had contained liquor but which was now empty. Dave smelt of it, and then, going to the doorway, threw it far out into the deep snow. If Dave's heart had never been heavy before it was heavy now. Gus Plum had promised faithfully to reform and he had imagined that the former bully would keep his word. But, according to Shadow's statement, Plum had fallen from grace twice, and if he would reform at all was now a question. "It's fearful, isn't it, Dave?" said the story-teller of the school, in a whisper. "Yes, Shadow, I--I hardly know what to say--I hoped for so much from Gus--I thought he'd make one of the best fellows in this school after all--after he had lived down the past. But now----" Dave's voice broke and he could not go on for a moment. "We can't leave him here--and if we take him into the school----" began Chip Macklin. "How long has he been here?" "Not over an hour or two," answered Shadow. "He must have gone to town for the liquor." "Unless he had it on hand--he went to town a couple of days ago," said Chip. "We've got to do something quick--or we'll be missed from the dining hall," continued Shadow. "You fellows can go back, Shadow; I'll take care of him. Make some kind of an excuse for my absence--say I didn't care for anything to eat." "But what will you do, Dave?" "I don't know yet--but I'll fix it up somehow. This must be kept a secret, not only on Gus's account but for the honor of Oak Hall. If this got out to the public, it would give the school a terrible black eye." "I know that. Why, my father would never let me attend a school where there was any drinking going on." "Doctor Clay isn't responsible for this--nobody is responsible but Gus himself,--unless somebody led him on. But go on, there goes the last bell for supper." Shadow passed over half a dozen matches he carried and went out, followed by Chip Macklin. Dave stood in the dark, listening to Gus Plum's heavy breathing. He did not know what to do, yet he felt he had a duty to perform and he made up his mind to perform it. At any hazard he must keep the former bully from public exposure, and he must do his best to make Plum reform once more. He uttered a prayer that Heaven might help him to do what was best. Lighting another match, Dave espied an old lantern on a shelf, half filled with dirty oil, and lit it. Then he approached Plum and touched him on the arm. The sleeping youth did not awaken, and even when Dave shook him he still slumbered on. To take him into the school in that condition was out of the question, yet it would not do to let him remain in the old granary, where during the night he might freeze to death. Dave thought of the barn, with its warm hay, and blowing out the lantern, left the granary and walked to the other buildings. Fortune favored him, for neither Lemond nor the stableman was around, both being at supper in the servants' quarters. There was a back door and a ladder to the hayloft which might be used. He ran back to the granary, picked up Gus Plum and the lantern, and started on the trip. The former bully of the school was no light weight and Dave staggered under the load. Once he slipped in the snow and almost went down, but saved himself in time and kept on. Then came the tug up the ladder. During this Plum's hand was pinched and he uttered a grunt. "Shay--don't touch me," he muttered thickly, but before Dave could answer he was slumbering again. The hayloft gained, Dave deposited his burden in a far corner, where nobody was likely to see or hear him. He lit the lantern and made Plum a comfortable bed and covered him up, so that he might not take cold. Then he took a card from his pocket and wrote on it in leadpencil: "GUS: "I brought you here from the old granary. Nobody but Chip and Shadow know and they will keep silent. Please, please brace up and be a man. "DAVE." This card he fastened by a string to Plum's wrist. Then he put out the lantern, left the barn, and hurried back to the school. As he entered he found Shadow on the watch. "Just got through with supper," whispered the youth. "Nobody asked about you. I guess you can slip into your seat and get something, anyway." And Dave did this without trouble. That Job Haskers should miss a chance to mark him down for tardiness was remarkable, but the fact was Haskers was in a hurry to get away and consequently did not notice all that was taking place. Dave did not sleep well that night, and he roused up a dozen times or more, thinking he heard Gus Plum coming in. But all the alarms were false, for Gus Plum did not show himself until breakfast time. He looked flushed and sick and ate scarcely a mouthful. Some of his dormitory mates wanted to know where he had been during the night, but he did not tell them. At first Dave thought he would go to the former bully and talk to him, but then he concluded to let the matter rest with Plum. The latter came to him just before the noon session. "Will you take a skate with me after school, Dave?" he asked, very humbly. "Certainly, Gus." "I--I want to go with you alone," faltered the big lad. "Very well--I shan't tell any of the others," returned Dave. A fine snow was falling when the school session was over, but none of the pupils minded this. Dave took his skates and went to the river, and Plum followed. Soon the pair were skating by themselves. When they had turned a bend, Plum led the way to a secluded spot, under the wide-spreading branches of an oak, and with a deep sigh threw himself down on a rock. "I suppose you've got your own opinion of me," he began, bitterly, and with his face turned away. "I don't blame you--it's what I deserve. I hadn't any right to promise you that I'd reform, for it doesn't seem to be in me. My appetite for liquor is too strong for me. Now, don't say it isn't, for I know it is." "Why, Gus----" "Please don't interrupt me, Dave; it's hard enough for me to talk as it is. But you've been my one good friend, and I feel I've got to tell you the whole truth. I want you to know it all--everything. Will you listen until I have finished?" "Certainly. Go ahead." CHAPTER XII GUS PLUM'S STORY "You may think it strange when I tell you that I come by my appetite for liquor naturally, yet such is a fact," began Gus Plum, after a pause, during which he seemed to collect his thoughts. "You fellows who don't know what such an appetite is are lucky--far more lucky than you can realize. It's an awful thing to have such an appetite--it makes one feel at times as though he were doomed. "We always had liquor at our house and my folks drank it at meals, just as their folks had done before them, so I heard. When I was a small boy I was allowed to have my glass of wine, and on holidays we had punch and I got my share. Sometimes, I can remember, friends remonstrated with my folks for letting me have the stuff, but my father would laugh and say it was all right--that he had had it himself when he was a boy and that it wouldn't hurt me. My father never drank to excess, to my knowledge, but his brother, my uncle, did, and once when Uncle Jim was under the influence of liquor, he slipped under a street car and had his arm crushed so badly he had to have it amputated. "My uncle's losing that arm scared me a little. I was then about ten years old, and I made up my mind I wouldn't drink much more. But the stuff tasted good to me and I didn't want to break off entirely. So I continued to drink a little and then a little more, until I thought I couldn't have my dinner without wine, or something like that, to go with it." "When I was about thirteen a lady I knew well gave a New Year's party to a lot of young folks, and I was invited. I was one of the youngest boys there. The lady had punch, set out in a big cut-glass bowl on a stand in a corner of the hall, with sandwiches and cake alongside. I tried that punch and liked it, and I drank so much that I got noisy, and the lady had to send me home in her carriage." "I guess that woke my father up to the fact that matters were going too far, and he told me I mustn't drink liquor away from home. He couldn't stop me from drinking at our house, for he had it himself there. But he had helped me to get the appetite, and I couldn't stop. On the next Fourth of July I spent my money in a tavern some distance away from where we lived, and there some rascals--I can't call them men--treated me liberally, just to see me make a fool of myself, I suppose. The fellows teased me until I got in a rage and I took up a bottle and cracked it to pieces over one fellow's head, injuring him badly. "This brought matters to a climax and my father told me he was going to send me to boarding school. I did not want to go at first, but he said he felt sure it would do me good, and finally I went to Sandville, and then came to Oak Hall. "At first all went well, for I saw no liquor and got little chance to get any, but after a while the appetite forced itself on me once more, and--and you know what followed." As Gus Plum concluded he covered his face with his hands and looked the picture of misery and despair. Dave had sunk down on the rock beside him and he placed a hand on the other's shoulder. "Is that all, Gus?" he asked, quietly. "About all," was the low answer. "But I want you to know one thing more, Dave. When you went away to Europe I intended to keep my promise and make a man of myself. I got along all right at first, but one Saturday afternoon Link Merwell asked me to go to Rockville with him." "Merwell!" "Yes. I don't care for him much, yet he was very friendly and I said I'd go. We visited a place where they have a poolroom in the rear, and he urged me to play pool with him, and I did. Then he offered me a cigar, and finally he treated to liquor. I said I had stopped drinking, but he laughed at me and held a glass of strong stuff to my face and dared me to take it,--said I was a baby to refuse. And I took it,--and then I treated him, and we both took too much. I came back to school alone, for we got into a row when he spoke of you and said mean things about you. When I got to Oak Hall I might have gotten into more trouble, only Shadow Hamilton cared for me, as maybe you know. Merwell wasn't under the influence of liquor very much, but he had enough to be ugly, and he got into a row with Mr. Dale and came pretty near to being sent home. Then he had another row with the teacher and went off on his vacation. He somehow blamed Phil Lawrence, but Phil had nothing to do with it." "Yes, Phil wrote to me about that last row," answered Dave. "But to come back to yourself, Gus." His face grew sober. "You've certainly had a hard time of it, and, somehow, I don't think you alone are to blame for all that has happened. I have no appetite for liquor, but I think I can understand something of what it means. But let me tell you one thing." Dave's voice grew intensely earnest. "It's all nonsense to say you are not going to reform--that you can't do it. You can reform if you'll only use your whole will power." "But look at what I've tried already!" Plum's tone was utterly hopeless. "Oh, you don't know how I've fought against it! People who haven't any appetite for liquor don't know anything about it. It's like a snake around your neck strangling you!" "Well, I wouldn't give up--not as long as I had any backbone left. Just make up your mind from this minute on that you won't touch another drop of any kind, no matter who offers it. Don't say to yourself, 'Oh, I'll take a little now and then, and let it go at that.' Break off clean and clear,--and keep away from all places where liquor is sold." "Yes, but----" Plum's voice was as hopeless as before. "No 'buts' about it, Gus. I want you to make a man of yourself. You can do it if you'll only try. Won't you try?--for your own sake--for my sake--for the honor of Oak Hall? Say yes, and then thrust liquor out of your mind forever--don't even let yourself think of it. Get interested in your studies, in skating, boating, gymnastics, baseball,--anything. Before you know it, you'll have a death grip on that habit and it will have to die." "Do you really believe that, Dave?" "I do. Why, look at it--some men right down in the gutter have reformed, and they didn't possess any more backbone than you. All you want to do is to exert your will power. Fight the thing just as you used to fight me and some of the other fellows, and let that fight be one to a finish. Now, come, what do you say?" "I'll fight!" cried Gus Plum, leaping to his feet and with a new light shining in his eyes. "I'll fight! Oh, Dave, you're a wonderful fellow, to put new backbone in me! I felt I had to give up--that I couldn't win out, that everything was against me. Now I'll do as you say. I won't even think of liquor again, and I won't go where I can get it." "Give me your hand on that, Gus." The pair shook hands. "Now let us continue our skate. Perhaps we'll meet Shadow and Chip. I know they'll be glad to hear of what you intend to do. They want you to turn over a new leaf just as much as I do. And after this, take my advice and drop Link Merwell." "I'll do it. As I said, I never cared much for him." The two left the spot where the conversation had ensued and skated up the river for a considerable distance. As they disappeared another youth stole forth from behind some bushes near by and skated off in the opposite direction. The youth was Link Merwell. "So that was the trouble with Gus Plum last night, and that is what he has got to say about me!" muttered the bully, savagely. "Well, I am glad I know so much of his history--it may come useful some time! He may get under Dave Porter's wing, but I am not done with him yet--nor done with Porter either!" It was not long before Dave and Plum met Shadow, and a little later the three saw Chip Macklin. All four went off in a bunch, and Dave with much tact told of what Gus proposed to do. "It is very nice of you to keep this a secret," said Plum. "I shall always remember it, and if I can ever do anything for any of you I'll do it. You are all good friends, and Dave is the best fellow I ever met!" They skated on for fully a mile, the fine snow pelting them in the face. But nobody minded this, for all felt happy: Plum to think that he was going to have another chance to redeem himself, and the others over the consciousness that they had done a fellow-being some good. "Time to get home!" cried Shadow, looking at his watch. "What do you say to a race back?" "How much of a start will you give me?" asked Chip. "I've got no chance otherwise against you big fellows." "We'll give you fifteen seconds," answered Dave. "One, two, three--go!" Soon the race was on in earnest. Chip Macklin was well in the lead and the others started in a bunch. Gradually Shadow went ahead of Dave and Gus Plum, but then Plum drew closer, and when they reached the school dock, Plum and Dave were a tie, with Shadow and Chip close on their heels. "That puts new life in a fellow!" declared Dave. "Gus, you came pretty near to beating me." "Your wind is better than mine," was the answer. Plum felt he might have won had it not been for the dissipation of the day previous. Dissipation and athletic supremacy of any kind never go well together. A week slipped by quietly and during that time Dave, Roger, and Phil got the chance to go rabbit hunting and brought in twelve rabbits. Gus Plum stuck to his resolve to do better, and during school hours gave his studies all his attention. When not thus employed he spent his time in skating, snowballing, and in the gymnasium. He avoided Link Merwell, and for the time being the bully left him alone. During those days Dave received a letter from his sister Laura, to whom he had written after his talk with Merwell. Laura stated that all was going along finely at the Wadsworth home and that their father was thinking seriously of buying a fine mansion located across the street, which would keep the friends together. She added that she had received a letter from Link Merwell and had sent it back, writing across the top, "Please do not send any more." "No wonder Merwell looks so sour," mused Dave, after reading his sister's communication. "I suppose he is mad enough at me to chew me up." As my old readers know, there was at Oak Hall a secret society known as the Gee Eyes, this name standing for the initials G. I., which in their turn stood for the words Guess It. The society was kept up almost solely for the fun of initiating new members. On coming to the school Dave had had to submit to a strenuous initiation, which he had accepted without a murmur. All his chums were members, and the boys had gotten much fun out of the organization. "Call for a special meeting of the Gee Eyes to-night," said Ben Basswood, one afternoon. "Going to initiate three new members--Tom Atwood and the Soden brothers. Be on hand early, at the old boathouse." "What are we going to do to 'em?" asked Dave, with a grin. "That is something Sam, Buster, and some of the others want to talk over. They'd like to do something brand-new." "I think I can tell them of one thing to try," said Dave. "What?" "Make one of 'em think he is crossing Jackson's Gully on a narrow board." "Good, Dave; that will do first-rate!" cried Ben. "I hope we can think of two other things equally good." About an hour later Dave met some of the others, and a general discussion regarding the initiations for that evening took place. A score of "stunts" were suggested, and at last three were selected, and the committee got ready to carry out their plans. Link Merwell was not a member of the Gee Eyes. He had once been proposed and been rejected, which had made him very angry. In some manner he heard of the proposed initiations, and he did his best to learn what was going on. As we know, he was not above playing the eavesdropper, and now he followed Dave and his friends to learn their secrets. "So that is what they are up to," he said. "Well, let them go ahead. Perhaps I can put a spoke in their wheel when they least expect it!" And then he chuckled to himself as he thought of a plan to make the initiations end in disaster. CHAPTER XIII THE GEE EYES' INITIATION "Well, you're a sight!" "I don't look any more stylish than yourself, Roger." "Stylish is good, Dave. I guess both of us look like circus clowns." "Whoop la!" shouted Buster Beggs. "Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you the renowned Oak Hall Company of Left-Over Clowns and Monkeys--the most unique aggregation of monstrosities on the face of the globe. This one has the reputation of----" "Hush, not so loud, Buster!" cried Dave, "or you'll have old Haskers down on us, and that will spoil the fun." "Speaking of looking like clowns puts me in mind of a story," came from Shadow, who was still struggling to get into his club outfit. "One time a country fellow who wasn't a bit good-looking wanted to join a circus as a clown. He went to see the manager. 'Can I have a job as a clown?' he asked. 'Well, I don't know,' answered the manager, slowly, as he looked him over. 'Who showed you how to make up your face? It's pretty well done.'" And the usual short laugh went up. The Gee Eyes in the past had worn simple robes of red with black hoods over their heads. Now, by a special vote, they had purchased robes that were striped--red, white, and yellow. For headgear each member had a box-like contrivance, cubical in shape, with holes in the front for the eyes and an orange-like lantern on top, with a candle in it. This box rested on the shoulders of the wearer, thus concealing his identity completely. In the past, Phil Lawrence had been president of the organization, but now that office was filled by Sam Day, under the title of Right Honorable Muck-a-Muck. Ben Basswood was secretary, and was called the Lord of the Penwiper; Buster Beggs was treasurer, known as the Guardian of the Dimes, and Luke Watson was sergeant-at-arms under the title of Captain Doorkeep. The organization met whenever and wherever it was convenient. This was done for two reasons: first, because the members did not wish their enemies to know what they were doing, or otherwise information might be imparted to the teachers; and, second, they never met unless they were going to initiate a new member or were going to have some sort of a feast. "Where are the intended victims?" asked Dave, after he had adjusted his robe and his headgear to his satisfaction, and possessed himself of a long stuffed club. "They were told to wait in the old granary until called for," answered Messmer. "Do they seem to be timid about joining?" asked Ben. "Tom Atwood is a little timid,--he heard how little Frank Bond was almost scared to death by Gus Plum's crowd one term." "By the way, where is Gus?" asked Henshaw. "He said he wanted to study," answered Dave. "I asked him to come, but he wouldn't." "My, but didn't Gus give us a funny story the time we initiated him!" cried one of the students. "Yes, and do you remember how Link Merwell and Nat Poole placed those big firecrackers under our fire and nearly blew us all to pieces," added another. "Never mind--we got square," said Buster. "I guess they haven't forgotten yet the drubbing we gave them." It was late at night, and the boys had had not a little difficulty in stealing away from the school unobserved. With all in readiness, the three boys who were awaiting to be initiated were sent for, and they presently appeared, escorted by four of the club members, each carrying a bright and very blunt sword. As they came into the old boathouse, lit up by various fantastic lanterns representing skulls, dragons, and the like, the Gee Eyes set up a low chant: "Hail the victims! Let them come! Let them enter, one by one! Let them bow the humble knee! Let them now forsake all glee! Death! Blood! Tomb!" And then arose a weird groaning, calculated to make any lad feel uneasy. The three victims were forced to their knees and made to touch three chalk-marks on the floor with their noses. Then one of the members of the club came forward with a big tin wash-basin and sprinkled them with what looked to be water but was really ammonia. This caused some coughing and some tears commenced to flow. But the victims were "game" and said nothing. "Lock two of them in yonder dungeon cell," commanded the Right Honorable Muck-a-Muck. "They shall be led to their fate later." And the Soden brothers, twins named Joe and Henry, were led to a big closet of the old boathouse and thrust inside. Then Tom Atwood was taken outside, and a long march commenced behind the school grounds and leading to a secluded spot among some bushes. Here Atwood was suddenly blindfolded and his hands tied behind him. [Illustration: "NOW TO JACKSON'S GULLY WITH HIM!"] "Now to Jackson's Gully with him," cried several, and then the party proceeded a little further into the bushes. "Look out, don't slip into the gully," whispered one member, but loud enough for Tom Atwood to hear. "Oh, I'll take care!" whispered another. "Why, the gully is a hundred feet deep around here." Then Tom Atwood was led up and over some rocks and halted a short distance beyond. "Say, that looks mighty dangerous to me," whispered Roger. "Oh, he'll get over if he's got nerve," answered Dave. "Base slave, list thou to me!" cried the president of the Gee Eyes. "We have brought thee to the edge of a gully some hundred feet deep. If thou wouldst become a member of this notorious--I mean illustrious--organization thou must cross the gully on the bridge we have provided. Dost thou accept the condition?" "I--I don't know," faltered Tom Atwood. "I--I can't see a thing." "Nor wilt thou until thy task is accomplished. The gully must be crossed, otherwise thou canst not be of us." "How big is the bridge?" "One board wide." "Any--er--handrail?" went on the victim. "Nary a handrail," piped up a small voice from the rear. "What do you want for your money, anyway?" "Say, that puts me in mind of a story----" came from another, but he stopped short as a fellow-member hit him with a stuffed club. "I--I don't know about this----" began Tom Atwood. "I--oh, say, let up!" he cried, as he received several blows from stuffed clubs. "I--oh, my back!" "Wilt try the bridge?" demanded the Right Honorable Muck-a-Muck. "Yes, yes, but can't I--I crawl if I want to?" "Thou canst, after thou hast taken seven steps." "All right, here goes then." Tom Atwood was led forward to the end of a long plank. "Be careful," he was cautioned. "There, put your foot there and the other one right there. Now you are all right." "And must I really--er--stand up and take seven steps?" "Yes, exactly seven, or woe betide thee!" came the answering cry. With great caution the blindfolded victim took a step and then another. He was trembling visibly, which caused the club members to shake with silent laughter. He counted the steps and when he had taken just seven he fell on his hands and knees, clutching the sides of the plank tightly. "Ho--how long is--is it?" he asked, his teeth commencing to chatter. "I--I ain't used to climbing in such places. It--it makes me dizzy!" "Go on! go on!" "The plank is only fifty-four feet long," said one boy. "Oh, my! fifty-four feet; I'll go down--I know I will!" Slowly, and clutching the plank with a death-like grip, Tom Atwood moved forward a distance of eighteen feet. Then the plank came to an end. He put out one hand after the other, but felt only the empty air. "I--I don't feel the rest o--of th--the bridge!" he chattered. "It is gone!" cried one boy, in a disguised voice. "Turn around and come back." "But be careful how you turn, or the board may wabble and let you drop," added another. More scared than ever, Tom Atwood turned around very gingerly. Once he thought the board was going over, and he set up a yell of fright. Then slowly and painfully he came back over the plank until he reached the solid ground once more. "Hurrah!" cried the Gee Eyes. "Bravely done, Tom!" "Now you are one of us!" "He didn't mind that deep gully at all!" "Yes, but I did mind it," answered the victim, as they were taking the cover from his eyes. "I wouldn't do that again for a hundred dollars in cash!" "It was certainly the bravest thing to do I ever heard of," was Dave's comment, and then he tore the bandage away. Immediately, by the light of the lanterns the boys had on their headpieces, Tom Atwood looked at the plank which had cost him so much worry and fright. "Well, I never!" he gasped. And then what a roar of laughter went up! And well it might, for the plank rested on nothing but two blocks of wood and was less than a foot from the solid ground! The location was nowhere near Jackson's Gully. "Tom, you'll do it for a hundred dollars now, won't you?" questioned Roger, earnestly. "Oh, what a sell!" answered the victim, sheepishly. "Say, please don't tell the other fellows of this," he pleaded. "I'll never hear the end of it!" "The secrets of the Gee Eyes are never told outside," answered Phil. "But there is one more thing you must do," he added. "What?" "Carry that plank back to the boathouse." "All right." "And here is a suit for you," said Ben. "Put that on, and then you can participate in the initiation of the Soden brothers." "Where are they?" "Locked up in the closet at the old boathouse." "What are you going to do with them?" "You'll see when you get back." With Tom Atwood and the plank between them, the members of the Gee Eyes took up the long march back to the old boathouse. To do this they had to cross a country road which was but little used. As they did this they heard an unusual sound from a clump of trees near by. "There they are!" a voice called out. "I told you I had seen some ghosts." "Sure enough, Billy, they must be ghosts," was the reply, in a deeper voice. "It's a good thing I brung my shotgun with me." "Are you goin' to shoot at 'em?" "That's what, Billy." Hardly had the words been spoken when, to the consternation of the Gee Eyes, a shotgun was discharged, the load whistling through the trees over the lads' heads. "Hi! hi! stop that!" yelled Buster Beggs. "We are not ghosts! We are----" Bang! spoke up the shotgun a second time, and the load went clipping through the bushes on the left. "Hand me your shotgun, Billy," said one of the voices. "I don't know if I hit 'em or not, but this'll fetch 'em!" "Run!" cried Dave. "Run for your lives! That old farmer is so scared he doesn't know what he is doing!" And then all the boys ran across the roadway and dove into the woods beyond. They heard another report, but the contents of the gun did not reach them. CHAPTER XIV IN WHICH JOB HASKERS GETS LEFT IN THE COLD The boys kept on running for fully a hundred yards, plunging deeper and deeper into the woods which lined the roadway. Tom Atwood had dropped the plank and two of the club members had lost their headpieces, but nobody dreamed of going back for the articles. "I think I know who that man is," said Phil, when the crowd came to a halt. "Mike Marcy?" questioned Dave. "Yes." "I thought that, too, but I wasn't sure. He called the other fellow Billy." "He has a boy working for him now and his name is Billy," said Shadow. "I met him on the road several times, driving cows. He isn't just right in his mind. I suppose Marcy got him to work cheap." "I wonder if Marcy really thought we were ghosts?" mused the senator's son. "Maybe he only said that to scare us. He might have thought we were up to some kind of a job around his farm." "Well, whether he thought we were ghosts or not, he certainly shot at us," was Phil's comment. "Ugh! I am glad I didn't get a dose of the shot!" "And so am I," answered several others. "That is one more black mark against Mike Marcy," said Luke Watson. "We'll have to remember to pay him back." "Never mind about paying him back just now," answered Roger. "The question is, What's to do next? That run warmed me up and I'll take cold if I stand here long doing nothing." "We must get back to the boathouse. Remember, the Soden boys are still locked up in that closet. It hasn't much ventilation and we don't want them to smother." "I'm not going around by the road," said Henshaw. "Not on your life!" exclaimed Ben. "I'd rather go down to the river and walk over the ice." It was finally decided to follow Ben's suggestion, and the crowd continued on their way through the brushwood until the Leming River was reached. They saw or heard nothing more of Mike Marcy and his hired boy, for which they were thankful. Reaching the ice, they set off at a dog-trot for the old boathouse. "If we only had skates this would be fine," declared Dave. "But as we haven't any we've got to make the best of it." "As the servant girl said, when she told her mistress that she couldn't make sponge cake because they didn't have any sponges," answered the senator's son. "Say, that puts me in mind of a story about a----" began Shadow. But just then one of the boys put out his foot and down went the story-teller of the school on the ice. "Hi, you!" he roared and pulled the other youth on top of him. Then began a wild scramble on the part of both to see who could get up first, and the story was forgotten. When the Gee Eyes came in sight of the old boathouse they were surprised to learn it was well past midnight. "We'll have to rush matters," said Dave. "If we don't, somebody may report us, and the doctor won't let us off very easily if we stay out too late." "Maybe we'd better postpone the other initiations," suggested Luke. "Oh, no, go ahead!" cried half a dozen. "We are safe enough." Entering the old boathouse, the boys lit all the lanterns they possessed, and those who had lost their head-coverings tied masks over their faces. Then some approached the closet in which the Soden twins had been confined. "Hello!" "They are gone!" "What does this mean?" "They must have broken out and run away!" Such were some of the exclamations indulged in when it was found that the apartment was empty. A hasty examination was made of the hasp and staple of the door, and they were found intact. A wooden peg had served to keep the hasp in place. "It looks to me as if somebody had let them out," said Dave, after an examination. "But who would do that, Dave?" questioned Phil. "Somebody not a member of the Gee Eyes--some enemy of the club." "But why should the Soden boys run away?" asked Shadow. "They were willing to be initiated." "Perhaps they got cold feet--mentally as well as physically," ventured Henshaw. "They may have got to talking things over in the dark and got scared." "They didn't break out, that's sure," declared the senator's son. "Somebody on the outside removed that wooden peg." "Well, we didn't do it," said one of the boys. "Can they be anywhere around?" Some of the boys began a search, but this was in vain--the twins had disappeared. "We may as well give up for to-night," said the president at last. "I move we adjourn to bed," said Ben, and this was put and carried, and without delay the robes, headgears, and stuffed clubs and swords were hidden away, and the students hurried to Oak Hall. Here another setback awaited them. The side door was locked, and the false key they had put on a convenient nail was missing. "Somebody is playing us tricks," said Dave. "I thought so before and now I am certain of it. I shouldn't wonder if that somebody had gone and told Mike Marcy to look out for ghosts at the end of his lot." "Who would do it?" "Several fellows--Link Merwell, Nat Poole, and their cronies." "Never mind that crowd now," said Shadow. "How are we to get into the school without waking anybody up?" "Let us try all the doors and lower windows," suggested the shipowner's son. This was done, and at last one of the boys found a basement window unfastened. He notified the others. "I know where that leads to," said Dave. "The laundry." "Yes, I've been in the laundry, too," added the senator's son. "Then one of you see if you can get upstairs through the laundry and let us in," said Buster. "And please don't be all night about it either, for I am getting cold." "Don't say a word," came from Messmer. "My ears are about frozen already." "I'll go," said Dave. "I'll go along," returned Roger. Both climbed down through the basement window, to find themselves in a place that was pitch-dark. Here Dave struck a match and by its faint rays led the way to an open cellar and then to a stairs running up to the kitchen. Tiptoeing their way up the stairs, they tried the door at the top, and to their joy found it unlocked. They stepped into the kitchen, and just then the match went out, leaving them again in the dark. "I know the way now, so there is no need to make another light," said Roger. "Wait,--better have a light," answered Dave. "You don't want to stumble over anything and make a noise." He found a candle and lit it, and then the chums crept silently from the kitchen, through the pantry and dining room to the side hall. They wanted to stop for something to eat from the pantry, but did not wish to keep their friends waiting out in the cold. The two youths were just on the point of turning a corner of the hall when a sound struck their ears. Somebody was close at hand, snoring lustily! "Who can it be?" asked Roger, in a faint whisper, when both realized what the sound meant. "I'll soon find out," answered Dave, and held up the candle. "Don't wake him up, or there'll be trouble!" Step by step they drew closer to the sleeping person. It was a man, wearing an overcoat and a skullcap. He was seated in a comfortable armchair taken from the parlor. "Old Haskers!" cried Dave. "He must have been on the watch for us and fallen asleep," was the comment of the senator's son. "Don't wake him--let him sleep." "To be sure, Dave--I'd like to chloroform him!" The boys passed the snoring teacher and reached a side door. Unlocking it, they slipped without, and closed the door again. Then they summoned the members of the Gee Eyes and told them of what they had discovered. "You'll have to go in as quietly as mice," said Dave. "Otherwise he'll wake up and catch us,--and then the fat will be in the fire." "Dave, somebody has surely been spying on us," said Phil. "Exactly--but we can't take that up now. In you go, and take off your shoes before you start upstairs. Maybe----" Dave paused. "What, Dave?" "Maybe we can play a joke on Haskers, when we are about safe." "How?" asked several. "We might carry him out on the piazza and lock the door on him. Under that overcoat he has on only his night clothes and a pair of slippers." "If we only could do it!" murmured Phil, gleefully. One by one the members of the Gee Eyes entered the school building, slipped off their shoes, and went upstairs. Then, wrapping their coats around their heads, Dave, Roger, Phil, and Shadow came back and surrounded Job Haskers. "Now listen," said Dave, who still held the candle. "If he wakes up, drop him. I'll blow out the candle, and all scoot for the dormitories,--but without noise, remember that!" And so it was agreed. As carefully as possible they raised up the sleeping man, armchair and all, and carried him to the side door, which Dave opened. Then they took their burden outside and put the chair down in the snow at the foot of the piazza steps. This accomplished, they ran back into the school, closed and locked the door, and threw the key in a dark corner. "Now for the dormitory!" cried Dave, and blew out the light. "And everybody undress in jig-time!" All understood, and the way they flew up the stairs was a wonder. Like lightning-change actors they threw off their garments and got into their sleeping clothes. The other boys were already disrobed, and some were at the windows, looking down through shade cracks, to see what might happen below. They had not long to wait. Job Haskers speedily grew cold and woke up with a start. In the darkness he stared around in perplexity and then leaped to his feet. "Oh!" the boys heard him mutter, as some of the loose snow got into his slippers. "What can this mean? Where am I?" He took several steps, and more snow got into his slippers. Then he slipped on a patch of ice and plunged straight into the snow with his arms and shoulders. "Confound the luck!" the boys heard him say. "Boys, what does this mean? Who put me here? Oh, but won't I make you suffer for this! Oh, my feet!" And then he rushed for the piazza steps. Here he slipped again, and the students heard him yell as he came down on his left elbow. Then he disappeared from sight under the roof of the piazza. "He won't get in right away!" whispered Roger. "Oh, this is the best yet!" They heard Job Haskers fumble at the knob of the door. He tried to turn it several times and then shook it violently. Finding the door would not open, he began to pound upon the barrier with his fist. "He's making noise enough to wake the dead!" whispered Phil. "Somebody is going below," said Dave, a moment later. "Now I guess there will be more fun!" "If only we aren't caught!" murmured Shadow, who was a bit afraid that the fun had been carried too far. CHAPTER XV WHAT MIKE MARCY HAD TO TELL It was Murphy the monitor who let the assistant teacher in. Job Haskers entered stamping his feet loudly, for they were decidedly cold. "Why, Mr. Haskers, what does this mean?" asked the monitor, in amazement. "I didn't know you were out. And in slippers, too!" "I--er--I----" stammered the teacher, and then he stopped, for he did not know how to proceed. He realized that he occupied a very ridiculous position. "Can I do anything for you?" went on the monitor. "Murphy, have you seen any boys come in since lights were out?" "No, sir." "Nobody at all?" "Not a soul." "It is queer. They must have come in, and finding me asleep----" Job Haskers did not finish. "Where were you asleep, sir?" "Never mind--if you saw nobody. But listen, I want you to make the rounds, and see if every boy is in his dormitory. If any are absent, report to me in my room at once." "Yes, sir," returned the monitor, and hurried off. "He'll not find us missing," whispered Dave. "All hands in bed and eyes shut. No fooling now, for if you are caught something serious may happen." The others understood, and when Jim Murphy came with a light to look into dormitories No. 11 and No. 12 he found every lad tucked in under the blankets and looking as if he had been slumbering for several hours. "That was what I call a narrow escape," whispered Phil, after the monitor had departed. "Somebody surely spied on us." "We'll look into the matter to-morrow," answered Luke Watson. "I'm in for sleep now." And a little later all the lads were in the land of dreams. The next morning the members of the Gee Eyes looked for an investigation from Job Haskers, but no such thing occurred. The fact of the matter was that the teacher realized fully what a joke had been played on him while he was asleep, and he was afraid to stir the matter up for fear the entire school would be laughing at him. He made a few very cautious inquiries, which gave him no clew, and then, for the time being, dropped the matter. The Gee Eyes were anxious to know how the Soden brothers had gotten out of the closet at the old boathouse, and were amazed when the answer came. "Why, two of you fellows came back and let us out," said Henry Soden. "Let you out?" asked Buster Beggs. "Yes." "One of the fellows said that Mr. Haskers was onto the game and that no initiations would be attempted," explained Joe Soden. "He said we had better get back to our dormitory as quickly as we could, so we scooted." "Who were those chaps?" demanded Dave. "I don't know. They wore their coats inside out and big paper bags over their heads." "They were no members of the Gee Eyes," said Phil. "They were some outsiders who wanted to spoil our fun." "Well, I must confess we were glad enough to get out of the closet,--it was so cold," said Henry Soden. "But just the same I shouldn't have run away if I had known the truth. Both of us are anxious to join your club." "I'll tell you what I think," said Dave. "It was a put-up job all around. Some enemy told Mike Marcy about ghosts, sent word to old Haskers to be on guard, and released Joe and Henry." "If that is true, we want to find out who that enemy was," answered Roger. "No student of Oak Hall can play such a trick on the Gee Eyes without suffering for it." "So say we all of us!" sang out several. "I have a plan," went on Dave. "Let us lay for that hired boy of Marcy's--the lad called Billy. Maybe he can tell us who told Marcy--if anybody did tell him." And so it was arranged. The opportunity to interview the farm boy Billy did not occur until about a week later, when Dave and Ben Basswood were walking to Oakdale to buy some film rolls for their cameras. They took a side road leading past the Marcy farm, and caught sight of Billy down by a cowshed and beckoned to him. "Is your name Billy?" asked Dave, kindly, for he could easily see that the lad was somewhat simple-minded, by the way he clasped and unclasped his hands, twisted his shoulders, and twitched his mouth. "Yes, Billy Sankers, from Lundytown," was the boy's reply. "Do you work for Mr. Marcy?" "Do I? Sure I do--an' he works for me," and Billy grinned at what he thought was a joke. "You went after ghosts the other night, didn't you?" continued Dave. "Yes, we did, an' we bagged a lot of 'em, too--shot 'em full of holes an' they disappeared into the sky," and the poor deluded boy began to wave his arms as if flying. "Who told Mr. Marcy that the ghosts were coming?" asked Ben. "Two boys from the school over there," and now Billy jerked his thumb in the direction of Oak Hall. "They said to keep still about it, but what's the use? The ghosts are shot full of holes, shot full of holes, holes, holes!" "Did you know the boys?" asked Dave. At this question Billy shook his head. "I don't go to school there--I know too much. Maybe some day I'll go over and teach the teachers. One boy called the other Nat," he added, suddenly. "Nat!" cried Dave. He turned to his chum. "Can it have been Nat Poole?" "That's it, Nat Poole!" cried Billy. "You're a wise owl to guess it." "What was the other boy called?" continued Ben. "Called? Nothing. Yes, he was, too, he was called Link. That's it, Link, Blink, Hink! Funny name, eh?" "Link!" cried Dave. "Can it have been Link Merwell?" "More than likely," answered his chum. "Nat and Link travel together, and both are down on our crowd." "Did they tell Mr. Marcy that the ghosts would be schoolboys?" asked Dave. "No, ghosts," answered Billy, nodding his head gravely. "They told Mike an' he told me, an' we got the shotguns to scare 'em off. Mike don't want ghosts around this place." "Here comes Mike Marcy now," whispered Ben. "Had we better get out?" "I'll not run for him," was Dave's answer. "Sure, an' what do you fellers want here?" demanded the big, brawny Irish-American farmer as he strode up, horsewhip in hand. "Mr. Marcy, we want to have a talk with you," said Dave, coldly. "I guess you remember me." "I do. You're the lad I once had locked up in my smokehouse," and the farmer grinned slightly. "Yes. But I am not here about that now,--nor am I here to tell you that I was one of the boys that found your mule when he was lost and sent you word. I am here to ask you about the shooting that took place about a week ago." "Shooting!" "Exactly. Who were the boys who came here and told you to go to the end of your farm and shoot at a lot of innocent lads having a little fun by themselves?" "Why--er---- See here, what do you mean?" blustered Mike Marcy. "I mean just what I say, Mr. Marcy, and I want you to answer my question." "Eh! Say, do you see this whip?" stormed the farmer. "I'll let ye taste it in a minit!" "You'll do nothing of the kind," answered Dave, coolly. "I ask you a question and you must answer it. This is a serious business. You fired three shots at a crowd of innocent schoolboys who were harming nobody. You cannot deny it." "They were on my land." "Some of them were on the road, and they were doing absolutely no harm. You merely fired at them out of pure ugliness." "See here, do ye want this?" And now the horsewhip was raised. "If you strike either of us, I shall at once have you arrested. How many students do you suppose are now in bed under the doctor's care because of the shooting you did?" At this question Mike Marcy turned suddenly pale. "I--er--was anybody hurt? I--er--I fired into the air--just to scare 'em," he faltered. "I ask you a question and I want you to answer it, and you had better do it unless you want to get into more trouble. Who told you to go out and do the shooting?" "We want their names and we are bound to have them," put in Ben, following up Dave's bold manner, now that he saw the farmer was growing uneasy. "The boys were named Nat Poole and Link Merwell. But they wanted their names kept secret." "What did they tell you?" "They said a lot of the toughest lads in the school were going to disguise themselves an' come down here and cut up like Indians, and maybe rob me of some chickens, an' I had better be on the watch for 'em. One said I might scare 'em by saying I saw ghosts, and I said that was a good idee. So I called Billy an' told him about the ghosts, an' we got the shotguns. But as true as I stand here I shot up into the air. I didn't want to hit anybody, an' if any lad got as much as one shot in him I'm sorry." "That is all we want to know, Mr. Marcy," returned Dave. "We thank you for the information," and he started to walk away, followed by Ben. "But see here--if anybody is hurted----" cried Mike Marcy. "Sure, I don't want trouble----" "We won't say any more about it--since you didn't mean to hit anybody," answered Dave. "But after this never shoot at us again." "I won't, ye can be certain of that," answered the farmer, with a sigh of relief. "And another thing, Mr. Marcy," added Ben. "If you see Nat Poole or Link Merwell do not tell them that you saw us or told us the truth." "I'll remember." And with this promise from the farmer the boys took their departure. But they had not gone a hundred feet when Mike Marcy came running after them. "Tell me," said he; "was anybody really hit?" "Nobody was seriously hurt," answered Dave. "But you scared some of the boys nearly to death, and they tumbled all over the rocks and bushes, in trying to get out of range of the shots." "I see. Well, I won't do any more shooting," answered Mike Marcy, and walked back to his house, looking very thoughtful. "It is just as we supposed," said Dave, when he and his chum were alone. "Nat Poole and Link Merwell are responsible for everything. They got Marcy to do the shooting, released the Soden brothers, and somehow put Haskers on guard." "Well, the Gee Eyes will have to square accounts with them," replied Ben. "We'll make a report at the next meeting of the club, and then the club can take what action it likes in the matter. For my part, I think such sneaks ought to be drummed out of the school." "And I agree with you, Ben. But let me tell you one thing. Link Merwell is ten times worse than Nat Poole. Nat is a dude and a fool and easily led around by others, but Link Merwell is a knave, as black-hearted as any boy I can name. Look out for him, or when you least expect it he will play you foul." CHAPTER XVI SOMETHING ABOUT LESSONS At Oakdale the two students ran into Phil, who had come to town earlier, to see about a pair of skating shoes. They told their chum of what they had learned, and the shipowner's son agreed that the Gee Eyes ought in some way to punish the offenders. "I just met two friends," went on Phil. "I stopped at the candy store for some chocolates and ran into Mary Feversham and Vera Rockwell. Vera wanted to know how you were, Dave," and Phil grinned. "I trust you told her I was very sick, Phil," was Dave's quick reply. "I did--I said you were crying your eyes out for another sight of her," and then Phil dodged, to escape a blow Dave playfully aimed at his head. The boys procured the articles for which they had come, and then took a stroll through the town. At one store an auction sale was in progress and here they met the two girls Phil had mentioned. Both were dressed in fur coats, with dainty fur caps to match, and both looked very sweet. "We watched them selling some bric-à-brac," said Mary. "It was real fun. A beautiful statue of Apollo went for two dollars--just think of it!" "Might get one of those statues to replace the broken one," said Ben to Dave. "Oh, did somebody break a statue?" cried Vera. "Yes,--and there was quite an exciting time doing it," said Phil. "Dave was the hero of the occasion." "Oh, tell me about it, Mr. Porter!" And Vera bent her eyes full upon Dave. "Oh, it didn't amount to much," answered Dave. "But please tell me, won't you?" pleaded Vera. Then both girls teased him, until at last he related some of the particulars of the encounter with Job Haskers. Mary and Vera were deeply interested, Vera especially. "I am glad you did not give in to him," said Vera. "I like a boy who can stand up for his rights." "You can trust Dave to do that," said Ben. "He doesn't take water for anybody." "Oh, come now, Ben----" murmured Dave. "I believe Mr. Basswood," said Vera. "I hope Mr. Porter always does stick up for himself. I never liked a boy or a man--or a girl either--who was cowardly." After that the boys and girls listened to the auctioneer for several minutes. Then Phil suggested soda to Mary Feversham, and all of the party walked over to a corner drug store, where hot chocolate was to be had, and there Phil and Dave treated. The crowd was in the act of drinking the beverage, and Dave had just handed Vera her glass, when, glancing toward the doorway, he saw Link Merwell and a strange young man standing there. Link started and stared rudely at the girls. Then he whispered something to his companion, and both turned from the drug store and disappeared up the street. "Did you see them?" whispered Dave to Phil. "I saw somebody look in and walk away. Who was it?" "Link Merwell and a stranger." "Humph! I suppose Merwell didn't want to come in while we were here," murmured the shipowner's son. And there the subject was dropped. Little did Dave dream of what was to be the result of Link Merwell's unexpected appearance while he was in the company of Vera Rockwell. The boys did not have much time to spend in town, and soon they bade the girls good-by and hurried back to Oak Hall. It was plain to be seen that Phil thought the trip an extra pleasant one. "No use in talking; Mary Feversham is all right," he said to Dave, enthusiastically. "Finest girl I ever ran across." "Phil, I'm afraid you're smitten," answered Dave, with a laugh. "You'll be dreaming about her next." "Perhaps--I don't care if I do," was the reply, which showed that Phil was pretty far "gone" indeed. "But say," he went on, suddenly. "Talking about dreaming, I want to tell you something. Do you remember how Shadow Hamilton used to walk in his sleep?" "I don't think anybody is liable to forget it," answered Dave, thinking of Shadow's theft, during his sleep-walking, of Doctor Clay's valuable collection of rare postage stamps as related in a previous volume of this series. "Shadow is at it again--although not so bad as before." "How do you know?" asked Ben. "Because the other night I woke up and heard him getting something out of his trunk. He was at the trunk about ten minutes and then went to bed again. In the morning I asked him about it and he declared positively that he hadn't gotten up at all. He was much disturbed over what I told him." "Maybe you were only dreaming," suggested Dave. "No, I wasn't--I was as wide awake as I am now." "It would be too bad if Shadow got to sleep-walking again," said Dave. "We'll have to watch him a little. We don't want him to get into trouble." During the next two weeks Dave found but little time for recreation. A test in two studies was in progress, and he made up his mind to pass with flying colors. He went in for a regular "grind," as Roger expressed it, and was at his books fully as much as was Polly Vane; indeed, the two often studied together. "Come on out for a skate--it may be the last of the season," said the senator's son, one afternoon, but Dave shook his head. "Can't do it, Roger--I've got my Latin to do, and four of those problems in geometry,--and some German." "Oh, bother the lessons! Can't you let the geometry and the German slide?" "Oh, I've made up my mind to get not less than ninety per cent. in the test this week." "Then you won't really come?" Roger lingered in the doorway as he spoke. "Not to-day. Have you got that geometry?" "No--I thought I might do it this evening." "What about the German?" "Oh, perhaps I'll do that, too. I don't care much for the German, anyway." "But you ought to study your lesson, now you have taken it up, Roger." There was a minute of silence, and Dave turned to his text-books and papers and began to write. Roger drummed on the door and heaved a deep sigh. The ice on the river was growing soft--in a few days skating might be a thing of the past. "It seems to me you don't care for skating as much as you did, Dave," he said, presently. "Oh, yes, I do, Roger; but I'm not going to think about it while I have studying to do. I can't forget that, after all is said and done, I am here to get a good education, and that both my father and Mr. Wadsworth expect me to make the most of my opportunities." Dave returned again to his books and papers and another silence followed. Then the senator's son came in, hung up his skates in the closet, and got out his own schoolbooks and papers. "Well, if we've got to grind, I suppose it is up to me to do my share," he remarked, with another sigh. "But that ice----" "Don't do it on my account, Roger." "Yes, but, Dave, I can't stand it to see you grinding alone--when I know I ought to grind too. My father wants me to get a good education, too. So here goes," and then Roger began to study just as hard as Dave and Polly. Then Phil came in, and Shadow, and seeing the condition of affairs, went at it like the rest. Dave's example certainly carried a wonderful influence with it, even though the youth himself did not fully realize it. "This fifth problem in geometry is a corker," observed Shadow, presently. "If the gable of a house is fourteen feet long on one side, and the angle at the top is one of forty degrees, and the other side is but eleven feet long, how----" "Don't say a word, I've been working on that for half an hour," said Phil. "Tried it this noon, after dinner, and couldn't get it." "It's very easy," answered Polly. "Have you got it, Dave?" asked Roger. "Yes, but I didn't find it so easy." "Guess I'll climb up some gable and measure it," said Shadow. He began suddenly to grin. "That puts me in mind of a story. Once a college professor----" "Don't!" begged Polly. "I have some figures in my head I don't wish to lose!" "Then nail 'em down," answered the story-teller of the school, calmly. "This college professor was paying a visit to some lumbermen and he was trying to convince one old tree-chopper of the value of an education. Says he, 'Now, look at it. You don't know how to measure a plank accurately.' 'Don't I, though?' says the lumberman. 'No, you don't, and I can prove it,' says the professor. 'Now, supposing you had a plank twenty feet long and one foot wide at one end and running up evenly to two feet wide at the other end. Where would you saw that plank crosswise so that one end would contain as much wood as the other? You can't do that problem and I know it, because you never studied higher mathematics.' 'That's dead easy,' says the old lumberman. 'I don't even need a pencil to figger it out,' says he. 'Jest balance thet plank on a bit of stick, an' cut her where she balances!' And then the college professor didn't have anything more to say, for he made out the lumberman was a hopeless case." And at this tale all the boys present snickered. "Shadow would have a job climbing up on a gable to measure it," said Phil. "I'd rather do it on paper." Then Polly Vane and Dave gave Shadow some points as to how the problem should be worked out. In some way Link Merwell and Nat Poole got an inkling of the fact that it was known they had done all in their power to break up the initiation ceremonies of the Gee Eyes, and, not to be cornered, both of the boys did all they could to keep out of the reach of their fellow-students. But the Gee Eyes did not forget, and at a special meeting of the club it was voted to give both Poole and Merwell "the cold shoulder" until something more definite could be done. By "the cold shoulder" was meant that no member of the club was to associate with Poole or Merwell or speak to them unless required to do so during school sessions. Outside of the schoolrooms they were to be as utterly ignored as though they did not exist. "I think that will bring Nat Poole to terms, without going further," said Roger. "He hates to be left to himself--I've noticed that many times." "Well, it may have that effect on Nat," answered Dave. "But I think it will only make Merwell more savage," and in this surmise he was correct. The tests proved a severe strain on many of the boys, and Dave was glad when they were over. What the standing of each student was would not be known until later. "Now I'd like to go skating," said he to Roger, but this could not be, for warm weather had set in and the ice and snow were rapidly passing away. That night it rained, and this made everything outside very sloppy. Dave went to bed early, for he was tired out. He slept soundly for several hours and then awoke with a start, for something had brushed his face. He sat up, and was just in time to see a form gliding from the dormitory. "Hello! what can that mean?" he murmured to himself, and then he sprang up. "Guess I'll investigate." And then, putting on a pair of slippers and donning a long overcoat that was handy, he made after the person who had just disappeared. CHAPTER XVII SHADOW HAMILTON'S PERIL When Dave reached the hallway he saw, by a dim light that was burning, a form at the lower end, moving toward a back stairs. An instant later the form glided up the stairs toward the third floor of the school building. The form was in white, and Dave knew it must be one of the students in his nightdress. "Something is going on," he thought. "Wonder if that is Phil or Roger?" Curious to learn what the midnight prowler was up to, Dave followed the unknown to the third story of the building. He saw the fellow walk to a side hall. Here it was almost dark, for the servants' rooms were in that part of the building. He stopped and listened and heard an odd creaking and a scraping sound. Then he went forward once more. Turning into the side hall, a gust of cold wind struck him. He knew it came from overhead, and then he remembered that at the end of the side hall was a ladder leading to a scuttle of the roof. The scuttle had been thrown open, and wind and rain were coming down through the opening. Dave's curiosity was now excited to the top pitch. He felt sure that the servants had not left the scuttle open on retiring or that it had been blown open by the wind. Consequently, the midnight prowler must have opened it, and if so, for what purpose excepting to get out on the wet and slippery roof? Suddenly an idea flashed into Dave's mind, and without further ado he ran to the ladder and mounted it with all speed. At the top he thrust his head through the scuttle opening and looked around that portion of the school roof which was visible from that point. He had expected to see a certain person, but he was disappointed. Yet this did not make him hesitate regarding his course of action. He crawled out on the roof, slippery and treacherous with slush, and made his way cautiously but rapidly to where there were an angle and a high gable, with a wide chimney between. As he gained the side of the chimney and stood there in the rain, slush, and wind, he saw a sight that both thrilled and chilled him. The mysterious student in white was crawling up the gable and was already close to the ridge! "Shadow Hamilton!" murmured Dave. "He is sleep-walking again!" Dave was right--it was indeed poor Shadow, and as fast asleep as a sleep-walker can get. The lad had a tape measure in one hand and was muttering to himself: "If the gable of a house is fourteen feet long on one side, and the angle at the top----" And then the rest was lost in the wind. "He's dreaming of that problem in geometry," said Dave to himself. "It's got on his nerves." He wondered what he could do to aid the sleep-walker. He was afraid to call to Shadow, for fear the boy might awaken suddenly and tumble off the roof. Shadow was now on the ridge, and, to Dave's added horror, he stood upright, the tape measure in his hands. Then he began to walk to the very end of the ridgepole. "If he falls into the yard he'll break his neck sure!" Such was Dave's agonizing thought, and despite the cold, the heavy perspiration stood out on his forehead. "Dave!" It was a voice from the scuttle opening and came so unexpectedly it made the youth start. Turning back, he made out Phil in the dim light. "Phil!" he whispered. "What are you doing up there, Dave?" "I followed Shadow Hamilton." "Shadow?" "Yes. He is sleep-walking again and has climbed to the ridge of the gable roof. I don't dare to awaken him for fear of an accident." "I saw you go out and I was wondering what was up. Then I missed Shadow and came after you. It's too bad, Dave! But I imagine the very best thing you can do is to let him alone until he comes back." "I don't like to take the responsibility, Phil. If anything should happen I'd never forgive myself. I'll tell you what I wish you'd do." "What?" "Run and call Mr. Dale. He knows something about these cases. He once told me he had a brother who walked in his sleep and did all sorts of strange things." "All right, I'll call him," answered the shipowner's son, and disappeared down the scuttle ladder. Going back to the chimney, Dave now saw that Shadow had reached the end of the ridgepole and was kneeling down upon it. Holding out the tape measure he proceeded to make several imaginary measurements, all the while muttering to himself. The sight almost caused Dave's heart to stop beating, for the slightest miscalculation on the sleep-walker's part would have caused a serious if not fatal accident. After what seemed a long time Dave heard Phil coming back. He was accompanied by Andrew Dale, the head teacher, who had stopped just long enough to get on some of his clothing. "Where is he?" whispered Mr. Dale, as he came out in the wind and rain. "There," answered Dave, and pointed out the form of the sleep-walker. "Have you tried to speak to him?" "No, I was afraid." "Then, don't say a word till he comes down to a safer place." After that the three watched Shadow Hamilton for several minutes while he continued his calculation and used the tape measure. Then they saw the sleep-walker wind up the measure. "He is coming down!" whispered Phil, and he was right. Slowly Shadow climbed down from the gable roof and made his way toward the scuttle. He had taken but a few steps when suddenly he slipped and fell. "Oh!" he cried, and looked around in bewilderment. "Where----" "Shadow!" cried Dave, and caught him by the arm. "You are all right, so don't worry." "But where am I?" insisted the sleep-walker. "On the roof." "You have been walking in your sleep, Hamilton," explained Mr. Dale. "Come, let me help you down the ladder. You are soaked through, and if you don't get into a warm bed very quickly you may catch your death of cold." Completely bewildered, Shadow allowed himself to be taken to the ladder and aided to descend. Then the scuttle was closed and hooked. "I do not think it best for you to go back to the dormitory," said the head teacher. "I'll put you in a warm room by yourself. But perhaps it would be as well for somebody to stay with you for the rest of the night," and Andrew Dale looked questioningly at Dave and Phil. "I'll stay," said Dave, quickly. "Very well. To-morrow we'll talk this over and see what is best to do. There is no use in trying to do so now, when we are all cold, wet, and tired." The head teacher led the way to a private bedroom that was well heated and had Dave go back to the dormitory for some extra clothing. Then he left Dave and Shadow to themselves. "This breaks me all up," said Shadow, moodily. "I thought I was all over those tricks." "It was the hard study did it, and the tests," answered Dave. "You had that geometrical problem in your mind and couldn't get rid of it. Maybe you'll never walk in your sleep again." "I sincerely trust not, Dave. It was good of you and the others to help me," and Shadow gave his chum a grateful look. "We did very little, Shadow--indeed, I didn't know what to do. But when I saw you on the very end of the ridge I can tell you my heart was in my throat." Before going to bed both boys indulged in a good rubbing down and consequently the exposure to the elements did them no harm. In the morning Shadow was excused from attending school and Horsehair was sent to town to get some of the medicine which the sleep-walker had taken in the past, after the exposure of his former exploits during the night. With the coming of spring the boys had a vacation of several days. A few of the students went home, but the majority remained at Oak Hall, and, to pass away the time, indulged in all sorts of sports and pastimes, including a funny initiation of the Soden brothers. At New Year a new gymnasium teacher had been engaged,--a fine man, who was an expert gymnast and also a good boxer and fencer. Since coming back to the Hall, Dave had become interested in both boxing and fencing, and spent some time under the new instructor. "I believe a chap ought to know how to defend himself," he said to Roger. "In knocking around one doesn't know what kind of a hole he may be placed in,--and you can never know too much." "Well, I like boxing and fencing myself," answered the senator's son, and after that he and Dave had many a time together, with the foils and gloves. Link Merwell did not care much for fencing, but he took readily to boxing, and he caused Nat Poole to take up the sport. As the pair were still totally ignored by the Gee Eyes they had to box against one another or with some of the younger lads. "Those fellows are afraid to box with me," said Link Merwell, on several occasions. "They know that I can do every one of them up in short order." He referred to Dave and his chums, and made the assertion in the presence of a large crowd of students. At first none of the Gee Eyes paid any attention to the bully, but gradually the boasting nettled them, and some of them talked it over. Then came a report from little Frank Bond to the effect that Link Merwell was saying he had asked Dave to box him and the latter had declined because he was afraid. "Dave, if I were you, I wouldn't stand for that," said Buster Beggs. "What am I to do?" asked Dave. "The Gee Eyes voted to leave Merwell and Poole severely alone, and I've got to stick by my word." "Well, I guess they'll vote for the boxing contest--if you want to stand up before him." "I certainly am not afraid to do so." As a consequence of this talk, Buster spoke to Luke Watson, and there was a hasty meeting of the Gee Eyes and it was voted that Dave should box Merwell if he so desired. Not knowing of this meeting and of its result, Link Merwell strode into the gymnasium the next afternoon, in company with Nat Poole, and proceeded to put on a pair of boxing gloves. "Too bad, Nat, but I can't wake any of those fellows up," he said, loudly. "Every one of 'em is afraid to face me." "How about Dave Porter?" asked Nat Poole, in an equally loud tone. "Worst of the bunch. I guess he's afraid I'll knock the head off of him." These words were spoken so that Dave might hear them. There were a few seconds of silence, and then Dave walked up to Merwell. "So you think I am afraid to box you, Merwell?" he said, quietly. "Oh, so you've woke up, eh?" sneered the bully. "Thought you and your crowd had gone to sleep." "I want to know if you think I am afraid to box you?" "Of course you are afraid." "You are mistaken--and I'll prove it to you in very short order. How soon do you want to box?" At this Link Merwell was taken by surprise, and his face showed it. But he was "game," and drew himself up. "Any time you want me to box you I'll be ready." "Then we'll box right now," answered Dave. CHAPTER XVIII THE BOXING BOUT "A boxing match!" "I think Dave Porter will win." "I don't know about that. Link Merwell has been doing a great deal of boxing lately and has it down pretty fine." "That may be, but Dave is as quick as they make them." So the talk ran on, as the boys in the gymnasium gathered around the would-be contestants. They felt that, no matter who won, they were going to see something worth while. Many secretly hoped that the boxing match would degenerate into a regular fight, for they knew that Dave and Merwell were bitter enemies, and the majority wanted to see the big bully soundly whipped. "We'll have to have a referee and a timekeeper," said Dave. "Who shall they be?" "A referee and a timekeeper?" repeated Link Merwell. "Why don't you start her up and have done with it?" "This is to be no prize fight, Merwell. I shall box you for points only." "Oh!" The bully put as much of a sneer into the exclamation as possible. "Afraid to finish it up, eh?" "Perhaps you'll get all you want before we stop," answered Dave, calmly. "What kind of gloves do you want? The thickest in the place, I suppose." "No, a medium glove will do for me. Mr. Dodsworth recommends the number five." "Humph! I'm willing to box with a number one if you wish!" "We might as well box without gloves as with number ones. This is to be no slugging match, as I intimated before. If you are afraid to box for points say so." "Oh, I'll box you any way you please. Who do you want for timekeeper and referee?" "Any boy with a good watch can keep time. I think Mr. Dodsworth ought to be the referee." "Nat Poole can judge it all right," growled Merwell. "He's not acceptable to me," answered Dave, promptly. "The gym. teacher is all right," said Roger. "He'll know just what every move counts." Link Merwell wished to argue, but Dave would not listen, and in the end the services of the new gymnasium teacher were called in. Mr. Dodsworth smiled when told of what was on foot. "Very well, I'll be referee," he said. "Now, let me warn you against all foul moves. You both know the rules. Let this be a purely scientific struggle for points. Length of each round two minutes, with two minutes intermission. How many rounds do you want to have?" "To a finish," said Link Merwell, and he glared wickedly at Dave. "No, I'll not allow that, for it is too exhausting. Let us say ten rounds. That will give you twenty minutes of hot work. Here, I will give my watch to Lambertson and he can keep the time." And he passed the watch over to the student mentioned. The way matters had been arranged did not suit Link Merwell at all, yet he felt forced to submit or acknowledge that he was afraid of Dave. He had wished for a free-and-easy match and had hoped, on the sly, to get in a foul blow or two which might knock Dave out. Now, under the keen eyes of the gymnasium instructor, he knew he would have to be careful of his every movement. The preliminaries arranged, the two boxers faced each other, while the students gathered thickly in a large circle around them. The circle was protected by benches, giving to the scene something of the air of a professional boxing ring. "Ready!" called out Mr. Dodsworth. "Go!" he cried. But there was very little "go" at the start. Both boxers were on the alert and they circled around slowly, looking for an opening. Then Merwell made a pass, which Dave warded off easily. Then Dave landed on his opponent's breast, Merwell came back with a blow in the shoulder, and Dave, ducking, sent in two in quick succession on the bully's neck and ear. Then time was called. "How does that stand?" asked some of the boys. "I'll tell you later," said Mr. Dodsworth, as he penciled something on a bit of paper. "Oh, tell us now!" they pleaded. But the instructor was obdurate. And while the lads were pleading round two was called. The contestants were now warming up, and blows were given and taken freely. Link Merwell was forced back twice, and was glad when time was called by Lambertson. "Don't get too anxious," said the instructor, during the recess. "Remember, this is for points." Again the two boys went at it, and the third, fourth, and fifth rounds were mixed up freely. All present had to acknowledge that Link Merwell boxed quite well, but they saw that the points were in Dave's favor. Dave had perfect control of himself, while the bully was getting excited. "I'll show you something now!" cried Merwell as they came up for round six. He flew at Dave like a wild animal. But Dave was on the alert and dodged and ducked in a manner that brought constant applause. Then, almost before anybody knew it, he landed on the bully's jaw, his cheek, and then his nose. "O my! Look at that!" "Say, that was swift, wasn't it?" The three blows had thrown Merwell off his balance, and he recovered with difficulty. "He--he fouled me!" he panted. "No foul!" answered the gymnasium instructor, and just then time was called. "Maybe Merwell would like to call it off," suggested Dave. "Not much! I'll show you yet!" roared the bully. "I'll have you to know----" "Merwell, you'll do better if you'll keep your excitement down," advised the instructor. "'Keep cool,' is an excellent motto." "Dave, you're doing well," whispered Roger. "Keep it up and Merwell won't know where he is at by the end of the tenth round." "I intend to keep it up," was the answer. "I started out to teach that bully a lesson and I'll do it--if it is in me." And it was in Dave--as the seventh and eighth rounds showed. In the latter round he practically had the bully at his mercy, and boxed him all around the ring. The calling of time found Merwell panting for breath and so confused he could hardly see. "I think you had better give it up," said the gymnasium instructor. "Merwell, you have had enough." "Say, are you going to give this boxing match to Porter?" roared the bully. "Yes, for he has won it fairly. He already has twenty-six points to your seven." "It ain't fair! I can lick him any day!" "It is not a question of 'licking' anybody, Merwell. This was a boxing bout for points, and you are no longer in condition to box. I declare Porter the winner, and I congratulate him on his clean and clever work with the gloves." "He--he fouled me." "Not at all. If there was any fouling it was done by you in the sixth and seventh rounds. I might have disqualified you then if I had been very particular about it. But I saw that Porter was willing to let you go on." This was the bitterest pill of all for Link Merwell to swallow. To think he might have been disqualified but that Dave Porter had been given the chance to continue hammering him! He wanted to argue, but no one except Nat Poole would listen to him, and so he strode out of the gymnasium in disgust, accompanied by his crony. "It makes me sick," he muttered. "Everybody stands up for Porter, no matter what he does!" "Well, you see he has a way of worming in with everybody," answered Nat Poole. "A decent chap wouldn't do it, but you couldn't expect anything different from a poorhouse boy, could you?" When alone he and Merwell frequently referred to Dave as "a poorhouse boy," but both took good care not to use that term in public, remembering what punishment it had brought down on their heads. "He'll crow over us worse than ever now," resumed Merwell. "Oh, but don't I wish I could square up with him and the rest of the Gee Eyes!" "We'll do it some day,--when we get the chance," said Poole. "Come on and have a smoke; it will help to quiet you." And then he and the bully walked away from Oak Hall to a secluded spot, where they might indulge themselves in the forbidden pastime of smoking cigarettes. Both were inveterate smokers and had to exercise extreme caution that knowledge of the offense might not reach Doctor Clay or his assistants. Finding a comfortable spot, the boys sat down on a fallen tree and there consumed one cigarette after another, trying to be real "mannish" by inhaling the smoke and blowing it through the nose. As they smoked they talked of many things, the conversation finally drifting around to Vera Rockwell and Mary Feversham. "I understand Phil Lawrence is daffy over that Feversham girl," remarked Poole. "She is a fairly good sort, but she wouldn't suit me." He said this because Mary had snubbed him on several occasions when they had met in Oakdale. "Well, I heard Roger Morr was daffy over that Rockwell girl," answered Merwell. "And I heard, too, that Porter was likely to cut him out." "Porter cut him out!" exclaimed Nat Poole. "Who told you that? Why, Dave Porter is too thick with Jessie Wadsworth to think much of anybody else." "Are you sure of that?" "Yes. Why, when Porter is home the two are as thick as can be. I am sure that Jessie Wadsworth thinks the world of him, too, although why is beyond my comprehension," added the dudish student. He had not forgotten how Jessie had also snubbed him, when invitations were being sent out for her party. "Humph!" Link Merwell puffed at his cigarette in silence for a moment. "You say they are thick,--and still he goes out with this Vera Rockwell. Kind of funny mix-up, eh?" "Oh, I suppose he has a right to do as he pleases," drawled Nat. "Say, we might----" Merwell stopped short and blew a quantity of cigarette smoke from his nose. "Might what?" "Oh, I was just thinking, Nat----" And the bully stopped again. "If you don't want me to know, say so," returned the dudish student, crossly. "I was thinking that perhaps we could put a spoke in Dave Porter's wheel in a manner that he'd never suspect. If he's somewhat sweet on that Wadsworth girl, and at the same time giving his attention to Vera Rockwell, we ought to be able to do something." "What?" "Supposing that Wadsworth girl heard he was running around with a girl up here, and supposing Vera Rockwell heard about the Crumville maiden? Maybe Dave Porter would have some work straightening matters out, eh?" "By Jove, you're right!" cried Nat Poole. "It's a great scheme, Link! If we work it right, we can get him in the hottest kind of water--especially if he thinks a good deal of both girls." "And that isn't all," added Link Merwell, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Don't forget Roger Morr. If he thinks a good deal of Vera Rockwell we'll manage to put a flea in his ear,--that Porter is trying to cut him out in an underhanded way. I reckon that will split up the friendship between Porter and Morr pretty quick." "So it will!" Nat Poole's eyes fairly beamed. "This is the best plan yet, Link! Let us put it into execution at once. How shall we go at it?" "That remains to be seen," said Merwell. And then and there the pair plotted to get Dave and his friends into "the hottest kind of water," as the bully expressed it, and break up the closest of friendships. CHAPTER XIX AT THE EXPRESS OFFICE "Dave, we want you to take part in the entertainment we are getting up." It was Luke Watson who spoke. Luke had been working like a Trojan to get all the talent of the school into line for what he said was going to be "the best show Oak Hall ever put up, and don't you forget it." "I'm willing to help you out, Luke, but what do you want me to do?" returned Dave. "I am no actor." "I know what he can do," said Buster. "He and Link Merwell can give a boxing match." And this caused a short laugh. "Say, that puts me in mind of a story," came from Shadow. "One day a very nice lady----" "Say, Shadow, remember what I told you," broke in Luke. "If you've got any real good, new stories keep them until the entertainment. You are down for a ten-minutes' monologue, and it will take quite a few yarns to fill the time." "Huh! Don't you worry--I can tell stories for ten hours," answered the story-teller of the school. "Well, as I was saying, one day a very nice lady called on another lady with a friend. Says she, 'Mrs. Smith, allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Tarnose.' Now, as it happened, Mrs. Smith was rather deaf so she says, 'Excuse me, but I didn't catch the name.' 'Miss Tarnose,' repeated the lady, a little louder. 'I really can't hear you,' says Mrs. Smith. Then the lady fairly bawled, 'I said Miss Tarnose!' But Mrs. Smith only looked puzzled. 'I'm sorry,' she said at last. 'My hearing must be worse. I'd hate to say what it sounded like to me. It was just like Tarnose!'" And then there was another short laugh. "I asked Plum to take part," went on Luke. "He said he'd like to do a dialogue, if he could get anybody to assist. He said he had a pretty good piece." "I might do that," answered Dave, readily. "Would you go on with Plum?" "Certainly, Luke." "Well, I thought----" Luke Watson stopped short and shrugged his shoulders. "I feel that Gus is now one of us, Luke, and I wish the other fellows would feel the same." "Here he comes now," said Buster, in a low tone, as Gus Plum came into sight at the door of the schoolroom in which the talk was taking place. Gus looked pale and somewhat disturbed. "Hello, Plum!" sang out Luke. "Come here, we want you." "Luke says you think of doing a dialogue for the show," said Dave. "What have you got? If it's something I can do, I may go in with you." "Will you, Dave?" The face of the former bully of Oak Hall brightened instantly. "I'd like that first-rate. The dialogue I have is called 'Looking for a Job.' I think it is very funny, and we might make it still more funny if both of us spoke in a brogue, or if one of us blacked up as a darky." "Let me read the dialogue," said Dave. "And if I think I can do it, I'll go in with you." The upshot of this conversation was that Dave and Plum went over the dialogue with care. Between them they made some changes and added a few lines, bringing in some fun of a local nature. Then it was decided that Gus Plum should assume the character of a darky and Dave should fix up as a German immigrant. "Maybe, if we work hard, we can make our piece the hit of the show," said Dave. That afternoon he wrote a letter to his sister Laura and also one to Jessie, telling them of what was going on and adding he was sorry they would not be there to see the entertainment. By hard work Luke Watson got over twenty boys of Oak Hall to take part in the show. There were to be several dialogues as well as Shadow's monologue, some singing, and some banjo and guitar playing, also a humorous drill, given by six youths who called themselves The Rough Walkers, in place of The Rough Riders. One student also promised a set of lantern pictures, from photographs taken in and near Oak Hall during the past term. At first Doctor Clay said the show must be for the students only, but the boys begged to have a few outsiders, and in the end each lad was told he could invite three outsiders, and was given three tickets for that purpose. Dave sent his tickets to his father, but he doubted if any one at home would make use of them. "I sent one ticket home," said Phil, "and I sent the other two to Mary Feversham. I hope she comes." "Want her to come with the other fellow?" queried Dave, with a twinkle in his eye. "Oh, I thought maybe she'd come with Vera Rockwell." "That would suit Roger, Phil." "Yes, and it would suit you, too, Dave. Oh, you needn't look that way. I know you think Vera Rockwell is a nice girl." "That's true, but----" "No 'buts' about it, my boy. I know a thing when I see it. I guess she thinks a lot of you, too." "Now, Phil----" began Dave; but just then some other boys appeared and the rather delicate subject had to be dropped. Dave had procured a theatrical book on how to make up for all sorts of characters, and he and Plum studied this and got their costumes ready. Both were truly comical outfits, and each lad had to laugh at the other when they put them on. "We must keep them a secret," said Dave. "It will spoil half the fun to let the others know how we are going to be dressed. We don't want a soul to know until we step on the stage." And so it was agreed. Several of the boys had ordered face paints and some other things from the city, to be sent by mail and express, and when some of the articles did not come to hand, there was a good deal of anxiety. Dave was minus a red wig which he had ordered and paid for, and Phil wanted some paint and a rubber bulldog. "Let us go to Oakdale and stir up the postmaster and the express agent," said Dave, and he and the shipowner's son set out for the town directly after breakfast on the morning of the day that the entertainment was to come off. As the roads were in fairly good condition, the strong winds having dried them up, the two lads made the trip to town on their bicycles. This did not take long, and reaching Oakdale they left their wheels at a drug store, where they stopped to get some red fire that was to be burned during a tableau. At the post office they were in luck, for two packages had just come in, containing some things for which they had been waiting. "I hope we have as good luck at the express office," said Phil. The office mentioned was located at one end of the depot. Here they met Mr. Goode, the agent, with whom they were fairly well acquainted. "A package for you?" said the agent, looking speculatively at Dave. "Why, yes, I've got a package for you. Come in. I was going to send it up some time to-day or to-morrow." "To-morrow would have been too late," answered Dave. "I need the stuff to-day." The boys followed the agent into the stuffy little express office. Mr. Goode walked to a heap of packages lying in a corner and began to turn them over. "Hum!" he murmured. "Don't seem to be here. I had it yesterday." He continued to hunt around, and then went to a receipt book lying on his desk. He studied several pages for some minutes. "Why, you must have gotten it," he said. "No, I didn't." "It's signed for." "Well, I didn't sign for it," answered Dave, positively. And then he added, "Let me see that signature." Mr. Goode shoved the receipt book toward him and pointed out the signature. It was a mere scrawl in leadpencil, that might stand for almost anything. It was certainly not in the least like Dave's handwriting. "I was out yesterday afternoon," continued the express agent. "Went to a funeral. Dave Case kept office for me. Maybe he can tell you about it. Probably some of the other students got the package for you." Dave Case was the driver of the local express wagon. He was out on a trip and would not be back for half an hour. This being so, there was nothing for Phil and Dave to do but to wait. "If some of the other fellows got that package it's queer they didn't say anything," said Dave, as he and his chum walked slowly down the main street. "They must know I am anxious--with the show to come off to-night. If I don't get that wig my part won't be nearly so good." The boys reached a corner and were standing there, not knowing what to do, when two girls crossed over, coming from a dry-goods store. "Hello!" cried Phil, and his face lit up with pleasure. "Here are Mary Feversham and Vera Rockwell." He stepped forward, tipped his hat and shook hands, and then Dave did the same. "I must thank you for the tickets, Mr. Lawrence," said Mary, sweetly. "It was very kind of you to send them." "I hope you will come," returned the shipowner's son, eagerly. "Yes, I shall be there, for I do want to hear you boys sing and act. I am coming with my mother." "I am going, too," added Vera. "Roger Morr sent my brother two tickets and invited us. Bob is home for a couple of days, so it comes in real handy." And Vera smiled at both Dave and Phil. "I suppose you are going to give us something fine--a real city vaudeville show." "We are going to do our best," answered Dave, modestly. "Dave is in a little trouble," continued the shipowner's son, and told about the missing express package. "Oh, I hope you get the wig!" cried Vera. "A red one will look so becoming!" And she laughed heartily. "And he is to have a big red mustache, too," said Phil. "Hold on, Phil, you mustn't give away any professional secrets!" cried Dave. "Oh, I just dote on red mustaches," exclaimed Vera. "They make a man look like a--a---- Oh, I don't know what!" "Oh, Vera, you're awful!" interposed Mary. "What do you know about red mustaches, anyway?" "She never had one, did she?" remarked Dave, calmly, and at this both girls shrieked with laughter. "But never mind," he went on. "After I am done with it, she can have mine." And this brought forth more laughter. The girls and boys had come to a halt directly in front of a new candy and ice-cream establishment, and it was but natural that Phil should suggest to Dave that they go in and get some candy. The girls demurred at first at being treated, but then consented, and all went into the store. Dave purchased some assorted chocolates and Phil some fancy fig pastes, the girls saying they liked both. "As it's a new store, the candies ought to be fresh," remarked Dave. "Well, I like them best that way," answered Vera, as she helped herself to a chocolate. "I don't care for them when they are stale--and it is sometimes hard to get them fresh in a small town like this. The stores----" She stopped short, for at the door of the candy establishment they almost ran into a party of two girls and a man. One of the girls--the younger--was staring very hard at Dave. "Why, father!" cried Dave, in astonishment. "And you, too, Laura and Jessie! Why, this is a surprise!" And he hastened to shake hands all around. "I didn't dream of your coming." "I just made them come," said Laura, giving him a kiss. "How are you, Phil?" and she shook hands with the shipowner's son. When Dave took Jessie's hand he felt it tremble a little. The girl said a few commonplace words but all the time kept looking at Vera. "Let me introduce our friends," said Phil, and proceeded to go through the ceremony. "We have just been buying some candy. Come, have some," and he held out the box he had bought. Laura took some, but Jessie shook her head. "Thank you, not to-day, Phil," Jessie said, and there seemed to be a little catch in her throat. Then Dave looked at her fully in the eyes, and of a sudden she turned her head away. Somehow he suspected that Jessie wanted to cry, and he wondered why. CHAPTER XX A MISUNDERSTANDING Mr. Porter explained that they had just come in on the train, and were looking for some conveyance to take them to Oak Hall. "We thought we might call on you for an hour or so and then come back and put up at the Oakdale Hotel," he said. "I'll certainly be glad to have you call," answered Dave. Then he told about the missing express package. In the meantime Laura conversed with Mary and Vera, but nothing was said about how the boys and girls had chanced to meet. Then Mary and Vera said they must attend to some errands and get home. "Well, we'll look for you to-night, sure!" cried Phil. "We'll be there," answered Mary. "I wouldn't miss it for a good deal," said Vera. "I want to see that red mustache and wig, if nothing else!" And she laughed, merrily. "You won't see the wig unless my package is found," answered Dave; and then the two girls hurried away. Mr. Porter led the way to the local hotel, situated close to the depot, and there registered his party for dinner and supper. "You can take dinner with us," said he to his son and Phil. "I'll write a note to Doctor Clay, so there will be no trouble." "We can't stay very long after dinner," answered Dave. "I must look up that package,--and all hands want some kind of a rehearsal." The boys walked to the express office, but Case had not come back, so they had to go to dinner without hearing from the driver. The five sat at a separate table, and Dave had Laura on one side and Jessie on the other. He did his best to make himself agreeable to Jessie, but she did not warm up as was usual with her, and this made his heart feel rather heavy. "Why, Jessie, you don't act like yourself," he said, after dinner, and while the others were sitting somewhat apart from them in the hotel parlor. "Don't I?" she asked. "No, you don't. What is the matter, don't you feel well?" And his face showed his concern. "Oh, yes, I feel very well." Her lips trembled a little. "I--I guess I am out of sorts, that's all." "It's too bad." "Oh, I'll soon get over it, I suppose." Jessie gave a sigh. "Tell me about your doings, Dave. I suppose you are having hard work at school and like to get out and meet some of your Oakdale friends." "Why, yes, I like to get out sometimes." "Those seem to be very nice girls." "Yes, they are. Phil is quite fond of one of them, too." "Which one?" "Mary Feversham. We became acquainted with them in quite an odd way," and he told of the big snowball and the ice-boat. "That Vera Rockwell seems to think a great deal of you, Dave." "Do you think so? Well, I think she is a nice----" "Dave, there is the expressman now!" called out Phil, from his position near a window. "Come on, if you want to find out about that package." "All right," answered Dave, and for the time being he forgot all about what he was going to say to Jessie--that he thought Vera nice but not as nice as Jessie herself--something which might have gone a long way toward heading off the trouble that was brewing. For boys and girls will often think a great deal of each other--and a heartache at fourteen or sixteen is often as real, if not as lasting, as at twenty or older. Since the day Dave had saved Jessie's life he had been her one hero and her closest boy chum, and now to find him in the society of another and for him to say she was nice---- And then there was more than this, an anonymous letter, concocted by Link Merwell and Nat Poole and sent to her by mail. That letter had said some terrible things about Dave--things she could not and would not believe, and yet things which made her very miserable. "I suppose he has a right to make such friends as he pleases," she thought. "It is none of my affair, and I have no right to spoil his pleasure by saying anything." And then she brushed away the tears that would come into her eyes in spite of her efforts to keep them back. At the express office Dave and Phil found Mr. Goode already questioning the wagon driver about the missing package. "I turned it over to a boy who said he belonged to Oak Hall school and would give it to Dave Porter," said the driver. "I thought you had it by this time. He signed for it--leastwise he put that scrawl on the book." "What was his name?" asked Dave. "I asked him, but he mumbled something I didn't catch. I didn't pay much attention, for I thought it was all right." "What sort of looking chap was he?" asked Phil. As best he could the wagon driver described the individual. The description might have fitted half a dozen lads, until he mentioned a four-in-hand tie of bright blue with white daggers splashed over it. "Merwell wears a tie like that!" cried Phil. "I have seen it several times." "What would he be doing with my package, Phil?" "What? Why, maybe he knew about the wig and wanted to spoil your part of the show. It would be like him to play such a trick." "That's true," answered Dave, and then he asked the wagon driver if the boy had worn a ring with a ruby. "Yes, a fine large stone," answered the man. "Then it was Link Merwell," said Dave, decidedly. "Now the question is, What has he done with the package?" "I don't think he'd dare to destroy it," answered Phil. "Probably he hid it away somewhere." "I'll soon find out. Come on, Phil." "Going to tax him with it?" "Yes. He hasn't any right to touch my property, or to sign my name." Hurrying back to the hotel, the boys told of what they had learned. Then they got their bicycles and pedaled with all speed in the direction of Oak Hall. Dave felt very much out of sorts, not only because the package was missing but also over the meeting with Jessie. It was the first time that there had been any coldness between them--for he felt that it was a coldness, although he could not explain it. Arriving at the school, they learned that Link Merwell had taken a walk with Nat Poole. Chip Macklin pointed out the direction, and Dave and Phil went after the pair. They were not surprised to catch the cronies smoking on some rocks behind a growth of underbrush near the highway beyond the campus. As Dave and his chum came up Poole and Merwell threw their cigarettes away. "Merwell, what did you do with my express package?" demanded Dave, coming at once to the point. The words made the bully start, but he quickly recovered and arose slowly to his feet. "Want to see me?" he drawled. "I want my express package." "Don't know what you are talking about." "Yes, you do. Where is the package? I want it at once." "You took it out of the express office, and we can prove it," added Phil. "Humph!" growled Link Merwell. "Are you going to give up the package or not?" demanded Dave. "Who says I--er--took, any package of yours?" blustered the bully, trying to put on a bold front. "I say so," declared Dave. "And you not only took it but you signed for it. Merwell, do you know that signing another person's name without permission is forgery?" he went on, pointedly. At these plain words Link Merwell grew pale. "I--er--I didn't sign your name." "You pretended to sign it, and that's the same thing. You got the package from the office by fraud." "No, I didn't. I said I'd take it to the school, and I did." "Then where is it?" "In your dormitory." "Where?" "On the top shelf of the closet--been there since yesterday," and now Link Merwell leered over the joke he had played. "Ha! ha! ha!" came from Nat Poole. "That's one on you, Dave Porter." "It was a mean trick to play," was Phil's comment. "Did you open that package?" demanded Dave. "No, I didn't touch it, excepting to bring it from the express office." "Very well then, Merwell. If I find anything wrong I'll hold you responsible." "Say, you needn't try to scare me!" "I am not trying to scare you--I am merely giving you warning. I won't put up with any of your underhand work, and I want you to know it," answered Dave, and turning on his heel he walked back to the school, followed by Phil. "He's mad all right," whispered Nat Poole. "Maybe he has heard from that Crumville girl in a way he didn't like," returned Link Merwell, and closed one eye suggestively. "Well, if he did, I hope she didn't say anything about the letter," answered Nat Poole, somewhat uneasily. "That was awfully strong." "Pooh! Don't get scared Nat; nobody will ever find out who wrote that letter, if we keep our mouths shut." Going up to the dormitory, Dave found the package on the shelf of the closet, as Merwell had said. It was tucked behind some other things, well out of sight. "It was certainly a well-planned trick," said the shipowner's son, while Dave was opening the package. "He did this so, if he was found out, he could say he gave the package to you and could bring the doctor here to prove it. Perhaps he had in mind to add that you had hidden the package yourself, just to get him into trouble." "Maybe you're right, Phil; I believe Merwell equal to almost anything." Fortunately the contents of the package had not been disturbed. Having ascertained that much, Dave went off to find Gus Plum, so that they might have a final rehearsal of the little play they were to enact. In the lower hall he ran into Job Haskers. "Porter, I want to see you!" cried the assistant teacher, harshly. "You were absent at dinner time. You know that is contrary to the rules. What have you to say for yourself?" "I met my father in Oakdale, sir--he is coming to the entertainment to-night. He asked Phil Lawrence and myself to dine with him. I have a note for the doctor from him explaining the matter." "Hum! Very well," answered Job Haskers, and hurried off without another word. Dave smiled grimly to himself, and lost no time in taking the note to the doctor, who excused him and Phil readily. Dave learned from Shadow that Gus Plum had been in the school but had gone off in the direction of the old boathouse. Feeling that it was growing late Dave hurried after the missing student. Just as he neared the old boathouse, which stood partly on some rocks and partly over the river, he heard a strange crash of glass. "Hello, what's that?" he asked himself, and ran forward to see. "There! you'll never tempt me again!" he heard, in Gus Plum's voice. Then he turned the corner of the old boathouse and saw the former bully of Oak Hall standing near some rocks. At his feet lay the remains of a big bottle. Plum looked pale and as if he had been fighting. "Oh, Gus!" cried Dave, and then stopped short and looked at the broken bottle and at the stuff flowing over the rocks. "Dave!" returned the big youth. And then he added, simply: "It was a bottle of wine, and rather than keep it to be tempted, I smashed it." CHAPTER XXI IN WHICH THE BOYS GIVE AN ENTERTAINMENT "Gus, that was the bravest thing you ever did!" And so speaking, Dave caught the other youth by the hand and shoulder and held him for a moment. "Oh, I don't know about that," was the hesitating reply. "I--I should have smashed it when I received it." "Where did you get the wine, if I may ask?" "It was sent to me by Link Merwell." "What!" Dave's manner showed his great astonishment. "Do you mean to say he sent you that, knowing that you were trying to give up the habit?" "Yes. He says I am a fool to listen to you--said I was tied to your coat-tail--that I ought to be independent. He says a little drinking won't hurt anybody." "Gus, he is trying to--to----" Dave could not finish the sentence, for he did not want to hurt Plum's feelings. "Yes, I know. He'd like to see me down and out, as the saying goes. He hates me because I won't chum with him any longer." "The less you have to do with him the better, Gus." "I know that, and just before I came out here to break that bottle I sent him a note telling him that if he sent me any more such stuff I'd break the next bottle over his head!" And Plum's face glowed with some of his old-time assertiveness. "Well, I shouldn't blame you for that, Gus. I rather think your threat will keep him in the background for a while." Dave could realize something of the struggle which the former bully had had, to throw the bottle of wine away. But he did not know all--how for three hours the poor lad had wavered between drinking and abstaining--and that it was only the thoughts of Dave, and of his mother and home, that had kept him in the right path. Leading the way to the new boathouse, Dave found a spot where they would not be interrupted, and here he and Plum went to work on their dialogue, making such final changes as seemed best. "I've had my troubles with Merwell, too," said Dave, and told about the express package. "He seems bound to bring us to grief." "He's a bad egg--the worst in the school," was Gus Plum's comment. It must be confessed that all the boys were a little nervous as the time approached for the entertainment. It was to take place in the large assembly room of Oak Hall, and the platform had been transformed into something of a stage, with side curtains and a drop, and a back scene hired from a distant theater and representing a garden. The room itself was decorated with flags and bunting, and looked cozy and inviting. Promptly on time the visitors began to arrive, some from Oakdale and others from a distance. The boys to take part in the show were behind the scenes, while others showed the visitors to seats, so that Dave did not see any of his friends or relatives until later. The programme had been divided into two parts, of five numbers each, including an opening song by all the players, and a closing farce written merely to bring in all the characters. "Now, fellows, do your best," said Luke Watson, as the school orchestra played the overture. "Make it as near like a professional show as possible." "Say, that puts me in mind of a story," came from Shadow. "Once some young ladies---- But, pshaw! I'll save that for the stage," he added, and broke off suddenly. The opening number went very well, and then came a playlet by four of the boys representing four sailors ashore after an ocean trip of five years. The sailors did not apparently know how to act in a big city and did so many ridiculous things that the applause was long and loud. A musical number followed, introducing banjo playing by Luke, a guitar solo by Henshaw, a cornet solo by a lad named Dixon, and then a trio by the three. Then came fancy dumbbell exercises and club-swinging by three members of the gymnasium club, and this too went very well, the exercisers keeping time to a march played by the orchestra. The next number was Shadow's monologue, and when that youth came out everybody had to laugh before he said a word. He was dressed as an extreme dude, with big checked coat and trousers, fancy colored vest, a tremendous watch-chain, and paste diamond stud, very pointed patent leather shoes, a high standing collar, and a highly-polished silk hat. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys, girls, and fellow-weepers," he commenced with a profound bow and a flourish of his silk hat, "I have been asked an important question, namely, What is the difference between a cat and a shotgun? Well, I don't know, excepting that both can go off, but it's only the feline that comes back. Now, that puts me in mind of a story I once heard while traveling in Egypt with Noah, looking for a typewriter which was lost overboard from the ark. A little boy went to a hardware store for his dad and hung around waiting to be waited on. At last a clerk asked, 'Well, little boy, what do you want?' 'Oh,' says the little boy, 'I want a fire engine, an' a hobby horse, an' a automobile, an' a lot o' things, but papa he wants a bottle of glue, an' he says if it don't stick he'll stick you for it!' Now, that's the same boy who went to the courthouse to get courtplaster for his mother and then went down to the henhouse to look for egg plants." There was considerable applause over this opening, and Shadow continued: "That hand-clapping puts me in mind of another story. A would-be actor had joined a barn-storming company, and the company opened in a little place on Staten Island where the mosquitoes are manufactured by the ton, gross, or hogshead, just as you want 'em. Well, as soon as the play commenced, the would-be actor thought he heard a lot of applause. Says he to the scene-shifter: 'We've got 'em a-going, haven't we?' 'I don't know if you have or not,' answered the scene-shifter. 'I know the mosquitoes have some of 'em a-going, by the way they're slapping at 'em!' Well, that company busted up and the would-be actor had to come home on a trolley-car because he couldn't afford the train. He had only a nickel, and that he put into his mouth, and all at once it went down. 'What's the matter?' asked the conductor. 'I--I swallowed my nickel--the only one I had!' gasped the would-be actor. 'Never mind, I'll ring it up,' said the conductor, and he did. And then the actor didn't know if he was a nickel in or a nickel out." This brought forth more applause, and Shadow continued to tell one story or joke after another, in rapid succession, until the entire audience was roaring. When he made his bow and disappeared behind a side curtain his monologue was voted by all one of the hits of the evening. "It was all right," said Dave. "I only hope our playlet goes as well." The playlet came in the middle of Part Two, and the stage was set with a table, two chairs, and several other things. The table was a small one stored in a side room, and the chairs were common kitchen chairs. They were brought out by Chip Macklin and Frank Bond, who had been chosen to do all kinds of errands. "I just met Link Merwell in the side room," said Chip, when he came out with the table. "He looks as sour as can be. I guess he wishes the show would be a failure--because he wasn't asked to take part." "Yes, he'd like to make it a failure," answered Dave; and then, for the time being, turned his whole attention to the play and gave his enemy no further thought. Dave and Plum had gotten themselves up with great care, as a German immigrant and a darky, and when one shuffled on the stage after the other there was a good deal of laughing. The playlet revolved around the question of getting situations as a butler and a footman in a fashionable residence, and the lines were humorous in the extreme, and both Dave and Gus got about all the fun possible from them. "Oh, how very, very funny!" cried Laura, and could hardly control her laughter. "It certainly is funny," answered Jessie, and then she glanced over to where Vera Rockwell was sitting with some friends. She saw Vera applauding vigorously and it piqued her just a little. She clapped her hands, too, but her heart was not as light as it might have been had Vera not been there. In the course of the playlet, Dave had to stand on one of the chairs and then mount to the table, to show how he would play the part of a footman. As he got up on a chair there was an unexpected crack, and down went the back part, letting him fall most unexpectedly. It takes a quick-witted person to do just the right thing in a case of emergency. Dave had not looked for this fall, and the play did not call for it. Like a flash he felt that this was some trick of Link Merwell. But just as quickly as the accident came he resolved to make the best of it. In a very comical way he rolled over twice, stood partly on his head and then sat up with a dazed expression. "Oxcuse me!" he said, in a German tone of voice. "I tidn't know dot chair vos so tired owid he tidn't vont to hold me alretty." Then he picked up the broken chair. "Vell, of you ton't vont to sthand up, chust lay down," and he flung the broken article behind him. This brought forth an extra round of applause and in the midst of this Dave began to climb up the second chair. That too he felt to be "doctored," and he went up with care and thus managed to stand on top without breaking off the legs which had been nearly cracked through. Then from the chair he went to the table. He knew what to expect now and began to prepare for it. "Dis coach vos got von palky horse," he said. "Chust you hold der animile alretty, yah!" "Dat wot I will, brudder Carl," answered Plum, in negro dialect, and wondering what was to come next, for those lines were not in the playlet. "Now, dot is der vay I goes me riding py der Park," went on Dave, beginning to wabble on the shaky table. "Whoa mit dot hoss! Tidn't I told you he vos balky?" For the table was growing weaker and weaker. [Illustration:DOWN WENT THE BACK PART, LETTING HIM FALL MOST UNEXPECTEDLY.] "Say, dun yo' know dat hoss has got de dumb ager?" demanded Plum. "Wot yo' want to give him is a dose of Plaster of Paris Pills fo' Peevish People. If dat hoss should----" "He's running avay! Call der fire engines and der hoss-pistol vagons!" bawled Dave, and made a movement as if on a runaway coach. Then, as the table settled with a final crash, he whispered to Plum: "Make believe stop the horse and quarrel over it." Then he leaped forward, caught an imaginary horse by the tail and struggled to hold back. Gus was equally quick-witted and leaped to the head of the same imaginary horse and stretched up and down, as if he had hold of the bridle. Then the two boys backed and "shied" all over the stage, overturning the second chair, at which Dave yelled, "Dere goes dot peanut stand alretty!" Then of a sudden the two young actors faced each other. "Wot's de mattah wid you? Da ain't no hoss heah!" "Yah, dot's so--he runt avay alretty!" "Yo' is a fine footman, getting scared at a hoss wot ain't no hoss." "Vell, of he vosn't no hoss vy you cotch him py der headt, hey?" "Dat's because yo' was a fool an' I had to follow yo'---- I mean at yo'----" "I know vot you mean. You mean you vos der fool und der hoss----" "Look heah now, Mr. Dutchy, I wants yo' to understand dat I ain't no fool." "Vell, Mr. Vight, I dake your vord for dot, hey? Now, vot you do ven you vos a putler, hey?" And from that point the playlet went on as originally intended; the two finally winding up when a postman's whistle was heard and each got a letter from the same man, stating the one to arrive first at a certain house could have a job. Both started at the same time and each tripped the other up. Then both left the stage on hands and knees, each trying to keep the other back. It was a truly comical wind-up, and when the curtain went down there was a thunder of applause. "Dave, it was great!" cried Roger. "You acted the Dutchman to perfection, and Plum was the darky to a T!" "That's true," added Phil. "But say, didn't you change that coach scene some?" "Well, rather," put in Gus. "We had to do it on account of----" "Link Merwell," finished Dave. "That's another black mark I am going to put down to his account." CHAPTER XXII FORMING THE BASEBALL CLUB After it was at an end the entertainment was voted the best yet given at Oak Hall. Of course there had been a few small hitches, such as a wig falling off of one actor and another breaking a guitar string just when he was playing, but those did not count. "It was splendid!" said Jessie to Dave, when they met. "I am glad you liked it," he answered. "I know all the fellows did their best." "That table scene made me nearly die laughing," said Laura. "That came in rather unexpectedly, Laura. It wasn't on the programme. I think Link Merwell is responsible for it." And then her brother told of what had been discovered--the legs of the table and chairs nearly split in two. "He must be a thoroughly bad fellow," was Jessie's comment. "He is, and he would do almost anything to get me and some of the other students into trouble," returned Dave. Vera and Mary were waiting to speak to some of the boys, and Vera laughed heartily when she saw Dave. "Oh, but you make a fine German!" she said. "I think you ought to go on the stage." And then she complimented Phil, Roger, and some of the others whom she knew. Mr. Porter had arranged to remain at the hotel over night with his party. They left for Oakdale shortly after the entertainment, and Vera, Mary, and some others went with them, in carriages of their own. Dave noticed that Jessie was not herself, and when they were alone in a hallway for a moment asked the reason. "Oh, it's nothing, Dave," she answered, but without looking him squarely in the eyes. "But I know there is something, Jessie," he said, and his voice showed his anxiety. "Have I offended you in any way?" "No, not in the least." "But you are angry with me." "No, I am not angry." She kept her eyes hidden from his gaze. "Well, there is something, and I wish you would tell me what it is." "No, I'll not say a word. If you don't know what it is, it doesn't matter," said the girl, and then rejoined Laura and Mr. Porter. When they went away Dave noticed that her hand was icy cold, and his heart was deeply troubled. Something was certainly wrong and, though he felt sorry, he also felt nettled to think Jessie would not tell him what it was. It was the first break of confidence that had occurred between them. Although Dave was morally certain Link Merwell had "doctored" the chairs and the table, he could not prove it, and so he said little concerning the episode, although he and Plum talked it over thoroughly. Gus was greatly angered, for the trick had come close to spoiling the playlet, and if Dave had urged it he would have gone and fought Merwell before retiring for the night. Even as it was, he told Merwell that he had been found out and warned him in the future to keep his distance. "Dave Porter and I are going to watch you," said Gus. "And if we find you trying anything more on, why, we'll jump on you like a ton of bricks, so beware!" And for once Link Merwell was so scared that he walked off without making any reply. The entertainment the students had given brought the spring holidays to an end, and once more the lads of Oak Hall turned their attention to their studies. But with the coming of warm weather some of the boys got out their kites, balls, and other things, while others took to rowing on the river. "Have you heard the news about Nat Poole?" asked Buster of Dave and Roger one day. "I've heard nothing," answered the senator's son. "Has he got a new necktie?" For Nat loved neckties and had a new one on an average every week. "He is going to get a motor boat--told Messmer all about it. He said his father bought it in New York and it cost four hundred dollars." "Well, I never supposed Aaron Poole would spend that amount on a boat," was Dave's comment. "He is known as one of the most close-fisted men in the district where I come from." "Nat says the boat will beat anything on the river," continued Buster. "Wish I had one." The news that Nat Poole was going to get a motor boat proved true. The boat came early in April, and was certainly very nice-looking and speedy. Nat took out some of the boys, and the ownership of such a beautiful craft made him a new lot of friends, so he was "quite a toad in a puddle," as Ben Basswood declared. Once Nat asked Ben to go out with him, but the latter declined, and then Nat took Link Merwell. "I don't care if he has got a new motor boat," said Ben to Dave. "I don't want to be in his company. If any of the other fellows want to toady to him they can do it." Merwell was often seen with Poole, and the pair became quite expert in running the motor and steering. Once they had a race with a motor boat belonging to a Military Academy student and came in ahead, and of this victory Nat Poole never got through boasting. As was to be expected, warm weather brought on talk of baseball. Dave had pitched in more than one game for Oak Hall, with Roger behind the bat, and he was asked if he would again consent to occupy the box for the school, should any outside party send in a challenge. "We'll most likely get a challenge from Rockville Military Academy," said Phil. "They are aching to make up for old scores." "I'll pitch if the fellows want me to," answered Dave. "But if they want anybody else----" "We want you," interrupted Sam Day. "You're the best pitcher Oak Hall ever had." From that time on all of the boys put in part of their off-time playing baseball, forming scrub nines for that purpose. Link Merwell loved the game and liked to cover first base. "Why don't you play?" asked Dave of Gus Plum, one afternoon. "Oh, I--I don't want to push myself in," stammered Plum. He was now as retiring as he had formerly been aggressive. "Come on out," went on Dave, and literally dragged him forth. Then he asked Gus to play first base, which the latter did in a manner that surprised many of the others. "He's quicker than he used to be," was Phil's comment. "I rather think he'll make a good one if he keeps on practicing." One Saturday afternoon a regular match was arranged, with Phil as captain on one side and a student named Grassman as captain on the other. Now, Grassman loved to go out in Nat's motor boat and so he put both Nat and Merwell on his nine--the former to cover third base and the latter first. He himself pitched, while Dave filled the box for Phil. It was certainly a snappy game from the start and at the end of the fourth inning the score stood three to three. Then Grassman's nine "took a brace" and brought in two more runs, and thus the score remained five to three until the end of the seventh inning. "Come, we must do something this trip!" cried Roger, who was on Phil's side, and he knocked a three-bagger. He was followed by Shadow with a single that brought in one run, and then came Buster with a hit that took him to second and brought in another run. The next man to bat knocked a liner to shortstop. The ball was sent over to Merwell on first, but he allowed it to slip through his fingers, and another run came in. Then Merwell muffed a pop fly, and after that the Grassman nine got rattled, so that when Phil's nine retired they had ten runs to their credit. To this they added three more runs in the ninth. In that inning Dave struck out two men and sent a third out on a foul; and thus the game ended with a score of thirteen to five in favor of Phil's aggregation of players. "Hurrah for Phil Lawrence's nine!" called out little Frank Bond, and a great cheer went up. Dave was complimented for his pitching and Gus Plum also received much praise for catching a hot liner ten feet away from the base. On the following Saturday the Oak Hall Baseball Club was formally organized for the season, by the election of Phil as president and manager, Ben Basswood as secretary, and Shadow as treasurer. It was voted to make the manager captain of the nine. After much talking Dave was declared the choice for pitcher and Roger for catcher, while, to the surprise of some, Gus Plum was made first baseman, something that greatly pleased the big youth. Merwell wanted to be first baseman, but he was not even chosen as a substitute, much to his disgust. Nat Poole was also left in the cold, but this did not worry him so much, for he preferred to dress in style and lounge around, rather than go in for anything which might dirty his hands or make them callous. When he ran his motor boat he always wore gloves. "It's an awful shame they put Gus Plum on the nine," said Nat Poole to Merwell. "You ought to have that position--you can cover first base better than he can." "I know it--but it's all the work of Porter, Lawrence, and that crowd," growled Link Merwell. "As long as Plum will only toady to them they are willing to do anything for him. It makes me sick." And he began to puff away vigorously on a cigarette he was smoking. "Well, maybe, if they play Rockville or some other club, they'll lose," said Poole. "Then they'll be sorry they didn't put on some better players." The baseball club soon got more challenges than they had expected. One came from Rockville Military Academy, for a series of three games, to be played during June, and two others from clubs belonging to Oakdale. The latter were for single games, and, after some consultation, all of the challenges were accepted. The games with the Oakdale clubs were played on the outskirts of the town, where a field had been inclosed and a grand stand erected. The first was with an aggregation known as the Comets, and resulted in a tie--8 to 8. "Well, we can't complain about that," was Dave's comment. "They were all big fellows." "Yes, and two of them have played on college nines," said Shadow. "We were lucky to hold them to a tie;" and in this opinion many of the others agreed, and so did Mr. Dale and Doctor Clay, both of whom were present. Job Haskers never went to games of any sort, for he considered athletic contests a waste of time and muscle. Vera Rockwell and Mary Feversham were at the game, and after the contest was over, Phil went to talk with them, taking Dave with him. While the girls were asking some questions, Roger came up, to speak to Vera. He did not see Dave at once, but when he did his face fell, and merely raising his cap he passed on. "Oh, I thought Mr. Morr was going to stop," said Vera, pouting. "I wanted to tell him how nicely he did the catching." Phil and Dave remained with the girls until it was time to return to the school. Then they learned that Roger had gone to Oak Hall in company with Chip Macklin. "It's queer he didn't wait for the crowd," was Dave's comment. "He's acted queer half a dozen times lately," returned the shipowner's son. "I don't understand it myself." The next game was to take place on the following Saturday, and the students practiced several times during the week. Dave noticed that Roger took but little interest, yet he said nothing, until he felt it his duty to speak up. "Roger, what's wrong?" he asked, very much in the way he had put that question to Jessie. "Nothing, that I know of," grumbled the senator's son. "You're not catching as well as you did." "Perhaps you think the club ought to have another catcher!" flared up the other, suddenly. "If you do, say the word, and I'll step down and out." "Now, Roger, I know something is wrong----" began Dave. "Of course you know--and I know, too!" cried the senator's son, and now his cheeks grew crimson. "I guess I'll resign from the club--and then you can run things to suit yourself," and to Dave's amazement he walked out of the room, banging the door after him. CHAPTER XXIII A GREAT VICTORY Dave was much downcast over the way Roger acted, the more so because he could not understand it. He had half a mind to go after the senator's son and demand an explanation, but after thinking the matter over concluded that it would do no good. "He'll only get more angry," he reasoned. "Perhaps it will be better to speak to Phil about it." But, much to his surprise, when he saw the shipowner's son, Phil had also had a "scene" with Roger, and the latter had said he was going to resign from the baseball club and devote himself strictly to his studies. "I am sure it isn't his studies that are bothering him," said Phil. "He can go right ahead with his lessons and play baseball, too--if he wants to." "Well, but why is he angry at me?" demanded Dave. "I don't know." Phil paused for a moment. "Perhaps--but, pshaw! what's the use of mentioning that. I know there is nothing in it." "What, Phil?" "I don't think I ought to say anything--I know it's absurd, Dave." "What is absurd?" "Why--er--that is, you know Roger thinks a lot of Vera Rockwell, don't you?" "Does he? I hadn't noticed it particularly--in fact, I thought he treated her rather coolly the day we played the game with the Comets." "That was because you were around." "Because I was around?" repeated Dave, in a puzzled way. "Exactly." "I don't catch your meaning, Phil." "I don't see why you are so thick, Dave." "Am I thick?" "You are." "Well, then, tell me what you mean." "Didn't I just say that Roger thought a whole lot of Vera Rockwell?" "Well?" "And weren't you with Vera, Mary, and myself after the game?" "Yes, but----" "When Roger saw you talking to Vera, he walked away in the coldest manner possible." "Oh, but, Phil, that is absurd. Hadn't I a right to talk to Vera? I am sure she is a nice girl." "So she is--a very nice girl--we think so--and so does Roger." "And do you seriously think that Roger doesn't like it because I made myself agreeable to Vera?" "I guess he thinks you ought to give him a show. He has never said anything, but I imagine that is what he thinks," concluded Phil; and the conversation came to an end as some of the other students put in an appearance. This talk set Dave to thinking in more ways than one. He remembered several incidents now concerning Roger and Vera, and he also remembered how Jessie had acted during her visit to the school. Was it possible that Jessie, too, had felt offended over the manner of his friendliness to Vera? "I treated her only as a friend--and I have a right to do that," Dave reasoned. "Roger has no right to be jealous--nor has Jessie." He felt so hurt that his pride rebelled, and for two days he said hardly a word to the senator's son. The break between the two threatened to become permanent. But Roger did not resign from the baseball club. He mentioned it to Ben, Shadow, and some of the others, but they protested so strongly he had to remain as catcher. In order to do this, he had to consult with Dave, but the consultations were confined entirely to pitching and catching. Roger was not at all like himself, and his irritation arose at the slightest provocation. On the following Saturday the Oak Hall nine played the Oakdale Resolutes, on the town grounds. As before, a large crowd assembled, including some of the cadets from Rockville, who were to open their series with Oak Hall the week following. From Phil, Dave learned that Mary Feversham and Vera Rockwell were to be present. "All right, Phil, go and do the honors," said Dave. "I am going to attend strictly to pitching to-day." "Going to leave the field to Roger, eh?" "You may put it that way if you wish." "Shall I tell the girls you don't want to speak to them?" "If you do, Phil, I'll hit you in the head with the ball, the first chance I get," was Dave's reply, half in jest and half in earnest. The Oakdale Resolutes were made up of young men who had played baseball for several years. In the past they had not cared to play "a boys' school," as they designated Oak Hall. But since the past summer they had come to respect the Hall, and they had been forced into the game by friends who had said they were afraid to play our friends. They had a great pitcher named Gilroy and a catcher named Barwenk, and they relied on these two players to "wipe up the ball-field," as they put it, with Oak Hall. During the first four innings honors were about even, each side bringing in two runs. Then the nines began to see-saw, first one being ahead and then the other, until at the end of the eighth inning the score stood Oak Hall 7, Resolutes 6. So far Dave had struck out five players and Gilroy had the same number to his credit. But Gilroy had made one wild pitch, which had brought in Oak Hall's fifth run. "Now, Dave, see if you can't hold 'em down to a goose egg," said Shadow, as the other club went to the bat for the last time. "I'll do what I can," was the reply. Dave was on his mettle, and so for the matter of that was every other Oak Hall player. But some were a bit nervous, and as a consequence one missed a grounder and another let drop a hot liner. The Resolutes got three men on bases, and then, with one man out, they got in two runs. "Hurrah! That gives the Resolutes eight runs!" was the cry, and the town rooters cheered lustily. Dave did his best to strike the next man out. But with two balls and one strike he sent in a ball that was just a little wild, and strange to say, Roger muffed it. Then the man on third came in, giving the Resolutes another run. "Another! That makes the score seven to nine!" "That was a wild pitch." "Not so wild but that the catcher might have got it if he had tried." "Steady there, Roger!" called out some of the Oak Hall boys. "It wasn't my fault--the ball was out of my reach," grumbled the senator's son. A quick retort arose to Dave's lips, but he checked it. He did not wish to make his quarrel with Roger any worse. He walked back to the pitcher's box and signed to Roger for a drop ball. Roger did not answer at once and he waited a few seconds and repeated the sign. "Play ball!" was the cry. "Don't wait all day, Porter." Then the senator's son signed back and Dave sent in the ball with precision. The batsman swung for it, and missed it. "Strike two!" called out the umpire. Dave next signed for an out curve. It was now three balls and two strikes and the next delivery would "tell the tale." In came the ball with great swiftness, and again the batsman tried to connect with it--and failed. "Three strikes--batter out!" "Hurrah, Porter struck him out, after all!" "Now go for the third man, Dave!" "Lessinger is at the bat. He ought to lift it over the back fence." Lessinger was a heavy batter, yet twice he failed in his attempt to hit the sphere. But the third time he knocked a low fly to center. It was easily caught,--and the Resolutes went out with the score standing 9 to 7 in their favor. "Now, fellows, we must do our best," said Phil. "Don't hit at the ball until you get a good one, and then lift it clear over Hamden's stables if you can." The stables were two blocks away, and a ball sent a quarter of that distance meant a home run. Shadow was first to the bat and got safely to first. Then came Gus Plum, and to the wonder of many he hit the ball for a two-bagger, bringing Shadow in. Then Dave got to first while Plum went to third. Next came an out, and then a hit by Ben Basswood took Dave to third and brought Plum home. The Oak Hall rooters were now cheering and yelling like mad, and this got the Resolute pitcher rattled and he gave the next batsman his base on balls. Then came another safe hit by Buster Beggs, and the game ended with the score standing, Oak Hall 10, Resolutes 9. "Hurrah, Oak Hall wins!" "That's a close finish right enough, isn't it?" The cheering by the Oak Hall adherents was tremendous, while the Resolute followers had little to say. Many came to congratulate Dave on his excellent pitching and others congratulated Roger on his catching. The other players were likewise remembered, even Plum coming in for many handshakes and thumps on the shoulder. In the crowd Dave saw Vera and Mary, and spoke to them for a minute or two. Both girls thought the game the best they had ever seen. "Oh, I think your pitching was superb!" cried Vera, enthusiastically. "I hope you do as well when you play Rockville." "I'll do my best," answered Dave, and then turned to rejoin some of his fellow-players. He came face to face with Roger and was about to speak, when the senator's son turned his head the other way and passed on. The club members had come to Oakdale in the carryall and a carriage, and they returned to the school in these turnouts. Dave and Phil looked for Roger, but he was not to be found. Phil, as captain of the club, had had so many details to look after that he had not gotten time to speak to Mary, much to his disappointment. But she had waved her hand to him and smiled, which was one consolation. Link Merwell and Nat Poole had predicted defeat for Oak Hall, and when instead a victory was gained this pair did not know what to say. "I reckon it was a fluke," was Merwell's comment. "They couldn't do it again in a hundred years. Must have been something wrong with the Resolute players." "I heard their pitcher had a sore arm, and they had a substitute first baseman," said Nat Poole. "That would make a big difference." "I hope Rockville Military Academy does 'em up brown," went on Link Merwell. The thought of having the honor to stand up for his own school never entered his head. "So do I, Link. It will take some of the conceit out of Porter and his crowd. As pitcher Porter, of course, thinks he is the whole thing." "Say, did you notice how cold Porter and Morr are getting toward each other?" And Link Merwell chuckled gleefully. "Yes. I guess they are stirred up over that girl right now." "You bet! And maybe they'll be stirred up some more before I am done with them." On the following Thursday afternoon, Dave, Phil, and Plum went out for a row on the river. It was a beautiful day, clear and warm, and the three got out a boat with two pairs of oars and a rudder, so that all might have a share in handling the craft at the same time. "Let us row down to Bush Island," suggested Plum, naming an island about two miles away, which took its name from a patch of huckleberry bushes growing there. It was a pleasant spot, and one end of the island was occasionally used by the folks of Oakdale for picnic grounds. "That suits me," answered Dave, and soon the three boys were off, never dreaming of what this little trip was destined to bring forth. CHAPTER XXIV ON BUSH ISLAND The three boys had covered less than a third of the distance to Bush Island when they passed two rowboats, one containing Roger, Ben, and two others, and another containing Doctor Clay and Andrew Dale. "Hello! lots of folks out this afternoon," was Phil's comment. "This is the first time I have seen the doctor and Mr. Dale out," said Dave. "They row very well, don't they?" "The doctor was once a college oarsman," put in Plum. "I suppose he likes to get out here for the sake of old times." "Well, Mr. Dale pulls as well as he does," returned Dave. "Both of them pull a perfect stroke." "Wonder if old Haskers ever rows?" mused Phil. "Guess he doesn't do much of anything but teach and find fault," grumbled Gus Plum. The craft containing the doctor and the first assistant was heading for the east shore of the river and was soon out of sight around a point of rocks. The other boat had turned around, so the boys did not have a chance to speak to their fellow-students. "Here comes a motor boat!" cried Dave, as a steady put-put! reached his ears. "It's Nat Poole's boat," said Phil as the craft came into view. Soon the motor boat came close to them and they saw that Poole and Merwell were on board. The pair were smoking, as usual, but placed their cigarettes on the seats, out of sight. "Where are you going?" demanded Nat Poole, abruptly. "Rowing," answered Phil, dryly. "Humph! Don't you wish you had this motor boat?" "Not particularly." "A motor boat beats a rowboat all hollow," went on the dudish student. "Not for rowing," vouchsafed Dave. "Well, you can row if you want to," sneered Poole. "I prefer to let the motor do the work," and then he steered away, giving the rowboat all the wash possible as he passed. "Wonder where they are going?" said Link Merwell, as he looked back to see if the rowboat had shipped any water from the wash. [Illustration:"WELL, YOU CAN ROW IF YOU WANT TO," SNEERED POOLE.] "I don't know, I'm sure." "Perhaps they'll land somewhere. If they do, we can play a trick on 'em, Nat." "How?" "By taking their rowboat when they are out of sight. We can easily tie the boat on behind and tow it to the boathouse. Then those fellows would have to walk back to Oak Hall." "Good! That would be great!" ejaculated Nat Poole. "I wish they would land and leave the boat to itself for a while." "Let us watch 'em," suggested Merwell, and to this his crony readily agreed. It did not take Dave and his friends long to reach Bush Island. Beaching the rowboat, they went ashore and took a walk around. "It certainly is a nice spot for a picnic," was Phil's comment. "I don't wonder that the town folks come here--and the Sunday schools. I'd like to have a picnic myself here--when it gets a little warmer." "We might come over some holiday--and bring a basket of grub along," said Plum. "Oh, we'd have to have something good to eat," put in Dave. "That's three-quarters of the fun." Much to their surprise, in walking to the center of the island, they ran into Doctor Clay and Mr. Dale. Both had some bits of rocks in their hands and the doctor had a geologist's hammer as well. "Well, boys, what brought you?" asked the head of the school, pleasantly. "Oh, we just stopped for fun," answered Dave. "We didn't know you rowed so far." "We are knocking off a few geological specimens for the school cabinet," answered Doctor Clay. "These are not particularly valuable--but every little helps." The boys remained with the men for a quarter of an hour, and then walked back to the shore. As they did this, Dave suddenly put up his hand. "What is it?" asked Phil and Plum, in a breath. "Thought I heard a motor boat." "Perhaps Nat Poole's boat is near the island," suggested Gus. "Oh, there are a dozen motor boats on the river now," answered Phil. "There, I heard it, but it's a good distance off." No more was said about the motor boat, and they continued on their walk to the shore. Here they found their rowboat as they had left it, and entering, shoved off, and continued their row. They went a little further than at first anticipated, and consequently had to hurry to get back in time for supper, and even then were the last students to enter the dining hall. As he passed to his seat Dave had to walk close to Link Merwell. When the bully saw him he started and stared in amazement. Then he looked around and stared at Phil and Gus. He leaned over and spoke to Nat Poole, who sat close at hand. "They are back!" he whispered. "Who? Porter and his crowd?" And now the dudish pupil looked equally amazed. "Yes,--look for yourself." Nat Poole did look, and his face became a study. As soon as possible he and Merwell finished their evening meal and went outdoors. "Somebody must have stopped at the island and taken them off," said Merwell, when he felt safe to speak without being overheard. "I suppose that must be it or else----" Nat Poole stopped short and turned pale. "Or what?" "Perhaps we took some other boat, Link! Oh, if we did that, the owner might have us arrested!" "Nonsense! It was an Oak Hall boat--I looked to make sure, when I tied it to the motor boat." "Let us go down and see." "Can't you take my word for it?" asked Merwell, roughly. "Yes. But I want to know just what boat it was." "If they see you hanging around the boathouse they may smell a mouse." "I'll be careful. I have a right to look after my motor boat, you know." "That's so--I forgot that." The youths walked to the boathouse and, on the sly, looked at the craft they had towed over from Bush Island. It was certainly an Oak Hall rowboat, and Nat breathed a little sigh of relief. The two lads were just on the point of leaving the boathouse when Job Haskers came in, followed by a man who took care of the boats. "Siller tells me you were out in your motor boat this afternoon," said Job Haskers. "Did you see anything of Doctor Clay and Mr. Dale?" "No, sir," answered Nat Poole. "Were they out in a boat?" asked Merwell. "Yes, they went for a row about four o'clock, and they have not yet got back. It is strange, for they said nothing about being away for supper." "Well, we didn't see them," answered both Poole and Merwell. Then both left the boathouse and took their way to the gymnasium. Here, as fate would have it, they ran into Messmer and Henshaw, who were doing some turns on the bars, in company with Gus Plum, who, since his good work on the ball-field, was becoming quite a favorite. "I don't think I can do many turns to-night," they heard Plum say. "I am tired out from a row Dave Porter, Phil Lawrence, and myself took to Bush Island." "How did the island look?" asked Messmer, carelessly. "Very nice. We walked all around it and ran into Doctor Clay and Mr. Dale. They were there gathering geological specimens." "I'd like to make a collection," put in Henshaw. "By the way, Mr. Dale wasn't at supper. Did he come home with you?" "No, we left him and the doctor there knocking off the bits of rock," answered Plum. Merwell and Poole listened to this conversation with keen interest. They exchanged glances, and then the dudish pupil pulled his crony by the coat-sleeve and led the way to a lonely part of the campus. "Oh, Link, do you think we took the doctor's boat by mistake?" asked Poole, with something akin to terror in his tones. "Hush! not so loud!" warned Merwell. "If we did, you don't want to let anybody know it." "But what shall we do? The doctor and Mr. Dale can't leave the island without a boat." "I know that. But don't you say anything--unless you want to get into hot water." "But they may have to stay there all night!" continued the thoroughly frightened Nat. "Oh, I reckon somebody will come to take them off." "Do you sup--suppose they saw us run away with their boat?" Poole was now so scared he could scarcely talk. "No. We didn't see them, and consequently I can't see how they'd know us. But you want to keep mum." "Maybe somebody saw us bring in the empty rowboat." "I don't think so; nobody was around when we came in. Now you just keep quiet and it will be all right." "If they have to stay on the island all night they'll be as mad as hornets." "I don't care--I'd like to pay them both back for some of the mean things they've done to us." "I don't know that they've done any mean thing to me," answered Nat Poole. He felt that he would give a good deal not to have touched the rowboat found on the shore of Bush Island tied to a tree. That it had been a craft used by Doctor Clay and Mr. Dale there was now not the slightest doubt. Dave was in the library of the school, consulting a history of Rome, when Ben came in with news that Doctor Clay and Mr. Dale were missing. It was almost time to go to bed and a number of the students had already retired. "Missing!" cried Dave, and put down the volume in his hands. "What do you mean, Ben?" "They are missing--isn't that plain enough? They went for a row on the river this afternoon, and they have not come back." "Why, we met them at Bush Island," and Dave explained the occurrence. "Maybe I'd better tell Haskers," he added, and hurried off. He found the assistant teacher in the office, considerably worried. That evening he and the doctor were to have gone over some school matters that needed attention. The non-return of the master of the Hall was therefore good cause for alarm. "What do you want, Porter?" he asked, coldly, for he had not yet forgotten the quarrel in that very room some months previous. "I understand Doctor Clay and Mr. Dale are missing, Mr. Haskers." "Well?" "I only wish to tell you that Phil Lawrence, Gus Plum, and I were out rowing this afternoon and we went to Bush Island, and there we met the doctor and Mr. Dale, who had come in a rowboat." "Indeed! Did they say anything about coming back?" "No, sir. We left them there, gathering geological specimens." "They wouldn't stay there unless there was a reason for it," mused Job Haskers. "Perhaps their boat sprung a leak, or something like that." "Ahem! Such a thing is possible." "Would you like some of us to go to the island and find out?" "No. If I want that done I can send Siller." "You might go to the island in Poole's motor boat. She could make the trip in no time." "I'll think of it," answered Job Haskers, shortly. He did not wish to give Dave any credit for the suggestion. Nevertheless, he acted on the advice, and less than a quarter of an hour later, with the searchlight on, the motor boat left the school dock, carrying on board Nat Poole, Siller, and Job Haskers. Poole was badly frightened, fearing that what he and Merwell had done would be found out. CHAPTER XXV WHAT AN AUTOMOBILE DID "Dave Porter, Doctor Clay wishes to see you in his private office immediately." It was Murphy the monitor who spoke, and he addressed Dave just as the latter was getting ready to retire for the night. He had already called Phil and Gus Plum. "What does he want, Jim?" questioned Dave. "I don't know, I'm sure. He and Mr. Dale just came in, and he is as mad as a hornet." Without delay Dave put on the coat he had taken off, and went below, accompanied by Phil and Gus. The door to the private office stood open and inside were the master of Oak Hall, Mr. Dale, and Job Haskers. "Come in, young gentlemen," said the doctor, somewhat grimly. "I want to ask you a few questions." They walked in and stood in a row, facing the master. Certainly Doctor Clay was angry, and Andrew Dale looked far from pleased. "All of you were on Bush Island this afternoon," went on Doctor Clay. "When you went away, did you do anything to the rowboat that Mr. Dale and myself took there?" "No, sir," answered Dave, promptly. "We didn't see your boat--at least, I didn't," answered Plum. "I didn't see it either," came from Phil. "Porter, did you see the boat?" "No, sir." "All of you are positive of this?" went on the master of the school, sternly. "The only time I saw the boat was when you and Mr. Dale were on the river rowing--before we got to the island," said Dave. "That boat was taken by somebody. We tied it to a tree and when we went for it, it was gone. We had to remain on the island, in the dark and cold, until Mr. Haskers came with Poole's motor boat and took us off." "Excuse me, Doctor, may I ask a question?" said Andrew Dale. "Certainly." "Did you boys see anybody else on the island?" "No, sir," returned Dave. "Was anybody near there, so far as you know?" "Not very near. We met a number of the fellows on the river, while we were rowing toward the island." "Who were some of those boys?" asked Doctor Clay. Dave remembered that one of the boats had contained Roger, Ben, Sam Day, and Messmer, and remained silent. "Don't any of you remember who were in the other boats?" asked the doctor, and his voice was sharper than ever. "Nat Poole and Link Merwell were out in the motor boat," answered Phil. "Yes, I know that, but both declare they were not near the island." "Roger Morr, Sam Day, and a lot of others were out, but they were near the boathouse, and I don't think any of them went near Bush Island," answered Gus Plum. "Well, somebody was there, and took our boat," said Doctor Clay. "If I find out who was guilty of the trick I shall punish him severely." He knew that many of the boys would laugh behind his back, and he hated to be the butt of such a joke. After being questioned for quarter of an hour the boys were told they could go, and returned to their dormitory. Hardly had they left the office when Siller, the boatman, came in. "The boat you had is at the dock," he announced. "It was tied up around a corner, where I didn't see it before." "That proves some boys from this school took it from the island," said the doctor. "Is the boat all right?" "Yes, sir. I looked her over, and in the bottom I found this case." As Siller spoke he handed over a small leather case, which was empty but smelt strongly of tobacco. "A cigarette case!" cried the master of the school. "Could any pupil here have had that? They know that smoking is forbidden." He turned the case over in the light. "Here is a letter painted on the side. It is rather worn." "It is an M," said Andrew Dale, after an examination. "Let me see, what pupils' names begin with M?" He mused for a moment. "Morrison, Morr, Merwell----" "Morrison went home yesterday, to be gone a week. Merwell said the motor boat was not near the island, and I certainly did not hear it." "Plum just said Morr and some others were out in a rowboat," added Andrew Dale, quickly. "This may be his cigarette case." "We'll question him." Thereupon Roger was made to visit the office and put through a course of questions. He denied being near Bush Island and also denied owning the cigarette case. He felt angered to think he was suspected and answered the doctor so sharply that he was told to translate ten pages of Cæsar the next afternoon--a task he hated. And there the whole matter rested for the time being. Merwell missed his cigarette case, sent to him by a friend for his birthday, and he warned Poole not to breathe a word about it. "We have told the doctor we were not near the island," said the bully. "Now, if he finds out that we were, he'll punish us severely, and maybe he'll expel us." This fairly terrorized Nat, and he wished he had never seen Bush Island or listened to Merwell's plan to rob Dave and his chums of their rowboat. In some way Roger became convinced that Dave was responsible for his being hauled up before Doctor Clay, and as a consequence he grew colder and colder toward his former chum, something that hurt Dave very much. Phil, in a roundabout way, tried to patch up the matter, but Roger would not listen. He spent his entire time in company with Shadow, Buster, and some others, and only spoke to Dave when the baseball nine did its practicing. About six miles from Oak Hall was a private park known as Hilltop. This belonged to a gentleman named Richard Mongrace, who had a brother, a man who had once been a college football player, but who was now an invalid and could not leave the estate. Mr. Mongrace had a fine field for all sorts of outdoor sports at Hilltop, with a grand stand and bleachers, and, to please his brother, he frequently invited local clubs to use his grounds for their contests. In the past both Oak Hall and Rockville Military Academy had played at Hilltop, and now they had been invited to do so again, and it had been arranged that the baseball series should be played there. It may be as well to state here that the contest was to consist of two games out of a possible three. If either side won the first two games the third was not to be played. The day for the first game proved cloudy and windy, yet the Oak Hall boys went to the grounds in high spirits. Some went on bicycles, some in the carryall, and a few walked, just for the exercise. Dave was in the carryall, along with Phil, Shadow, and ten others. They were a jolly crowd, and as the turnout bowled along over the road they sang, gave the school yell, and cut up generally. The athletic yell was very popular, as follows: "Baseball! Football! Oak Hall! Has the call! Biff! Boom! Bang! Whoop!" "This is the day we rip Rockville up the back!" cried one of the students. "And poke holes in the sky with raps for home runs," added another. "And strike out three men every inning!" cried a third. "Dave, how is our pitcher to-day?" "Able to sit up and eat pie," answered Dave, with a smile. "Talking about pitchers puts me in mind of a little story I heard yesterday----" began Shadow. "A little girl----" "Hello, Shadow has hit the story trail once more!" sang out Phil. "Thought there must be something wrong with him. He hasn't told a story for an hour and ten minutes." "He's thinking of all the outs he is going to make," put in Plum, slyly. "Not an out for yours truly," returned the story-teller. "But to get back to the little girl. Says she to her papa, 'Papa, did you say a baseball club has a pitcher?' 'Yes, my dear,' says papa. 'Well, do they have a sugar-bowl too?'" And at this anecdote the boys smiled. Jackson Lemond was driving the carryall. He had a team of horses which the doctor had purchased only a few weeks before. They were a mettlesome pair, and the Hall driver did not altogether understand them. At times they went along very well, but at others they "cut up simply awful," to use Horsehair's way of expressing it. "Why don't you let the team out, Horsehair?" asked one of the boys, presently. "We don't want to take all day to get to Hilltop." "I hate to give 'em too much headway," answered the driver. "The road ain't none of the best along here, and there ain't no telling what they might do." "We'll have to hurry some," said Dave. "I want some time to warm up, and so do the others." "Maybe it will rain and the game will have to be called off," was Phil's comment, with an anxious look at the overcast sky. "Oh, it's not going to rain just now," answered Henshaw. They had just reached the top of a long hill and were preparing to go down the other side, when they heard a tooting behind them. "Here comes an automobile!" cried Phil, looking back. "I know that machine," answered Buster. "It belongs to some of the students at Rockville--two cousins, I think. They brought it down from Portland, Maine, where they come from." "It is full of Rockville fellows," said Sam. "They want to pass us," he added, as the tooting sounded louder. "It's a narrow road to pass on," grumbled Horsehair. "Whoa, there!" he cried to his team. "Whoa, I say!" For the horses had begun to prick up their ears and dance about at the sound of the automobile horn. "Clear the road, for we are coming!" came the cry from behind, and then with a tooting of the horn, a puffing from the engine, and a wild yelling from the occupants, the big touring car shot past the carryall with less than three inches to spare, and plunged down the hill at a speed that soon carried it out of sight in a cloud of dust. It was enough to scare anybody, and the hearts of some of the boys beat wildly for the moment. "That's taking a fearful risk," was the comment of one lad. "If they don't look out, they'll break their necks." There was little time to say more, for the students now realized that Horsehair was having his hands full with the new team. One horse was plunging with might and main to break away and the other was shying to the left. Then came a sudden snap, as a portion of the harness gave way, and the next moment the carryall was sweeping down the hill on the very heels of the team that was running away. CHAPTER XXVI A DEFEAT FOR OAK HALL It was a time of great peril and all the students in the carryall realized it. With a portion of the harness broken, the driver could do little or nothing to control the team. They had the bits in their teeth and plunged down the hill and over the rocks in a manner that sent the turnout swinging first to one side and then the other. "We'll go over!" "We'll be smashed to pieces!" "We'd better jump, if we want to save our lives!" These and many other cries rang out. Dave and Ben were on the front seat with Horsehair, but all the others were inside, being thrown around like beans in a bag. "Let them go!" sang out Dave. "Give them the middle of the road,--and put on the brake." At first the driver was too scared to pay attention to Dave's words, and the youth had to lean over and pull the brake back. This all but locked the wheels and caused the carryall greatly to diminish its speed. But the horses kept dancing and plunging as madly as ever, and it looked as if at any instant they might bring the turnout to grief in one or the other of the water gullies lining the highway. "If you fellows want to get off, drop out the back one at a time," sang out Dave, when he saw that the brake was telling on the speed of both team and carryall. "You had better jump, too," answered one youth, as he prepared to do as advised. "Not yet--I think the team will stop at the foot of the hill," returned Dave. His coolness restored confidence to the others, and all remained in the carryall. Horsehair had tight hold of the reins, and now began to talk soothingly to the horses--getting back some of his own wits. Then the bottom of the hill was reached; and after a few minutes of work the team was brought down to a walk and then halted. Without waiting for an invitation, the students leaped to the ground and the school driver did likewise. "Say, that was surely a scare," was Jackson Lemond's comment. "I'd like to wring the neck o' the young rascal who is running that auto!" "He certainly had no right to rush past us as he did," replied Phil. "But how about it, Horsehair; can you mend the harness? Remember, we want to get to Hilltop." "I reckon I can mend it--I've got extry straps and buckles under the seat." Horsehair set to work and Dave and Plum aided him, and in a very few minutes they were able to proceed on their way. The driver now kept the team well in hand, and the boys kept a keen lookout for more automobiles, but none passed them. "I've a good mind to report those chaps to the constable," said Horsehair, as they neared Hilltop. "They ought to be locked up." "You'll be laughed at for your pains," answered Shadow. "Let us wax Rockville at baseball--that will be revenge enough." The grounds were comfortably filled at the ball-field, and by the time the game started nearly every seat was taken. In one corner of the grand stand was a group of girls and among them Mary Feversham and Vera Rockwell, and they had flags with the initials O. H. on them. "They are going to root for us, bless 'em!" cried Phil, and he waved his hand at Mary and Vera, and Dave did likewise. Roger pretended not to see the girls, but hurried immediately to the dressing-room to prepare for the game. It had brightened up a little and for a short while the sun came out. Promptly at three o'clock the game started with Oak Hall at the bat. They were retired in one, two, three order, much to the delight of the Rockville contingent. "That's the way to do it!" "Now then, fellows, show them how you can bat the ball!" And then arose the Military Academy slogan: "Rockville! Rockville! You'll get your fill From Rockville!" Dave was certainly in the pink of condition when he walked down to the pitcher's box. Yet, despite his best efforts, one of the Rockville players "found him" for a two-bagger and another for a single, and when the side went out it had two runs to its credit. Then what a roar went up from the Military Academy boys! "That's the way! Keep it up!" "If you make two every inning, you'll have eighteen by the time you finish." During the second, third, and fourth innings Oak Hall did its best to score, but though two players reached second and one third, it was not to be. In the meantime Rockville got four more runs, making six in all. "Six to nothing! That's going some!" "Here is where we show Oak Hall what we can do!" Phil was very much worried and came to talk the matter over with Dave. "Dave, can't you strike some more of 'em out?" he asked. So far the pitcher had struck out two men. "I'm doing my best, Phil. They seem to be good hitters and no mistake. If you want to try somebody else in my place----" "No, no, Dave! Only I'd like to keep down that score. Do your best." In the next two innings Oak Hall managed to get two runs--one by a wild throw to second. This was a little encouraging, and the students rooted wildly. But in the seventh inning Roger made a wild throw to third and that gave the Rockvilles two more runs. At the end of the eighth the score stood, Rockville 10, Oak Hall 3. "We ought to have another pitcher and another catcher," said some. "Porter and Morr are both off to-day." "Phil, you can put somebody else in my place if you wish," said the senator's son, quickly. "And you can put somebody in my place, too," added Dave. "No, you stick and do the best you can," answered the manager of the nine. "They can't do anything!" sneered Link Merwell, who stood close by. "They can both play far better ball than you," retorted Phil. "If you were pitching or catching, the Rockvilles would have about fifty runs," and then he turned his back on the bully. It had begun to rain a little, but both clubs decided to play the game out unless it came down too hard. Oak Hall went to the bat with vigor in the ninth and got two men on bases. But then came a foul fly, a short hit to first, and a pop fly, and there their chances ended. Then, to see what they could do, Rockville took the last half of the ninth and batted out four more runs, amid the wildest kind of yelling from the Military Academy cadets and their friends. Final score, Rockville 14, Oak Hall 3. The Oak Hall boys felt as gloomy as the sky above them and they had little or nothing to say. They could now realize how Rockville had felt, when defeated on the football field, the season before. None of the players gave attention to the rain, which was now coming down in torrents. "Told you we'd lose," said Link Merwell, to some of the boys near him. "Oh, you're a croaker!" cried Messmer. "We can't win every time." "You should have had Purdy in the box," said another. Purdy was a new student and it was said he could pitch very well. "Yes, and Barloe behind the bat," added another. Barloe had caught in some games the year before and done fairly well. It must be confessed that both Dave and Roger were considerably disheartened by the result of the game, and each blamed himself for errors made. Gus Plum also bewailed the fact that he had missed a foul fly that came down just out of his reach. It was raining so hard the boys had to wait in the dressing rooms and on the grand stand for the downpour to let up before starting for Oak Hall. Here the game was discussed in every particular, and each player came in for commingled praise and blame. "Well, if you want my opinion I'll give it," said Dave, frankly. "I do not say that I didn't make any errors myself, for I did. But I think our nine needs team-work--we don't play well enough together." "That is true," answered Plum. "I go in for constant practice between now and the time for the next game." During the wait Phil slipped away from the other players and sought out Mary Feversham. The girl smiled sadly at his approach. "I shouldn't have minded the rain at all if you had won," she said. "But to have you lose and have the rain also is dreadful!" "Well, we still have a chance to win the series," answered the club captain, bravely. "I am sorry you are caught here. Perhaps I can get a covered carriage----" "Thank you, but Vera has a gentleman friend here, and he is going to take us home in a coach." "Oh!" "He's a young man that used to think a lot of Vera," went on Mary, in a whisper. "I guess she thinks a lot of him, too--but don't let her know I told you." Soon the young gentleman drove up in a coach and Phil was introduced. Then the young ladies got in, and off the turnout sped through the rain. Then Phil rejoined the others of the club; and a little later all were on their way to Oak Hall, in the carryall, and in covered carriages and wagons. "Were Mary Feversham and Vera Rockwell here alone?" asked Roger, while on the way. "I guess so," answered Phil. "How were they going to get home?" "A young gentleman, fellow named Greene,--personal friend of Vera's,--took them home in a coach." "Greene?" "Yes, George Greene. Looked like a nice fellow. Mary said he and Vera were quite thick." Phil said this carelessly, but he looked sharply at the senator's son as he spoke. "Why, I thought----" Roger broke off short. "Didn't you and Dave call on Vera and Mary one night last week?" he added, after a long pause. "Why--er--I passed Mary's house and spoke to her at the gate for a few minutes," stammered Phil. "Dave was with me, but he didn't stop--said he wanted to post a letter to his sister." "Didn't he go to Vera's house?" "No. I don't think he has seen her since that ball game at Oakdale." "Is that really true, Phil?" "I believe it is, Roger. And now see here, old boy, what is this trouble between you and Dave? I'm your chum and I'm Dave's chum, too, and I think I have a right to know." "Why don't you ask Dave?" "He says he doesn't know--at least, he says the trouble all comes from you--no, I don't mean that either, I mean---- Hang it, Roger, what do I mean?" At this outburst the senator's son had to laugh, and Phil laughed also, and both boys felt better for it. There was a pause. "I guess I've been--been--well, jealous, Phil," said Roger. "I--I thought Dave was sweet on little Jessie Wadsworth----" "So he is." "And then he got acquainted with Vera Rockwell, and--and----" "And he became friendly with her, nothing more, Roger--just as you became friendly with Jessie. Didn't he have a right to do that? Why, I don't think--in fact, I am quite sure,--she doesn't care for him excepting in a general way. Why should she? She's young yet, and so is Dave,--and so are all of us. Now, I like Mary Feversham, and I guess she likes me, but I am not going to let that come between my friendship for you and Dave. Really, Roger, you are taking this too much to heart. I rather think, if you ought to be jealous, it should be of Mr. Greene, not of Dave." "Maybe you're right, Phil," answered the senator's son, slowly and thoughtfully. "And if you are--well, I've been making a fool of myself, that's all." CHAPTER XXVII STUCK ON A SANDBAR Roger seemed to feel much better after his talk with Phil, and that evening, when the baseball club held a meeting in the gymnasium, he spoke pleasantly to Dave. The young pitcher appreciated this, and when the meeting was over he and Roger walked to the school side by side, something they had not done in a long while. "I--I guess I've been making a fool of myself, Dave," said the senator's son, frankly. "I thought----" He hesitated, not knowing how to go on. "Don't say another word about it, Roger!" cried Dave. "You know what it was about." "I think I can guess. But what is the use of chewing it over? I am sure I never wanted to interfere with you or your--friends. If you like Vera--and I think she is certainly a nice girl--why don't you act more friendly when you meet? I think you treated her a little bit shabbily the last time--and maybe she thinks so, too." "Oh, I was a fool, that's why. I suppose now, if I try to make up, she'll cut me dead." "I don't think she is that kind, Roger. Anyway, if I were you, I'd try her." "I don't suppose you know I got a note about you and her?" went on the senator's son. "A note?" "Yes, it was only a scrawl in pencil and I was so angry at the time I tore it up. It said you were making yourself friendly with her just to cut me out." "Who sent the note?" "I don't know. Wish I did." "It was surely some enemy," said Dave; and there the talk had to come to an end. Not much had been said at the meeting of the baseball club, but during the next few days many of the students of Oak Hall came out against Dave, Roger, and Gus Plum, saying they thought those three players had lost the game. This was not true, but the talk grew, and it made matters decidedly unpleasant for the trio of ball players. "Phil, I think you had better try Purdy in the box at the next game," said Dave. "So many of the fellows seem to want him." "And you can put Barloe behind the bat," added Roger. "I don't want to catch if somebody can do better." "And I'll give up first base," said Plum. "See here, if you are all going to resign I'll resign myself!" cried the manager of the nine. "This talk is all nonsense." "But it is growing stronger," answered Dave. "And I must admit, Purdy is a good pitcher." "Can he pitch as well as you?" "I'd prefer to have others decide that question." More talks like this followed, and when some of the other students got at Phil he began to waver. "Well, regardless of friendships," said he at last, "I want to do the best I can for Oak Hall. I am willing to put Purdy in the box, Barloe behind the bat, and Hissoc on first, provided Dave, Roger, and Gus will go on the substitute bench." "I reckon Porter won't agree to substitute," said one of the club members. But in this surmise the player was mistaken. The young pitcher agreed to do anything the manager wished, and so did the senator's son and Plum. Thereupon Purdy, Barloe, and Hissoc were at once put into training for the next game. One afternoon Dave, Phil, Roger, and Ben Basswood went for a row on the river. They took one of the racing boats, and, with each at an oar, they made rapid progress up the stream. They passed several of the islands, and then rounded a point and entered a cove which was thickly lined with bushes and trees. "Nat Poole is out in his motor boat," said Roger. "He has Link Merwell with him." "I think the best thing Nat can do is to drop Merwell," was Ben's comment. "Merwell is getting reckless. I've seen him in town half a dozen times, hanging around the poolroom, smoking." "Yes, and he drinks," said Roger. "Sometimes I really think he ought to be reported to Doctor Clay." "Yes, but who wants to do it?" asked Phil. "Nobody wants the reputation of a tale-bearer." "He certainly ought to be expelled if he is going to lead others astray," was Dave's comment. "I suppose some of us ought to talk to Nat about it. But Nat is so conceited he thinks he knows it all, and it would be mighty hard to tell him anything." "Hark! I hear a motor boat now!" cried Ben. "It must be behind those overhanging trees." "Here it comes," said Roger. "I declare, it's Poole's boat and he and Merwell have several young ladies aboard!" As the motor boat came closer the boys saw that the young ladies were Vera Rockwell, Mary Feversham, and a stranger. "I didn't know those girls would go out with Poole and Merwell," was Phil's comment. "Nor I," added Roger. The motor boat had been headed almost directly for the rowboat, but as soon as Merwell recognized those in the smaller craft he turned to his crony and said something in a whisper, and then the motor boat was turned in another direction. "Motor boat, ahoy!" cried Ben. To this hail Poole and Merwell paid no attention. Poole was steering and the bully was at the engine, and the latter advanced the spark and turned on more gasoline, in order to increase the speed of the craft. "Oh, it's Mr. Lawrence!" cried Mary Feversham. "And Mr. Porter and Mr. Morr!" added Vera Rockwell. "Please stop the boat, we want to speak to them," went on Mary, to Merwell. "Can't stop just now," grumbled the bully, as he tried to make the engine run still faster. "Why, the idea!" exclaimed the strange girl of the party. "I thought you could stop a motor boat any time." "So you can," added Vera Rockwell. "I want you to stop," she went on, commandingly. "Can't do it," answered Merwell, and then he winked at Poole, who had turned his head to listen to the talk. "Well, I think you are real mean!" pouted Mary. "I shall never ask you to take me across the river again. You've kept us on the motor boat now nearly an hour!" "If you don't land us where we want to go, and as soon as possible, I'll tell my brother," said Vera. "Yes, and we'll tell those students in that rowboat, too," said Mary. "You came for a ride of your own free will," said Merwell. "We did not. We said we wanted to cross the river and you said you'd take us across." "Well, that's what we intend to do," and Merwell grinned in a manner that disgusted all three of the fair passengers. "If you don't land us at once, I shall cry for help," said Vera. "And so will I," added the other girls. "We'll land you--after we've had a ride," answered Merwell, and continued to crowd the engine as best he knew how. "Don't run too fast--I don't know the channel here!" cried Poole, somewhat alarmed. Had he had his way, he would have landed the girls long before, but he did not dare to thwart Link Merwell's pleasure. The bully took a vast delight in teasing the girls and scaring them. "Help! help!" cried Vera, suddenly. "Help!" And then the other girls joined in the call for assistance. "You shut up!" exclaimed Merwell, sullenly. "We are not hurting you. If you don't shut up we'll land you on one of the islands and leave you there." "Oh!" exclaimed the third girl, whose name was Sadie Fillmore, and then she nearly fainted from fright. The motor boat was rounding a point of the cove when there came an unexpected scraping on the bottom. Then suddenly the craft slid up on a sandbar and careened to one side, almost tumbling some of the occupants into the water. "Shut her off!" yelled Poole, and in alarm Link Merwell stopped the engine. The girls screamed and clung to each other in terror. A little water entered the boat and this added to their fright. "Now, see what you did!" cried Nat Poole. "We are on a sandbar." "It wasn't my fault--I wasn't steering," answered Link Merwell. "I told you to run slow, but you kept piling on the speed." "Are we go--going to--to sink?" faltered Mary. "Sink? We can't sink. We are high and dry on a sandbar," grumbled Merwell. "Oh, I am so thankful!" "Well, I'm not." "But we aren't dry--the water is all around us," protested Vera. "There's not enough to float us." "What are we going to do?" demanded Poole, looking at his crony with much concern showing in his face. "Perhaps we can back her," suggested Merwell. "I'll reverse the engine and try." This was done, but though the propeller churned the water into a foam and sent some sand flying into the air, the motor boat remained firmly on the bar. "It's no use," sighed Nat. "Stop the engine, or you may break something." And then the power was turned off. "What are we to do?" questioned Sadie Fillmore. "We can't stay here forever." "Here comes that rowboat!" cried Vera, a moment later. "Oh, let us signal to them!" exclaimed Mary, and standing up she waved her handkerchief, and then her big sailor hat. "We don't want those fellows here!" growled Link Merwell. "They can go about their business. We'll get the boat off the sandbar somehow." "We do want them," answered Vera, and joined her friend in signaling, and Sadie Fillmore did the same. It was not long before the other boat came within hailing distance. Seeing that the motor boat was stuck on a sandbar, the rowers took care not to ground their craft. "Help us, won't you, please!" cried Vera. "Yes, yes, take us off!" added Mary. "We don't want to stay on this motor boat any longer!" exclaimed Sadie. "I guess we can take the girls off," said Phil. "But what about Poole and Merwell?" "We might come back for them," answered Ben. "We can't leave them here very well." With care the rowboat was brought to the side of the motor boat and the girls were assisted from one craft to the other. "Can't you take us?" asked Poole. "Not now," said Roger. "We can come back later." The rowboat was rather crowded, but this could not be altered. The boys pulled away from the motor boat, and then asked the girls where they wished to be landed. "We were going to Perry's Point, across the river," explained Vera. "But those boys kept us out so long I think we'd better go home." And then she and the others told how they had been walking toward the place where an old man kept a ferry, when they had been hailed by Merwell, who had offered to take them across. "But they didn't take us across at all!" cried Mary. "They took us for a ride instead, although we told them we didn't want to go." "Can that be true?" asked Phil, indignantly. "It certainly is," said Vera. "Oh, I think they were just too mean for anything!" "It serves them right that their motor boat ran on the sandbar. I hope they never get it off," added Sadie Fillmore. "We'll have to look into this," said Dave. "It was contemptible to keep you out on the river against your will, and they ought to be made to suffer for it." "And they shall suffer--just you wait and see," said Roger, firmly. CHAPTER XXVIII LINK MERWELL HAS HIS SAY As swiftly as they could the four boys rowed the girls to where they wanted to go. During the trip Roger spoke to Vera half a dozen times, and the coldness between them became a thing of the past. Sadie Fillmore was formally introduced, and all three girls said they were going to attend the next baseball game at Hilltop. "My father has a tally-ho and we are going in that," said Sadie. Her parents were rich and lived in Oakdale in the summer and in New York City in the winter. "Well, I hope you see a good game," answered Dave. He said nothing about Roger, Plum, and himself being only substitutes, for he did not wish to place Phil in an awkward position. As soon as the girls were landed the boys rowed out into the river again, and there they held what might be termed an impromptu indignation meeting. "Now, what do you think of that?" burst out Roger, referring to the conduct of Poole and Merwell. "I say such actions are a disgrace to Oak Hall." "Yes, and those fellows ought to be tarred and feathered," added Phil. "Doctor Clay ought to hear of this," came from Ben. "I think I have a plan to teach them a lesson," said Dave. "Let's have it," returned the senator's son, promptly. "We'll tell them what we think of them and then leave them stuck on the sandbar without sending anybody to their assistance. Maybe they'll have to stay there all night. They won't like that--and without their supper, too!" "Good! That's the cheese!" cried Ben, slangily. "I hope they have to go without their supper and breakfast, too!" It was decided to refuse all assistance, and this agreed upon, the four rowed to the vicinity of the stranded motor boat. They found Poole and Merwell still on board, both waiting impatiently for their return. "It's a wonder you wouldn't come!" cried Poole. "Do you think we want to stay here all night?" "Can you pull us off?" asked Link Merwell. "If you can't, Nat and I want you to go to Oakdale and get the tug _Ella Davis_ to do the job." "You talk as if we were hired to work for you," answered Dave. "I wasn't addressing you, Porter--I was talking to the others." "Well, we are not in your employ either," answered Phil. "Look here, Merwell, and you, too, Poole," said Roger. "We've got a big bone to pick with you, but it won't take long to pick it. We think that the way you acted toward those young ladies was disgraceful, and it reflects on the honor of Oak Hall. For two pins we'd tell some of the other students, and you'd be tarred and feathered or run out of the school. We----" "It wasn't my fault!" interrupted Nat Poole, turning pale. "I--I was willing enough to take them across the riv----" "Shut up!" growled Link Merwell. "We are not accountable to them for what we do. Don't make a fool of yourself." "It was certainly an outrageous proceeding," said Ben. "If their folks wanted to make you suffer for it, they could do so." "Oh, don't gas, Basswood. If you don't want to aid us, say so. We are not going to beg you to do so." And Link Merwell's face showed his hatred. "We are going to leave you here, as you deserve," said Dave. "No, no! Please don't do that!" pleaded Nat Poole. "I don't want to stay in this lonely part of the river all night!" "Shut up--we can swim ashore!" whispered his crony. "The water is too cold yet--I felt of it. It's like ice," answered Nat. He was plainly frightened. "Listen," said Phil, in a low tone to his chums. "Nat says he wanted to take the girls across the river. Perhaps he isn't to blame as much as we think." "He stood in with Merwell," answered Phil. "Oh, don't leave us here!" cried the dudish student. "It looks as if it might rain to-night, and it will be cold, and----" "Say, you make me sick," growled Merwell. "I wouldn't ask them for a favor now if I was dying!" "See here, Poole," said Dave, after consulting his chums. "We'll take you off on one condition." "What is that?" "That you will promise to write a letter to each of the young ladies, apologizing for your conduct." "Why, I--er--I----" "You can take your choice," added Roger. "Apologize or stay here." "I didn't mean any harm. I was willing to take them across, but Link----" "That's right, blame it all on me!" burst out Merwell. "Well, I don't care. I'll not crawl to anybody! They can go to Halifax, for all I care! I don't want their aid." "I'll--I'll apologize, if you'll take me back to the school," faltered Poole. "All right then, get into the rowboat," said Phil. "And mind you keep your promise, or you'll catch it!" added the senator's son. The rowboat was brought close to the stern of the larger craft and the dudish student leaped on board. As he did this, Merwell caught up a boathook, gave the rowboat a shove, and almost capsized it. "Let up, Merwell!" exclaimed Dave, and raising his oar, he hit the bully a blow on the shoulder and sent him sprawling in the bottom of the motor boat. Then the rowboat floated away from the larger craft. If Link Merwell had been angry before, he was now in a perfect rage. Scrambling to his feet, he shook his fist at the others. "Just wait!" he roared. "I'll fix you all for this, and you particularly, Dave Porter, you poorhouse rat! I'll make you wish you had never been born!" "Come away!" cried Nat Poole, badly frightened. "Don't listen to him." [Illustration:RAISING HIS OAR, HE HIT THE BULLY A BLOW ON THE SHOULDER.] "He acts as if he was crazy," was Phil's comment. "I--I know what it is," returned Poole. "It's----" He hesitated. "Has he been drinking?" demanded Dave. "Come, tell the truth, Nat?" "Yes. He had a bottle of stuff with him, and he had one drink before we started and two more while we were waiting for you to come back. He isn't himself at all--so you mustn't mind what he says." "He's a fool!" came bluntly from Ben. "I made a mistake to go out with him. He's always that way when he's got anything to drink." Dave's face was a study. When Merwell had called him "a poorhouse rat" he had gone white and his teeth had closed with a snap, but now, when he heard how the misguided youth was the victim of his own appetite, the lines softened into pity and nothing else. "It's too bad," he said. "Why can't fellows leave drink alone?" And then he thought of poor Gus and how he had been tempted. "We ought to take the stuff away from him," said Roger. "It's too late for that--the bottle is empty, and Merwell threw it overboard," answered Poole. "I don't think it safe to leave him out on the river alone," said Dave. But none of the others would agree to go back, and so the rowboat was headed for the Oak Hall dock. They were just coming in sight of the place when they heard a put-put! on the river and looked back. "Well, I declare, it's the motor boat!" ejaculated Roger. "He must have got it off the bar somehow," said Phil. "Maybe it slid off of itself," suggested Ben. "Although I don't see how it could." Left to himself Link Merwell had started the engine full speed ahead. He was desperate and did not care whether he ruined the motor boat or not. Lightened of the weight of the other passengers, the boat had wormed its way over the bar and into deep water, and then he had started in pursuit of the rowboat. "You didn't get the best of me, anyhow!" he sang out, as he passed them. Then he ran up to the dock, stopped the engine, and leaped ashore, and without waiting to tie up the craft, walked swiftly toward the school building and disappeared. That evening he left Oak Hall, to be gone for several days, on business for his father, so he told Doctor Clay. Whether this was true or not the boys never found out. They suspected, however, that he went off to have what he called a good time. Those who had been out in the rowboat saw to it that Nat Poole wrote and mailed the letters of apology to the three girls, and then Dave and Ben gave the lad from Crumville a severe lecture, telling him that it would be to his credit to cut such a fellow as Merwell, who was bound, sooner or later, to drag him down. "Merwell is by far the worst boy that ever came to Oak Hall," said Dave, "and sooner or later he will be expelled. What will your father say if you are expelled with him?" "We want you to make a record," said Ben. "Not only for your own sake, but also for the honor of the town we come from, and for the honor of the school. You'll never gain anything by sticking in with Merwell. Gus Plum has cut him, and so have lots of the fellows, and you ought to do it. There are plenty of other good fellows in this school, even if you don't want to train with our particular crowd. Think it over, Nat." And Nat Poole did think it over, and, as a consequence, from that day on he turned his back on Merwell and refused to have anything more to do with the dissolute bully. The day for the second ball game with Rockville was perfect in every respect. The sun shone brightly and there was just sufficient breeze to make the air bracing. Everybody turned out to see the contest, and long before the umpire called "Play!" grand stand and bleachers were crowded. The Rockville players were rather surprised to see Dave, Roger, and Plum on the bench while strangers filled their positions on the diamond. They asked each other, "What are we up against?" but none could answer that question. The Military Academy nine went to the bat first, and much to the delight of Oak Hall, Purdy, the new pitcher, struck out two men, while the third knocked a foul that was easily gathered in by the new first baseman. "That's the way to hold 'em down!" cried several. "Purdy's a big improvement on Porter, eh?" "It certainly looks that way." In this first inning Oak Hall managed to score one run, which caused a wild cheering, in which Dave, Roger, and Gus readily joined. But in the second, third, and fourth they got only "goose eggs," while Rockville came in over the home plate six times. In the fourth inning the second baseman was "spiked" by accident while sliding to third, and had to retire, and Plum took his place. Then came the fifth inning, with a run for each nine, and in that the shortstop was almost knocked senseless by a hot liner. "Roger, you'll have to cover short," said Phil, and the senator's son ran out to do so, amid a clapping of hands from his friends. The sixth inning resulted in several hits for the nines, but no runs were made. Then came the seventh, with another run for each, and in this a runner for Rockville bumped into the Oak Hall third baseman and both had to retire. "This is certainly a slaughter!" cried one spectator. "If they keep on, somebody will be killed before they get through." The accident took Dave out in the field to cover third. As luck would have it, less than a minute later he caught a man trying to slide to the bag, and when the runner was declared out the Oak Hall boys set up a cheer. "Good for Dave Porter! That's the way to cover third!" The end of the eighth inning found the score Rockville 11, Oak Hall 4. It looked as if Oak Hall was beaten, yet the nine resolved to do its best to win out. CHAPTER XXIX DAVE MAKES UP HIS MIND With the score eleven to four against his club, Purdy, the pitcher, got nervous, and as a consequence he allowed the first batter up to walk to first on balls. Then the next player met the sphere for a base hit, and the man on first ran down to second. "Steady, Purdy, steady!" was the cry. "Better put in Dave Porter," advised some of Dave's friends. The next batter got two strikes and two balls and then knocked a short fly, which was scooped in by Plum at second. Then the runner at second, on the next delivery of the ball over the plate, tried to steal to third. Over came the ball from the catcher. It was fully three feet over Dave's head, and many held their breath, expecting the run to come in. But with a high jump, Dave reached the sphere and brought it down with one hand; and the runner was put out. "Hurrah! What do you think of that for a catch!" "Talk about jumping! That's the best I ever saw on any ball-field!" The next man up got to first on balls, and again there was a cry to take Purdy out of the box and substitute Dave. But Dave shook his head to Phil. "It wouldn't be fair," he said. "Purdy hasn't done so badly--it was a streak of poor luck, that's all." When the next batter came up he waited until he had a strike and two balls and then knocked a swift liner into the diamond. It came several feet from Roger, but now the former catcher proved his worth. He made a dive, caught the ball, and rolled over, but still held the ball up in his left hand. "Batter out!" "That ends it for Rockville." It did end it for Rockville so far as making any runs was concerned, but it still looked as if the game belonged to them and with it the series. But the Oak Hall boys went to the bat with a "do or die" look on their faces. Phil started the ball rolling with a two-bagger and Roger followed with a single, taking Phil to third. Then came Shadow with another two-bagger, bringing in the two runners. What a cheering and yelling! The Oak Hall boys went wild and waved their caps and banners. Then, while the noise was still going on, Dave came up to the bat, swung the ashen stick at the first ball delivered, and sent the sphere down to deep center. "Hurrah! A home run!" "That's the way to do it! We'll win out yet!" Dave had, of course, brought in Shadow, and this gave Oak Hall eight runs. Seeing the runs piling up the Rockville pitcher became rattled, and gave two men their base on balls. Then came another two bagger, and the men on first and second trotted home. "Ten to eleven! One more run, fellows, and you'll tie 'em!" "Change the pitcher! He's no good!" called out some of the Rockville supporters. And another pitcher was sent to the box. Sam Day was now at the bat. Sam was a cautious player, not easily rattled. He allowed two balls to pass him, and they were called such by the umpire. Then, seeing just what he wished coming, he "swatted it for keeps," as Phil said, and ran for dear life. He reached third and the fellow at second came home, tying the score. Pandemonium now broke forth in earnest, while the catcher walked forward to confer with the pitcher. Gus Plum was up, and his face was deathly white as he faced the pitcher. He felt as if the fate of a nation depended upon him. In came the ball and with unerring judgment Plum struck at it. Down he went to first, safe, and in came Sam from third. The game was won! The supporters of Oak Hall rushed upon the field, and the nine was warmly congratulated. The Rockville club was bitterly disappointed and left as soon as possible. "Don't tell me that Porter, Morr, and Plum are poor players," said Luke Watson. "They did more than their share to win this game," and in that opinion even Mr. Dale concurred. The result of the game hit Nat Poole heavily. He had counted upon Oak Hall losing, and in secret had made several wagers against the school. Now all his pocket-money was gone and he was about twenty dollars in debt. He wrote to his father for money, but, as my old readers know, Aaron Poole was very miserly at times, and now he pulled his purse-strings tight and declared that Nat spent too much entirely, and must do without more funds until the summer vacation came. When Link Merwell came back to Oak Hall his general manner was worse than before, and even Nat was glad that he had cut away from the fellow. Merwell was getting to be a thorough sport, and a few, but by no means all, of his doings reached Doctor Clay's ears. As a consequence the master of the school sent a long letter to Merwell's father and gave Link himself a stern lecture. The lecture was not appreciated, for Merwell made no effort to reform. During the week following the second game of ball with Rockville, Dave put the finishing touches to his essay on The Past and Future of Our Country. It was his masterpiece so far, and when it was finished he breathed a sigh of commingled relief and satisfaction. He handed in the essay to Mr. Dale, and it was filed away with sixteen others for examination. "I hope you win, Dave," said Roger. "I am sure you deserve the prize--you have worked so hard." Roger was now as "chummy" as ever, which pleased Dave very much. After the second ball game the senator's son and Phil and Shadow had sought out Mary, Vera, and Sadie, and the young people had spent a pleasant hour together. In a roundabout way Roger learned that Mr. Greene was nothing more to Vera than an old friend, and this, somehow, eased his mind exceedingly. There was a good deal of talk about putting Roger, Dave, and Plum back on the regular nine, but the backers of Purdy and Barloe were so insistent that they be retained that only Plum was allowed to take his old place. "But I want you two to be substitutes as before," said Phil, to Dave and Roger. "I'll feel safer if I know you are at hand." "All right, I'll be there," answered Dave, cheerfully, and the senator's son nodded to show that he agreed to the request. If both were bitterly disappointed at not being chosen to pitch and to catch at this last game they took good care not to show it. As soon as Link Merwell heard that Gus Plum had been put back on the regular nine, he commenced to lay plans to make trouble. Since Plum had given him the cold shoulder he hated Gus exceedingly. He thought he knew Plum's weak point, and he acted accordingly. By the request of the Rockville manager the final game of the series had been postponed from Saturday to the following Wednesday. On Thursday the students of Oak Hall were to have their final exercises, and on Friday school was to break up for the term. Many visitors had been invited to attend the exercises and some of them arrived in Oakdale the day before, so as to witness the ball game. Among the latter were Mr. Porter and Laura, Mr. Wadsworth and Jessie, and Mr. Lawrence and Senator Morr. They had already engaged rooms at the Oakdale hotel, and Dave, Phil, and Roger went there to meet them on the morning previous to the game. There was a general handshaking, and then the students were asked a hundred and one questions about their studies, games, and school life generally. "It is too bad you are not to pitch, Dave," said his sister, when they were alone. "Why don't you get Phil to give you the place back?" "Because it wouldn't be fair, Laura. Purdy has as much right to pitch as I have." "But you are the better pitcher--Roger says so--and I heard so from Ben Basswood,--through a letter he wrote to his sister." "Well, maybe I'll get a chance to pitch a few innings--if Purdy breaks down. But I trust he doesn't break down--it's hard luck for any pitcher to do that." There was a pause, and Laura pulled her brother further into a corner, away from the others. "I want to speak to you about something," she continued in a low tone. "Do you know that Jessie got an awful letter about you?" "A letter? Who from?" "I don't know. It came from Oakdale and was signed A Friend. It said you were leading a fast life here--drinking and smoking and gambling." "It's false, Laura--I don't do any of those things." "I know that." "Did Jessie believe what the letter said?" "She didn't believe that part, but--the letter said something more." "What?" "In a postscript was written, 'You are being deceived by him, and he is also deceiving another girl, Vera Rockwell. If you don't believe it, come to Oakdale and find out.'" "And that was in a letter sent to Jessie?" Dave began to think rapidly. "Did she get that letter before she came here that other time?" "Yes,--but she didn't let me know it then." "And was that why she was so--so put out when she saw me with Vera and Mary and Phil?" "I suppose so. You must remember, Dave, that Jessie is very sensitive--the loveliest girl I ever met,--and she looks upon you as her dearest friend. Getting that letter and then seeing you with Miss Rockwell----" "But Vera is nothing to me but a friend, Laura. Why, Roger thinks ten times more of her than I do. Just go and pump him about it. Why, to me Jessie is worth more than--than--anybody, outside of my sister, and you must let her know it, Laura." Dave paused. "That letter--has Jessie got it yet?" "Yes. She was going to burn it up after she showed it to me, but I told her not to do it, and I made her bring it along. Of course, she feels a delicacy about showing it to you--on account of the postscript--but I said you ought to have a chance of exposing the person who was trying to ruin your character." "I want to see the letter. I've got some idea already regarding the writer." "So have I!" "Link Merwell?" "Yes. Do you know he sent me an unsigned letter two days ago." "He did? I warned him not to send you anything," and now Dave's face grew stern. "It was only a couple of lines in pencil, and said, 'If you want letters, come to Oakdale with twenty-five dollars.'" "The rascal! So he has sunk so low he wants to sell you the letters! I knew he was going to the bad, but I didn't think he was down as far as that. I hope you didn't bring the money." "But I did, Dave. I--I was afraid if I didn't he might--might read the letters to others and expose me to ridicule," and the girl's face grew crimson. "Don't you give him a cent, Laura--not a cent. I'll get hold of him before the term breaks up--and I'll get those letters or know the reason why!" CHAPTER XXX DAVE TAKES THE LAW IN HIS OWN HANDS A quarter of an hour later Dave and Jessie took a little walk up to the public park of Oakdale and, seated on a bench, they had a confidential talk lasting for some time. A great many things were said which need not be repeated here. When the talk was over Dave's heart felt lighter than it had for many weeks and Jessie's beautiful face shone with a happiness that had been missing for an equal length of time. "It was awful for that Merwell to send that letter," said Jessie. "Of course, Dave, you can be sure I didn't believe a word of it,--about your smoking and drinking and gambling." "I am fairly sure it is his handwriting," answered Dave. "He tried to disguise it, but a fellow can't always do that. I'll find out pretty quick--when I get back to the Hall." "And to think he acted so meanly toward Laura! He must be perfectly horrid!" "It's my opinion his days at Oak Hall are numbered, Jessie. I have heard the doctor has given him warning to mend his ways, but he doesn't seem to care. Well, if he won't do what is right he must take the consequences." Dave, Roger, and Phil had run down to Oakdale on their bicycles and now they had to return to the school--to get dinner and leave for the baseball grounds at Hilltop. "Let us go around by way of the Chedwick road," suggested the senator's son. "It's much better riding than on the main road and we can make better time." The others were willing, and off they sped at a speed which soon took them to the outskirts of the town. Then they came to a crossroad, on the corner of which was situated a roadhouse kept by a man named Rafferty. Rafferty's reputation was none of the best, and it was reported that the resort was used by many who wished to gamble. Doctor Clay had warned his pupils not to stop there under any circumstances. Phil and Roger were somewhat in advance of Dave, whose front tire was soft and needed pumping up. Passing the roadhouse, Dave came to a halt at the roadside. "Going to pump up!" he called out. "Go ahead--I'll catch up with you." And so the others went on, leaving him alone. He was at work with a small hand pump he carried when he heard a murmur of voices in the bushes and trees back of the roadhouse. The murmur grew louder, and presently he made out the voices of Gus Plum and Link Merwell. "You're a fool, Gus, to act this way," Merwell was saying. "What's the use of being a softy? You are missing a whole lot of fun." "I tell you I'm not going to do it," answered Plum. "I guess I know what is best for me." "It won't hurt you to have one drink," went on Merwell. "Come on in, like a good fellow. I hate to drink alone. He's got some prime stuff. We've got lots of time to get back to the Hall in time for dinner." "No, I'm done with drinking--I told you that before, Link. Now stop it and let me go." "See here, Gus, you've got to go with me," stormed Merwell, uglily. "I'll not have you giving me the cold shoulder. If you refuse to have just one drink, do you know what I'll do? I'll let Doctor Clay know about that other time--the time you went to the granary." "No! no!" pleaded Plum, and now his voice trembled. "Please don't do that!" "Ha! ha! that's where I've got you, haven't I? Now, will you take a drink with me, or not?" "I--I--I am afraid. Oh, Merwell, you know how it was before. I--I----" Gus Plum broke down completely. "Please don't ask me; please don't!" "Of all the fools----" began Link Merwell, and then stopped short as a heavy hand was suddenly laid on his shoulder. "Dave Porter!" "Merwell, I want to talk to you," said Dave, in a cold, hard tone that caused the big bully to start. "Come with me." "Oh, Dave----" began Plum, and his face was red from confusion. "Let me do the talking--and acting, Gus." "Did you--er--hear what was said?" "I heard enough. Now, Merwell, come with me." "Where to?" "Away from this roadhouse." "What for?" "I'll tell you that later." "Supposing I refuse to come?" Dave's manner began to make the bully feel uncomfortable. He felt that something very unusual was about to happen. "If you don't come, I'll make you." "Will you?" The bully tried to put a sneer in the question, but failed. "I will. Now, are you coming or not?" And Dave doubled up his fists and drew back his right arm. "Going to fight?" "No; I am going to give you the worst licking any boy at Oak Hall ever got." "Two can play at that game." "Are you coming or not, Merwell? This is your last chance to say yes." "No." Hardly had the word left the bully's lips when Dave leaped forward and sent in a crashing blow on Merwell's chin. The bully tried to dodge but failed, and went over on his back in some brushwood. For several moments he lay there dazed. "See here, I'll fix you!" he roared, as he struggled up. "If you want to fight---- Oh!" For again Dave had struck out, and this time the blow landed over the bully's left eye, and once more he went down in the bushes. "Oh, Dave----" began Plum, but received a shove back. "Leave it all to me, Gus--I owe him this, and more. I'll tell you some of the reasons later." "But--but he'll give me away to Doctor Clay--he'll tell about my----" "No, he won't--not after I am through with him. And even if he should I can tell the doctor the truth--how he tempted you and even threatened you." Breathing heavily, Link Merwell arose a second time. He looked around for something with which to attack Dave, and his uninjured eye fell upon a stone lying close by. But as he stooped to pick it up, Dave gave him a shove that landed him on his face in the dirt. Then Dave leaped forward and sat down heavily on the bully's back. "Ough!" roared Merwell. "Let up! Do you want to break my ribs? Let up, I say!" "Will you do as I told you to?" demanded Dave, not budging from his position. "Where do you want me to go?" "Down into this woods a short distance--away from the roadhouse and the road." "What for?" "I'll tell you that when we get there." Fearing some of his ribs might be broken, Merwell said he would do as Dave desired, and the latter allowed him to rise, but kept a close watch on his every movement. Plum could now see that the boy from Crumville was in deadly earnest and felt it would be useless to talk or interfere, and so followed the two into the woods in silence. Dave brought Merwell to a halt in a little glade surrounded by hemlocks. "Now, sit down on that stone while I talk to you, Link Merwell," said Dave, pointing to a flat rock. "I shan't take long, but you'll find it to your interest to listen closely to every word I say." And with his handkerchief to the eye that was rapidly closing, the bully sat down. "In the past you've made a lot of trouble for me and my friends," commenced Dave. "You were in league with some others to play me foul at every opportunity. You sent a letter to Roger Morr about me, and another letter to Crumville, to a young lady friend of mine--and you also sent a letter to my sister." At these last words Merwell's hand went up unconsciously to his breast-pocket. "You have blackened my character all you possibly could. Now, if I wanted to, I could place you in the hands of the law. But instead, I am going to take it out of you." "Wha--what do you mean?" And the bully half arose to his feet. "I mean just what I say, Merwell. Sit down!" And Dave shoved the bully back on the rock. "I want you to know----" "Shut up!" And again Dave doubled up his fists. "I am not here to listen to you. I'll do the talking. Now to come to business. First of all, I want those letters." "What letters?" "You know well enough." "I haven't any letters with me." "Do you want to make it necessary for me to search you?" "You wouldn't dare, Porter!" "I shall dare. Now hand over those letters, and be quick about it!" Again Dave doubled up his fists and something like fire shone in his clear eyes. Merwell hesitated, shivered, and slowly his hand went to his breast-pocket. "You'll rue this day!" he muttered, savagely. Slowly he drew from his pocket the letters Laura had so foolishly sent him. Dave snatched them from his grasp and looked them over swiftly, then stowed them away in his own pocket. "Now, Merwell, I want you to promise by all you hold sacred not to say a word to anybody about Gus Plum's doings during the past term. For the honor of the school I think this matter ought to be kept secret." "I'll promise nothing." "Yes, you will." Again were Dave's fists doubled up, and again that fire showed itself in his determined eyes. Merwell shivered--for once he felt himself utterly cornered and beaten. "All right, I promise," he said, in a low tone. "And you must also promise that in the future you will leave me and my friends alone." "Have your own way about it." "Do you promise?" "Yes." "Then stand up." "What do you want next?" growled Merwell. He was feeling more uncomfortable every minute. "I'll show you," answered Dave, and leaping forward he caught the bully by the collar and shook him as a dog might shake a rat. Then he cuffed the fellow right and left, gave him another shaking, and threw him down violently on the ground. Merwell did his best to resist, but Dave's muscles were at such a tension that Link was next to helpless in the other's grasp. "For two pins, I'd give you more!" cried Dave. "You deserve it. But I'll save the rest--in case you ever attempt to break the promises you've made." And then, taking Plum by the arm, he walked off, leaving Link Merwell on the ground, bruised and shaken, and as thoroughly cowed, for the time being, as a whipped cur. CHAPTER XXXI MORE VICTORIES--CONCLUSION Once more Oak Hall and Rockville Academy were struggling to decide the championship. It was a clear day, and as before every nook and corner of the grand stand and bleachers was filled. In one spot were located the Porters, Jessie, Senator Morr, Mr. Lawrence, and many other friends. It was the beginning of the fifth inning and the score stood, Rockville 5, Oak Hall 3. Plum was again at first, but Dave and Roger were on the bench as substitutes. It had been a hard-fought battle from the first ball pitched. Each pitcher had been hit heavily, but good field work had kept the score from going higher. Shadow had made a phenomenal catch that had brought forth much applause, and Phil had brought in the third run when it looked almost certain that he would be put out. It was Oak Hall's turn at the bat, and they did their best to score. But with a man on second and another on first, their hopes faded, and they retired, leaving the figures as before. Then Rockville took up the stick, and lined out two singles, a three-bagger, and another single before giving up, thus adding three to their tally. "That's the way to do it!" "Rockville is sure to take this game!" Messmer was next to the bat, but knocked a fly to center, and another player followed with a foul that was caught by the third baseman. Then Barloe, the catcher, who had made the first run, came up with his bat. "Hurrah for Barloe!" was the cry. "Make another this time!" In came the ball and the batsman tried to hit it and failed. Then the sphere came in a second time, and of a sudden Barloe uttered a moan and sank to the ground. "Barloe's hit! The ball took him under the ribs!" The report was true, and too weak to run the injured catcher was escorted to a bench, while Roger took his place at first. By good luck the senator's son brought the run in, and he was then asked to do the catching as of old, Barloe begging to be excused. With the runs piling up against him, Purdy was getting nervous, and in the seventh inning he seemed to go all to pieces, much to his own chagrin and the disappointment of his many friends. He allowed two singles, and then gave two men their base on balls, thus forcing in a run. "Wake up, Purdy! You'll have to do better than that!" "Dave Porter! Put Dave Porter in!" "That's it! Porter! Porter! Porter!" The cry was taken up on all sides, and Phil motioned for Purdy to retire and for Dave to come out. "It's too bad, Purdy, old man," whispered Dave, as he passed the rattled pitcher. "Fortune of war," was the grim and plucky answer. "I did my best. Go in and wax 'em!" Dave might have been nervous had he allowed himself to think of what was before him. The bases were filled and nobody was out. It was certainly a trying moment, to say the least. He took his place in the box and the umpire called out "Play!" Then the ball fairly streaked over the plate. "Strike one!" "Hurrah! that's the way to do it!" With the ball again in hand, Dave looked at the batter and then cast a swift glance toward third. Over to the base went the ball, and much to his surprise the runner was caught two feet off the bag. "Runner at third out!" What a cheering went up! All the Oak Hall supporters felt that Dave meant business, and their drooping spirits revived as if by magic. With care the pitcher delivered one ball after another--a drop, and then one that was as straight as it was swift. The batter was struck out, and another roar went up from the Oak Hall contingent. Laura waved her banner and Jessie her handkerchief. "Two out! Now, Porter, go after the third!" And Dave did go after the next batter. But the fellow was a good hitter and managed to find the ball. But no run came in, and the inning was saved. It was a victory in itself and many came up to shake Dave by the hand. But he waved them aside. "Hold on," he said. "The game isn't over yet--and please to remember the score is four to eight against us." In the eighth inning the Oak Hall nine managed to make two runs. In that inning Dave by clever work held the opposition down to one scratch hit which went for nothing, and received more applause. Then came the ninth inning, and in that Oak Hall tied the score, amid a yelling that could be heard a mile away. Even Doctor Clay was cheering, and in his enthusiasm Andrew Dale completely smashed the derby hat he wore. The tenth inning opened amid a breathless silence. Oak Hall did its best to score, but failed. Then Dave walked down to the box once again, and in a manner that was certainly wonderful struck out two men after one man had been caught out on a pop fly. Ten innings and still a tie. This was certainly a game worth seeing and nearly all the spectators were now on their feet, talking and shouting wildly. "Now, boys, we must do something!" cried Phil. Ben Basswood was at bat, and with two strikes called on him, Ben landed for a two-base hit. Then came a single, and taking a perilous chance Ben ran around and slid to the plate. "A run! A run!" "Now make it two!" But this was not to be, and Oak Hall retired one run "to the good," as Roger said. "Well, that's enough,--if we can hold them down in their half," said Plum. He had done some great work at first, of which he was correspondingly proud. All eyes were on Dave when he entered the pitcher's box for the last time. He felt as if he had the responsibility of the whole game on his shoulders. He pitched quickly, almost bewildering the batters. The first man up went out on strikes and the second knocked a short fly to third. Then came a fellow named Parsons, the best hitter of the Rockville club. "Hurrah! Parsons, show 'em where the back fence is!" With two men out, Dave faced the batter. He sent in a low ball which Parsons tried to find--and failed. Then Parsons tried again--and failed. Then Dave sent in the swiftest ball yet pitched, giving it all the twist possible. "Three strikes--batter out!" And the game was won, and with it the championship of the two schools! "Beautiful! beautiful!" cried Doctor Clay, when he came down into the field to congratulate the club. "It was the best exhibition of ball-playing I've seen in a long time." And all the visitors to Oak Hall and many others agreed with him. Dave was the lion of the occasion, and his many friends nearly wrung his hand off. The other members of the nine also came in for a share of the praise. The Rockville boys felt their defeat keenly, but had to acknowledge that they had been beaten fairly. As soon as he could get away from his chums, Dave sought out Laura and Jessie. "I've got those letters," he whispered to Laura. "And I doubt if Link Merwell will ever trouble you again." "Oh, I am so thankful, Dave!" she answered. "I'll never be so foolish again as to write letters to a person with whom I am not well acquainted." "It was grand, Dave!" cried Jessie. "It was the best victory that could be!" "Well, I am hoping for a greater to-morrow," answered Dave, gravely. "You mean in school?" "Yes." "Well, I trust with all my heart you have your wishes fulfilled," said the girl, and her eyes told that she meant what she said. That night late a report was whispered around the school that Link Merwell had gotten into serious trouble with Doctor Clay, and the report proved true. Angered by the way Dave had treated him, and by Plum's refusal to go with him, Link Merwell had not witnessed the ball game, but had gone to Rafferty's resort instead. Here he had smoked, drunk, and gambled, and ended by getting into a free fight with several men. One man told Horsehair of the trouble and the school driver reported at once to Doctor Clay. The doctor and Mr. Dale went after the misguided youth, and a scene followed which need not be mentioned here. The next day Link Merwell was ordered to pack his trunk and leave, and a telegram was sent to his father in the West stating that he had been expelled for violating the school rules. In his rage Merwell, before leaving, exposed the doings of both Gus Plum and Nat Poole. At once the doctor sent for Plum, and later he interviewed Poole. It was a trying time for Gus, and he broke down completely. He mentioned what Dave had done for him, and stated he was doing his best to reform. Learning of this, the master of the school called upon Dave to tell his story, and then the depths of Merwell's depravity came out. In the end the doctor said he would give Plum another chance to redeem himself, and for this the big youth was exceedingly grateful. For having told a falsehood about taking the boat from Bush Island, Nat Poole was given a severe lecture. He said he had wanted, several times, to explain to the doctor, but that Link Merwell had threatened to make it unpleasant for him if he did so. Because the joke had been directed against some of his fellow-students and not against Doctor Clay and Mr. Dale, Poole got off easier than might otherwise have been the case. The closing exercises of the school were well attended. Sixteen pupils were to graduate, including several who had been Dave's warm chums. Some of these boys stood high in their class and consequently walked off with some prizes. When the time came for the decision regarding the essays on The Past and Future of Our Country everybody was on the top-notch of expectation. All the teachers had read the various papers handed in, and they had been the subject of many comments. "Because of the general excellence of seven of the essays," said Doctor Clay, "it has been somewhat difficult to pick out that which was the best. We have here a fine essay by Bertram Vane, another by Samuel Downs, another by Joseph Beggs, and others by Chipham Macklin, Giles Cadmore, and Devere Peterson. But there is one that seems to stand out above the others, both for its originality and its literary qualities. That essay takes the prize, and it is written by Master David Porter. Porter, will you please come forward and read your essay." As Dave walked to the platform a round of applause was given and when he bowed there was much hand-clapping. Then in a clear, full voice, he read the essay on which he had spent so much thought and labor. It was certainly a splendid piece of literary composition and was listened to with great pleasure by all. When he had finished Doctor Clay handed him the prize, and then the applause broke forth anew. "Another victory!" whispered Roger, as Dave passed to his seat. "Yes, and the best of them all," was Dave's reply. Fortunately, the senator's son also won a prize, and Phil came in the third from the highest in his class, while Shadow came in fifth and Ben Basswood sixth. Even Gus Plum made a good record, much to the pleasure of his parents, who had feared at one time he would turn out a ne'er-do-well. "Now the question is, What are we going to do during the summer vacation?" said Roger, after the exercises were over, and he and the others and their friends were indulging in refreshments on the campus. "I am going to Asbury Park with my folks," said Luke Watson. "And I am going to Maine," added Messmer. "My uncle has a camp there. Henshaw is going with me, and so is Macklin." "I have an invitation for Dave," said Laura. "The Endicotts want me to come back to their ranch and bring my newly-found brother with me." "That's fine!" cried Phil. "I'd like to try ranch life myself just for a change." "The Endicotts' ranch is next to that owned by Merwell's father, so I have been told," added Roger. "Maybe if you go out there with Dave, you'll meet Link again." "I never want to see that fellow again," said Dave. But this wish was not to be fulfilled, as we shall learn in the next volume of this series, to be entitled, "Dave Porter at Star Ranch; or, The Cowboy's Secret." In that volume we shall meet many of our friends again, and learn what Link Merwell did when he and Dave met once more on the boundless prairies and in the mountain canyons. That evening the students held a grand celebration, which lasted far into the night. Bonfires were lit and the lads danced around and sang songs to their hearts' content. Shadow told half a dozen of his best stories, and two of the students distinguished themselves by giving all their schoolbooks to the flames. It was a time none of them ever forgot. "And now for home," said Dave, the next day. "Home, and the boundless West." And here let us leave him, and say good-by. * * * * * Transcriber's note: 1. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. 2. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors. 3. The following two illustrations listed in the Index of Illustrations are missing from the original book used to prepare this e-book: 3.1. "The big snowball hit the craft and bowled it over," - Page 52. 3.2. "Dave pointed out the form of the sleep-walker," - Page 164. 4. The original Illustrations include the page number in the captions. These have been removed as each page is numbered in the righthand margin. 
6487	----	THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP AND OTHER STORIES BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR TO BELINDA CONTENTS THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP THE PROVING OF JERRY MCTURKLE, THE BAND THE TRIUMPH OF "CURLY" PATSY HIS FIRST ASSIGNMENT PEMBERTON'S FLUKE THE SEVENTH TUTOR A RACE WITH THE WATERS A COLLEGE SANTA CLAUS THE TRIPLE PLAY THE DUB THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP I Hilltop School closed its fall term with just ninety-five students; it opened again two weeks later, on the third of January, with ninety-six; and thereby hangs this tale. Kenneth Garwood had been booked for Hilltop in the autumn, but circumstances had interfered with the family's plans. Instead he journeyed to Moritzville on the afternoon of the day preceding the commencement of the new term, a very cold and blustery January afternoon, during much of which he sat curled tightly into a corner of his seat in the poorly heated day coach, which was the best the train afforded, and wondered why the Connecticut Valley was so much colder than Cleveland, Ohio. He had taken an early train from New York, and all the way to Moritzville had sought with natural eagerness for sight of his future schoolmates. But he had been unsuccessful. When Hilltop returns to school it takes the mid-afternoon express which reaches Moritzville just in time for dinner, whereas Kenneth reached the school before it was dark, and at a quarter of five was in undisputed possession, for the time being, of Number 12, Lower House. "We are putting you," the principal had said, "with Joseph Brewster, a boy of about your own age and a member of your class. He is one of our nicest boys, one of whom we are very proud. You will, I am certain, become good friends. Mr. Whipple here will show you to your room. Supper is at six. Afterwards, say at eight o'clock, I should like you to see me again here at the office. If there is anything you want you will find the matron's room at the end of the lower hall. Er--will you take him in charge, Mr. Whipple?" On the way across the campus, between banks of purple-shadowed snow and under leafless elms which creaked and groaned dismally in the wind, Kenneth reached the firm conclusion that there were two persons at Hilltop whom he was going to dislike cordially. One was the model Joseph Brewster, and the other was Mr. Whipple. The instructor was young, scarcely more than twenty-three, tall, sallow, near-sighted and taciturn. He wore an unchanging smile on his thin face and spoke in a soft, silky voice that made Kenneth want to trip him into one of the snow banks. Lower House, so called to distinguish it from the other dormitory, Upper House, which stood a hundred yards higher on the hill, looked very uninviting. Its windows frowned dark and inhospitable and no light shone from the hall as they entered. Mr. Whipple paused and searched unsuccessfully for a match. "I fear I have left my match box in my study," he said at length. "Just a moment, please, Garwood, and I will--" "Here's a match, sir," interrupted Kenneth. "Ah!" Mr. Whipple accepted the match and rubbed it carefully under the banister rail. "Thank you," he added as a tiny pale flame appeared at the tip of the side bracket. "I trust that the possession of matches, my boy, does not indicate a taste for tobacco on your part?" he continued, smiling deprecatingly. Kenneth took up his suit case again. "I trust not, sir," he said. Mr. Whipple blinked behind his glasses. "Smoking is, of course, prohibited at Hilltop." "I think it is at most schools," Kenneth replied gravely. "Oh, undoubtedly! I am to understand, then, that you are not even in the least addicted to the habit?" "Well, sir, it isn't likely you'll ever catch me at it," said Kenneth imperturbably. The instructor flushed angrily. "I hope not," he said in a silky voice, "I sincerely hope not, Garwood--for your sake!" He started up the stairs and Kenneth followed, smiling wickedly. He hadn't made a very good beginning, he told himself, but Mr. Whipple irritated him intensely. After the instructor had closed the door softly and taken his departure, Kenneth sat down in an easy-chair and indulged in regrets. "I wish I hadn't been so fresh," he muttered ruefully. "It doesn't do a fellow any good to get the teachers down on him. Not that I'm scared of that old boy, though! Dr. Randall isn't so bad, but if the rest of the teachers are like Whipple I don't want to stay. Well, dad said I needn't stay after this term if I don't like it. Guess I can stand three months, even of Whipple! I hope Brewster isn't quite as bad. Maybe, though, they'll give me another room if I kick. Don't see why I can't have a room by myself, anyhow. I guess I'll get dad to write and ask for it. Only maybe a chap in moderate circumstances like me isn't supposed to have a room all to himself." He chuckled softly and looked about him. Number 12 consisted of a small study and a good-sized sleeping room opening off. The study was well furnished, even if the carpet was worn bare in spots and the green-topped table was a mass of ink blots. There were two comfortable armchairs and two straight-backed chairs, the aforementioned table, two bookcases, one on each side of the window, a wicker wastebasket and two or three pictures. Also there was an inviting window seat heaped with faded cushions. On the whole, Kenneth decided, the study, seen in the soft radiance of the droplight, had a nice "homey" look. He crossed over and examined the bedroom, drawing aside the faded brown chenille curtain to let in the light. There wasn't much to see--two iron beds, two chiffoniers, two chairs, a trunk bearing the initials "J. A. B." and a washstand. The floor was bare save for three rugs, one beside each bed and one in front of the washstand. The two windows had white muslin curtains and a couple of uninteresting pictures hung on the walls. He dropped the curtain at the door, placed his suit case on a chair and opened it. For the next few minutes he was busy distributing its contents. To do this it was necessary to light the gas in the bedroom and as it flared up, its light was reflected from the gleaming backs of a set of silver brushes which he had placed a moment before on the top of the chiffonier. He paused for a moment and eyed them doubtfully. "Gee!" he muttered. "I can't have those out. I'll have to buy some brushes." He gathered them up and tumbled them back into his suit case. Finally, with everything put away, he took off coat and vest, collar and, cuffs, and proceeded to wash up. And while he is doing it let us have a good look at him. He was fourteen years of age, but he looked older. Not that he was large for his age; it was rather the expression of his face that added that mythical year or so. He looked at once self-reliant and reserved. At first glance one might have thought him conceited, in which case one would have done him an injustice. Kenneth had traveled a good deal and had seen more of the world than has the average boy of his age, and this had naturally left its impress on his countenance. I can't honestly say that he was handsome, and I don't think you will be disappointed to hear it. But he was good-looking, with nice, quiet gray eyes, an aquiline nose, a fairly broad mouth whose smiles meant more for being infrequent, and a firm, rather pointed chin of the sort which is popularly supposed to, and in Kenneth's case really did, denote firmness of character. His hair was brown and quite guiltless of curl. His body was well set up and he carried himself with a little backward thrust of the head and shoulders which might have seemed arrogant, but wasn't, any more than was his steady, level manner of looking at one. Presently, having donned his clothes once more, he picked up a book from the study table, pulled one of the chairs toward the light and set himself comfortably therein, stretching his legs out and letting his elbows sink into the padded leather arms. And so he sat when, after twenty minutes or so, there were sounds outside the building plainly denoting the arrival of students, sounds followed by steps on the stairs, shouts, laughter, happy greetings, the thumping of bags, the clinking of keys. And so he sat when the door of Number 12 was suddenly thrown wide open and a merry face, flushed with the cold, looked amazedly upon him from between the high, shaggy, upturned collar of a voluminous dark gray ulster and the soft visor of a rakishly tilted cap. II And while Kenneth looked back, he felt his prejudices melting away. Surely one couldn't dislike for very long such a jolly, mischievous-looking youth as this! Of Kenneth's own age was the newcomer, a little heavier, yellow-haired and blue-eyed, at once impetuous and good-humored. But at this moment the good-humor was not greatly in evidence. Merriment gave place to surprise, surprise to resentment on the boy's countenance. "Hello!" he challenged. Kenneth laid the book face down on his knee and smiled politely. "How do you do?" he responded. The newcomer dragged a big valise into the room and closed the door behind him, never for an instant taking his gaze off Kenneth. Then, apparently concluding that the figure in the armchair was real flesh and blood and not a creature of the imagination, he tossed his cap to the table, revealing a rumpled mass of golden yellow hair, and looked belligerently at the intruder. "Say, you've got the wrong room, I guess," he announced. "Here's where they put me," answered Kenneth gravely. "Well, you can't stay here," was the inhospitable response. "This is my room." Kenneth merely looked respectfully interested. Joe Brewster slid out of his ulster, frowning angrily. "You're a new boy, aren't you!" he demanded. "About an hour and a half old," said Kenneth. Somehow the reply seemed to annoy Joe. He clenched his hands and stepped toward the other truculently. "Well, you go and see the matron; she'll find a room for you; there are lots of rooms, I guess. Anyway, I'm not going to have you butting in here." "You must be Joseph Brewster," said Kenneth. The other boy growled assent. "The fact is, Brewster, they put me in here with you because you are such a fine character. Dr. Whatshisname said you were the pride of the school, or something like that. I guess they thought association with you would benefit me." Joe gave a roar and a rush. Over went the armchair, over went Kenneth, over went Joe, and for a minute nothing was heard in Number 12 but the sound of panting and gasping and muttered words, and the colliding of feet and bodies with floor and furniture. The attack had been somewhat unexpected and as a result, for the first moments of the battle, Kenneth occupied the uncomfortable and inglorious position of the under dog. He strove only to escape punishment, avoiding offensive tactics altogether. It was hard work, however, for Brewster pummeled like a good one, his seraphic face aflame with the light of battle and his yellow hair seeming to stand about his head like a golden oriflamb. And while Kenneth hugged his adversary to him, ducking his head away from the incessant jabs of a very industrious fist, he realized that he had made a mistake in his estimation of his future roommate. He was going to like him; he was quite sure he was; providing, of course that said roommate left enough of him! And then, seeing, or rather feeling his chance, he toppled Joe Brewster over his shoulder and in a trice the tables were turned. Now it was Kenneth who was on top, and it took him but a moment to seize Joe's wrists in a very firm grasp, a grasp which, in spite of all efforts, Joe found it impossible to escape. Kenneth, perched upon his stomach--uneasily, you may be sure, since Joe heaved and tossed like a boat in a tempest--offered terms. "Had enough?" he asked. "No," growled Joe. "Then you'll stay here until you have," answered Kenneth. "You and I are going to be roommates, so we might as well get used to each other now as later, eh? How any fellow with a face like a little pink angel can use his fists the way you can, gets me!" Kenneth was almost unseated at this juncture, but managed to hold his place. Panting from the effects of the struggle, he went on: "Seems to me Dr. Randall must be mistaken in you, Brewster. You don't strike me at all as a model of deportment. Seems to me he and you fixed up a pretty lively welcome for me, eh?" The anger faded out of Joe's face and a smile trembled at the corners of his mouth. "Let me up," he said quietly. "Behave?" "Yep." "All right," said Kenneth. But before he could struggle to his feet there was a peremptory knock on the door, followed instantly by the appearance of a third person on the scene, a dark-haired, sallow, tall youth of fifteen who viewed the scene with surprise. "What's up?" he asked. Kenneth sprang to his feet and gave his hand to Joe. About them spread devastation. "I was showing him a new tackle," explained Kenneth easily. Joe, somewhat red of face, shot him a look of gratitude. "Oh," said the new arrival, "and who the dickens are you, kid?" "My name's Garwood. I just came to-day. I'm to room with Brewster." "Is that right?" asked the other, turning to Joe. Joe nodded. "So he says, Graft. I think it's mighty mean, though. They let me have a room to myself all fall, and now, just when I'm getting used to it, what do they do? Why, they dump this chap in here. It isn't as though there weren't plenty of other rooms!" "Why don't you kick to the doctor?" asked Grafton Hyde. "Oh, it wouldn't do any good, I suppose," said Joe. Grafton Hyde sat down and viewed Kenneth with frank curiosity. "Where are you from?" he demanded. "Cleveland, Ohio." "Any relation to John Garwood, the railroad man?" "Ye-es, some," said Kenneth. Grafton snorted. "Huh! I dare say! Most everyone tries to claim relationship with a millionaire. Bet you, he doesn't know you're alive!" "Well," answered Kenneth with some confusion, "maybe not, but--but I think he's related to our family, just the same." "You do, eh?" responded Grafton sarcastically. "Well, I wouldn't try very hard to claim relationship if I were you. I guess if the honest truth were known there aren't very many fellows who would want to be in John Garwood's shoes, for all his money." "Why?" asked Kenneth. "Because he's no good. Look at the way he treated his employees in that last strike! Some of 'em nearly starved to death!" "That's a--that isn't so!" answered Kenneth hotly. "It was all newspaper lies." "Newspapers don't lie," said Grafton sententiously. "They lied then, like anything," was the reply. "Well, everyone knows what John Garwood is," said Grafton carelessly. "I've heard my father tell about him time and again. He used to know him years ago." Kenneth opened his lips, thought better of it and kept silence. "Ever hear of my father?" asked Grafton with a little swagger. "What's his name?" asked Kenneth. "Peter Hyde," answered the other importantly. "Oh, yes! He's a big politician in Chicago, isn't he?" "No, he isn't!" replied Grafton angrily. "He's Peter Hyde, the lumber magnate." "Oh!" said Kenneth. "What--what's a lumber magnet?" "_Magnate_, not magnet!" growled Grafton. "It's time you came to school if you don't know English. Where have you been going?" "I beg pardon?" "What school have you been to? My, you're a dummy!" "I haven't been to any school this year. Last year I went to the grammar school at home." "Then this is your first boarding school, eh?" "Yes; and I hope I'll like it. The catalogue said it was a very fine school. I trust I shall profit from my connection with it." Grafton stared bewilderedly, but the new junior's face was as innocent as a cherub's. Joe Brewster stared, too, for a moment; then a smile flickered around his mouth and he bent his head, finding interest in a bleeding knuckle. "Well, I came over to talk about the team, Joe," Grafton said after a moment. "I didn't know you had company." "Didn't know it myself," muttered Joe. Kenneth picked up his book again and went back to his reading. But he was not so deeply immersed but that he caught now and then fragments of the conversation, from which he gathered that both Joe and Hyde were members of the Lower House Basket Ball Team, that Hyde held a very excellent opinion of his own abilities as a player, that Upper House was going to have a very strong team and that if Lower didn't find a fellow who could throw goals from fouls better than Simms could it was all up with them. Suddenly Kenneth laid down his book again. "I say, you fellows, couldn't I try for that team?" he asked. "Oh, yes, you can _try_," laughed Grafton. "Ever play any?" "A little. We had a team at the grammar school. I played right guard." "You did, eh? That's where I play," said Grafton. "Maybe you'd like my place?" "Don't you want it?" asked Kenneth innocently. "Don't I want it! Well, you'll have to work pretty hard to get it!" "I will," said Kenneth very simply. Grafton stared doubtfully. "Candidates are called for four o'clock tomorrow afternoon," said Joe. "You'd better come along. You're pretty light, but Jim Marble will give you a try all right." "Thanks," answered Kenneth. "But would practice be likely to interfere with my studies?" "Say, kid, you're' a wonder!" sneered Grafton as he got up to go. "I never saw anything so freshly green in my life! You're going to have a real nice time here at Hilltop; I can see that. Well, see you later, Joe. Come up to-night; I want to show you some new snowshoes I brought back. Farewell, Garwood. By the way, what's your first name?" "Kenneth." "Hey?" "Kenneth; K, e, n, n, e--" "Say, that's a peach!" laughed Grafton. "Well, bring little Kenneth with you, Joe; I've got some picture books." "Thank you," said the new junior gratefully. "Oh, don't mention it!" And Grafton went out chuckling. As the door closed behind him, Joe Brewster sank into a chair and thrust out his legs, hands in pockets, while a radiant grin slowly overspread his angelic countenance. "Well," he said finally, "you're the first fellow that ever bluffed Graft! And the way he took it!" Kenneth smiled modestly under the admiring regard of his roommate. "Gee!" cried Joe, glancing at his watch. "It's after six. Come on to supper. Maybe if we hurry they'll give you a place at our table." Kenneth picked up his cap and followed his new friend down the stairs. On the way he asked: "Is that chap Hyde a particular friend of yours?" "N-no," answered Joe, "not exactly. We're on the team together, and he isn't such a bad sort. Only--he's the richest fellow in school and he can't forget it!" "I don't like him," said Kenneth decidedly. Hilltop School stands on the top of a hill overlooking the Connecticut Valley, a cluster of half a dozen ivy-draped buildings of which only one, the new gymnasium, looks less than a hundred years old. Seventy-six feet by forty it is, built of red sandstone with freestone trimming; a fine, aristocratic-looking structure which lends quite an air to the old campus. In the basement there is a roomy baseball cage, a bowling alley, lockers, and baths. In the main hall, one end of which terminates in a fair-sized stage, are gymnastic apparatus of all kinds. It was here that Kenneth found himself at four o'clock the next day. His trunk had arrived and he had dug out his old basket-ball costume, a red sleeveless shirt, white knee pants, and canvas shoes. He wore them now as he sat, a lithe, graceful figure, on the edge of the stage. There were nearly thirty other fellows on the floor amusing themselves in various ways while they waited for the captain to arrive. Several of them Kenneth already knew well enough to speak to and many others he knew by name. For Joe had made himself Kenneth's guide and mentor, had shown him all there was to be seen, had introduced him to a number of the fellows and pointed out others and had initiated him into many of the school manners and methods. This morning Kenneth had made his appearance in various class rooms and had met various teachers, among them Mr. Whipple, who, Kenneth discovered, was instructor in English. The fellows seemed a friendly lot and he was already growing to like Hilltop. Naturally enough, Kenneth found himself the object of much interest. He was a new boy, the only new one in school. At Hilltop the athletic rivalry was principally internal, between dormitory and dormitory. To be sure the baseball and football teams played other schools, but nevertheless the contests which wrought the fellows up to the highest pitch of enthusiasm were those in which the Blue of Upper House and the Crimson of Lower met in battle. Each dormitory had its own football, baseball, hockey, tennis, track, basket ball, and debating, team, and rivalry was always intense. Hence the arrival of a new boy in Lower House meant a good deal to both camps. And most fellows liked what they saw of Kenneth, even while regretting that he wasn't old enough and big enough for football material. Kenneth bore the scrutiny without embarrassment, but nevertheless he was glad when Joe joined him where he sat on the edge of the stage. "Jim hasn't come yet," said Joe, examining a big black-and-blue spot on his left knee. "I guess there won't be time for much practice today, because Upper has the floor at five. They're going to have a dandy team this year; a whole bunch of big fellows. But they had a big heavy team year before last and we beat them the first two games." "Don't you play any outside schools?" "No, the faculty won't let us. Perfect rot, isn't it? They let us play outsiders at football and baseball and all that, but they won't let us take on even the grammar school for basket ball. Randy says the game is too rough and we might get injured. Bough! I'd like to know what he calls football!" "I don't understand about the classes here," said Kenneth. "I heard that big chap over there say he couldn't play because he was 'advanced' or something. What's that!" "Advanced senior," answered Joe. "You see, there's the preparatory class, the junior class, the middle class and the senior class. Then if a fellow wants to fit for college, he does another year in the senior class and in order to distinguish him from the fourth-year fellows they call him an advanced senior. See? There are five in school this year. Faculty won't let them play basket ball or football because they're supposed to be too big and might hurt some of us little chaps. Huh! Hello, there's Jim. I've got to see him a minute." And Joe slipped off the stage and scurried across to where a boy of about sixteen, a tall, athletic-looking youth with reddish-brown hair was crossing the floor with a ball under each arm. Joe stopped him and said a few words and presently they both walked over to where Kenneth sat. Joe introduced the captain and the new candidate. "Joe says you've played the game," said Jim inquiringly in a pleasant voice as he shook hands. Kenneth was somewhat awed by him and replied quite modestly: "Yes, but I don't suppose I can play with you fellows. Still, I'd like to try." "That's right. How are you on throwing baskets?" "Well, I used to be pretty fair last year." "Good enough. If you can throw goals well, you'll stand a good show of making the team as a substitute. You'd better get out there with the others and warm up." III Kenneth's first week at Hilltop passed busily and happily. There had been no more talk on Joe's part about getting rid of his roommate. The two had become fast friends. Kenneth grew to like Joe better each day; and it hadn't taken him long to discover that it was because of Joe's ability to squirm out of scrapes or to avoid detection altogether rather than to irreproachable conduct that Dr. Randall looked upon him as a model student. Basket-ball practice for both the Upper and Lower House teams took place every week-day afternoon. Kenneth had erred, if at all, on the side of modesty when speaking of his basket-ball ability. To be sure, he was light in weight for a team where the members' ages averaged almost sixteen years, but he made up for that in speed, while his prowess at shooting baskets from the floor or from fouls was so remarkable that after a few practice games had been played all Lower House was discussing him with eager amazement and Upper House was sitting up and taking notice. At the end of the first week Kenneth secured a place on the second team at right guard, and Grafton Hyde, whose place in a similar position on the first team was his more by reason of his size and weight than because of real ability, began to work his hardest. The closer Kenneth pressed him for his place the more Grafton's dislike of the younger boy became evident. As there was the length of the floor between their positions in the practice games the two had few opportunities to "mix it up," but once or twice they got into a scrimmage together and on those occasions the fur flew. Grafton was a hard, rough player and he didn't handle Kenneth with gloves. On the other hand, Kenneth asked no favors nor gave any. Naturally Grafton's superior size and strength gave him the advantage, and after the second of these "mix-ups," during which the other players and the few spectators looked on gleefully and the referee blew his whistle until he was purple in the face, Kenneth limped down to the dressing room with a badly bruised knee, a factor which kept him out of the game for the next two days and caused Grafton to throw sarcastic asides in the direction of the bench against which Kenneth's heels beat a disconsolate tattoo. Four days before the first game with Upper House--the championship shield went to the team winning two games out of three--Lower House held an enthusiastic meeting at which songs and cheers were practiced and at which the forty odd fellows in attendance pledged themselves for various sums of money to defray the cost of new suits and paraphernalia for both the basket ball and hockey teams. "How much do you give?" whispered Kenneth. "Five dollars," answered Joe, his pencil poised above the little slip of paper. Kenneth stared. "But--isn't that a good bit?" he asked incredulously. "It seems so when you only get twenty dollars a month allowance," answered Joe ruefully. "But every fellow gives what he thinks he ought to, you know; Graft usually gives ten dollars, but lots of the fellows can only give fifty cents." "I see," murmured Kenneth. "'What he thinks he ought to give, eh? That's easy." The following afternoon Upper and Lower Houses turned out _en masse_ to see the first of the hockey series and stood ankle-deep in the new snow while Upper proceeded to administer a generous trouncing to her rival. "Eat 'em up, Upper! Eat 'em up, Upper!" gleefully shouted the supporters of the blue-stockinged players along the opposite barrier. "Oh, forget it!" growled Joe, pulling the collar of his red sweater higher about his neck and turning a disgusted back to the rink. "That's 14 to 3, isn't it? Well, it must be pretty near over, that's one comfort! Hello, here comes Whipple. Gee, but he makes me tired! Always trying to mix with the fellows. I wonder if he was born with that ugly smile of his. He's coming this way," Joe groaned. "He thinks I'm such a nice little boy and says he hopes my heart is of gold to match my hair! Wouldn't that peev you?" "Ah, Brewster," greeted Mr. Whipple, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder, "how goes it today?" He accorded Kenneth a curt nod. "Going bad," growled Joe. "Well, well, we must take the bad with the good," said the instructor sweetly. "Even defeat has its lesson, you know. Now--" But Kenneth didn't hear the rest. Grafton Hyde was beside him with a slip of paper in his hand. "Say, Garwood," said Grafton loudly enough to be heard by the audience near by, "I wish you'd tell me about this. It's your subscription slip. These figures look like a one and two naughts, but I guess you meant ten dollars instead of one, didn't you?" "No," answered Kenneth calmly. "Oh! But--only a dollar?" inquired Grafton incredulously. The fellows nearest at hand who had been either watching the game or delighting in Joe's discomforture turned their attention to Grafton and the new junior. "Exactly," answered Kenneth. "The figures are perfectly plain, aren't they?" Grafton shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "Oh, all right," he said. "Only a dollar seemed rather little, and I wanted to be sure--" "Didn't anyone else give a dollar?" demanded Kenneth. "We don't make public the amounts received," answered Grafton with much dignity. Kenneth smiled sarcastically. "What are you doing now?" he asked. "I merely asked--" "And I answered. That's enough, isn't it?" "Yes, but let me tell you that we don't take to stingy fellows in Lower House. You'd better get moved to Upper, Garwood; that's where you belong. You're a fresh kid, and I guess we don't have to have your subscription anyway." He tore the slip up contemptuously and tossed the pieces to the snow. Kenneth colored. "Just as you like," he answered. "I subscribed what I thought proper and you've refused to accept it. You haven't worried me." But a glance over the faces of the little throng showed that public sentiment was against him. Well, that couldn't be helped now. He turned his back and gave his attention to the game. But the incident was not yet closed. Mr. Whipple's smooth voice sounded in its most conciliatory tones: "We all know your generosity, Hyde. Let us hope that by next year Garwood will have learned from you the spirit of giving." Kenneth swung around and faced the instructor. "May I ask, sir, how much you gave?" "Me? Why--ah--I think the teachers are not required--I should say expected to--ah--contribute," answered Mr. Whipple agitatedly. "I guess they aren't forbidden to," answered Kenneth. "And I don't believe you've got any right to criticise the size of my subscription until you've given something yourself." Mr. Whipple's smile grew tremulous and almost flickered out. "I'm sure that the boys of the Lower House know that I am always ready and eager to aid in any way," he replied with angry dignity, "If they will allow me to contribute--" He paused and viewed the circle smilingly. The idea tickled all hands hugely. "Yes, sir!" "Thank you, sir!" "About five dollars, Mr. Whipple!" Mr. Whipple's smile grew strained and uneasy. He had not expected acceptance of his offer. "Yes, yes, perhaps it is best to keep the donations confined to the student body," he said. "Perhaps at another time you'll allow--" "Right now, sir!" cried Joe. "Give us a couple of dollars, sir!" The demand could not be disregarded. Shouts of approval arose on every hand. On the ice, Wason of the Upper House team had hurt his knee and time had been called; and the waiting players flocked to the barrier to see what was up. Mr. Whipple looked questioningly at Grafton and found that youth regarding him expectantly. With a sigh which was quickly stifled he drew forth his pocketbook and selected a two dollar note from the little roll it contained. He handed it to Grafton who accepted it carelessly. "Thanks," said Grafton. "I'll send you a receipt, sir." "Oh, that is not necessary," replied Mr. Whipple. Now that the thing was past mending he made the best of it. His smile had returned in all its serenity. "And now, Garwood," he said, "as I have complied with your requirements, allow me to say that your conduct has not been--ah--up to Hilltop standards. Let me suggest that you cultivate generosity." Kenneth, who had kept his back turned since his last words, swung around with an angry retort on his lips. But Joe's hand pulled him back. "Shut up, chum!" whispered Joe. "Let him go." Kenneth, swallowed, his anger and Mr. Whipple, with a smiling nod, followed by a quick malevolent glance at Joe, turned away from the group of grinning faces. Chuckles and quiet snickers followed him. There was joy in the ranks of the enemy. Only Kenneth showed no satisfaction over the instructor's discomfiture for he realized that the latter would hold him partly accountable for it. Presently, the game having come to an end with the score 18 to 7 in Upper's favor, he and Joe went back together up the hill. "I wish," said Joe, with a frown, "you hadn't made that fuss about the subscription. Fellows will think you're stingy, I'm afraid." "Well, they'll have to think so then," responded Kenneth defiantly. "Anyhow, Hyde had no business pitching into me about it like that in public." "No, that's so," Joe acknowledged. "He hadn't. I guess he's got it in for you good and hard. But don't you be worried." "I'm not," answered Kenneth. And he didn't look to be. "I'm going to see Jim Marble before Graft gets at him with a lot of yarns about you," Joe continued. "Thanks," said Kenneth. "I wish you would. I don't want to lose all show for the team." "You bet you don't! You're getting on finely, too, aren't you? I don't see how you work those long throws of yours. Graft says it's just your fool luck," Joe chuckled. "I asked him why he didn't cultivate a little luck himself! He's been playing like a baby so far; sloppy's no name for it!" "Think Marble notices it?" "Of course he notices it! Jim doesn't miss a thing. Why?" "Nothing, only--well, I've made up my mind to beat Grafton out; and I'm going to do it!" Two days later there was deeper gloom than ever in Lower House. Upper had won the first basket ball game! And the score, 14 to 6, didn't offer ground for comfort. There was no good reason to suppose that the next game, coming a week later, would result very differently. Individually three at least of the five players had done brilliant work, Marble at center. Joe at left forward and Collier at left guard having won applause time and again. But Upper had far excelled in team work, especially on offense, and Lower's much-heralded speed hadn't shown up. On the defense, all things considered, Lower had done fairly well, although most of the honor belonged to Collier at left guard, Grafton Hyde having played a slow, blundering game in which he had apparently sought to substitute roughness for science. More than half of the fouls called on the Red had been made by Grafton. And, even though Upper had no very certain basket thrower, still she couldn't have helped making a fair share of those goals from fouls. Kenneth hadn't gone on until the last minute of play, and he had not distinguished himself. In fact his one play had been a failure. He had taken Grafton's place at right guard. Carl Jones, Upper's big center, stole the ball in the middle of the floor and succeeded in getting quite away from the field. Kenneth saw the danger and gave chase, but his lack of weight was against him. Jones brushed him aside, almost under the basket, and, while Kenneth went rolling over out of bounds, tossed the easiest sort of a goal. But Kenneth's lack of success on that occasion caused him to work harder than ever in practice, and, on the following Thursday the long-expected happened. Grafton Hyde went to the second team and Kenneth took his place at right guard on the first. IV Grafton could scarcely believe it at first. When he discovered that Jim Marble really meant that he was to go to the second team his anger almost got the better of him, and the glance he turned from Jim to Kenneth held nothing of affection. But he took his place at right guard on the second and, although with ill grace, played the position while practice lasted. Kenneth took pains to keep away from him, since there was no telling what tricks he might be up to. The first team put it all over the second that day and Jim Marble was smiling when time was called and the panting players tumbled downstairs to the showers. On Friday practice was short. After it was over Kenneth stopped at the library on his way back to Lower House. When he opened the door of Number 12 he found Joe with his books spread out, studying. "Hello, where have you been?" asked Joe. "Graft was in here a minute ago looking for you. Said if you came in before dinner to ask you to go up to his room a minute. Of course," said Joe, grinning, "he may intend to throw you out of the window or give you poison, but he talked sweetly enough. Still, maybe you'd better stay away; perhaps he's just looking for a chance to quarrel." Kenneth thought a minute. Then he turned toward the door. "Going?" asked Joe. "Yes." "Well, if you're not back by six I'll head a rescue party." Grafton Hyde roomed by himself on the third floor. His two rooms, on the corner of the building, were somewhat elaborately furnished, as befitted the apartments of "the richest fellow in school." He had chosen the third floor because he was under surveillance less strict than were the first and second floor boys. The teacher on the third floor was Mr. Whipple and, as his rooms were at the other end of the hall and as he paid little attention at best to his charges, Grafton did about as he pleased. To-night there was no light shining through the transom when Kenneth reached Number 21 and he decided that Grafton was out. But he would make sure and so knocked at the door. To his surprise he was told to come in. As he opened the door a chill draft swept by him, a draft at once redolent of snow and of cigarette smoke. The room was in complete darkness, but a form was outlined against one of the windows, the lower sash of which was fully raised, and a tiny red spark glowed there. Kenneth paused on the threshold. "Who is it?" asked Grafton's voice. "Garwood," was the reply. "Joe said you wanted me to look you up." The spark suddenly dropped out of sight, evidently tossed through the open window. "Oh," said Grafton with a trace of embarrassment. "Er--wait a moment and I'll light up." "Don't bother," said Kenneth. "I can't stay but a minute. I just thought I'd see what you wanted." "Well, you'll find a chair there by the table," said Grafton, sinking back on the window seat. "Much obliged to you for coming up." There was a silence during which Kenneth found the chair and Grafton pulled down the window. Then, "Look here, Garwood," said Grafton, "you've got my place on the team, I don't say you didn't get it fair and square, because you did. But I want it. You know me pretty well and I guess you know I generally get what I want. You're a pretty good sort, and you're a friend of Joe's, and I like Joe, but I might make it mighty uncomfortable for you if I wanted to, which I don't. I'll tell you what I'll do, Garwood. You get yourself back on the second team and I'll make it right with you. If you need a little money--" "Is that all?" asked Kenneth, rising. "Hold on! Don't get waxy! Wait till I explain. I'll give you twenty-five dollars, Garwood. You can do a whole lot with twenty-five dollars. And that's a mighty generous offer. All you've got to do is to play off for a couple of days. Tomorrow you could be kind of sick and not able to play. No one would think anything about it, and you can bet I wouldn't breathe a word of it. What do you say?" "I say you're a confounded cad!" cried Kenneth hotly. "Oh, you do, eh? I haven't offered enough, I suppose!" sneered Grafton. "I might have known that a fellow who would only give a dollar to the teams would be a hard bargainer! Well, I'm not stingy; I'll call it thirty. Now, what do you say?" "When you get your place back it'll be by some other means than buying it," said Kenneth contemptuously. He turned toward the door. "You haven't got enough money to buy everything, you see; and--" There was a sharp knock on the door. "If you say anything about this," whispered Grafton hoarsely, "I'll--I'll-- Come in!" "Who is here?" asked Mr. Whipple's voice as the door swung open. "I, sir, and Garwood," answered Grafton. "Ah! Garwood! And which one of you, may I ask, has been smoking cigarettes?" There was a moment's silence. Then, "Nobody in here, sir," answered Grafton. "That will do, Hyde. Don't attempt to shield him," said Mr. Whipple coldly. "Light the gas, please." Grafton slid off the window seat and groped toward where Kenneth was standing. "Yes, sir," he said, "as soon as I can find a match." He brushed heavily against Kenneth. "I beg your pardon, Garwood. I'm all turned around. Where--? Oh, here they are." A match flared and Grafton lighted the droplight. Mr. Whipple turned to Kenneth, a triumphant smile on his thin features. "Well, what have you to say?" he asked. "About what, sir!" inquired Kenneth. "About smoking. You deny it, then." "Yes." "Ah! And what about this!" Mr. Whipple opened his hand and displayed a portion of a cigarette with charred end. "You should be more careful where you throw them, Garwood. This came from the window just as I was passing below." "It's not mine," was the answer. "Oh, then it was you, Hyde?" Grafton smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "If you can find any cigarettes in my room, sir, you--" "Pshaw! What's the use in pretending?" interrupted the instructor, viewing Kenneth balefully. "I fancy I know where to look for cigarettes, eh, Garwood? You have no objection to emptying your pockets for me?" "None at all, Mr. Whipple." "Then, may I suggest that you do so?" Kenneth dove into one pocket and brought out a handkerchief and a small piece of pencil, into the other and-- "Ah!" said Mr. Whipple triumphantly. In Kenneth's hand lay a piece of folded paper, a skate strap and--a box of cigarettes! He stared at the latter bewilderedly for a moment. Then he glanced sharply at Grafton. That youth regarded him commiseratingly and slowly shook his head. "I'll take those, if you please," said Mr. Whipple. Kenneth handed them over. "I never saw them before," he said simply. "Oh, of course not," jeered the instructor. "And the room rank with cigarette smoke! That's a pretty tall story, I think, Garwood. You told me once that I would never catch you smoking cigarettes. You see you were a trifle mistaken. You may go to your room." "I wasn't smoking cigarettes," protested Kenneth. "I never saw that box before in my life. If Hyde won't tell, I will. I came up here and found him--" He stopped. What was the use? Telling on another fellow was mean work, and, besides, Mr. Whipple wouldn't believe him. He had no proof to offer and all the evidence was against him. He turned to the door. On the threshold he looked back at Grafton. "You sneak!" he said softly. Then, with the angry tears blinding his eyes, he hurried down to his room to unburden his heart to Joe Brewster. Joe was wildly indignant and was all for dashing upstairs and "knocking the spots out of Graft!" But Kenneth refused his consent to such a procedure. "I'll tell them the truth when they call me up," he said. "If they don't believe me they needn't." Well, they didn't. Kenneth refused to incriminate Grafton and as all the evidence was strongly against him he was held guilty. The verdict was "suspension" as soon as Kenneth's parents could be communicated with. Grafton denied having smoked with Kenneth and got off with a lecture for permitting an infraction of the rules in his study. Joe stormed and sputtered, but as Kenneth had bound him to secrecy he could do no more. That night Upper and Lower met in the second basket-ball game and Grafton Hyde played right guard on the Lower House team. Fate was kind to the Beds. Knox, Upper's crack right forward, was out of the game with a twisted ankle and when the last whistle blew the score board declared Lower House the winner by a score of 12 to 9. And Lower House tramped through the snow, around and around the campus, and made night hideous with songs and cheers until threatened by the faculty with dire punishment if they did not at once retire to their rooms. And up in Number 12 Kenneth, feeling terribly out of it all, heard and was glad of the victory. Sunday afternoon he spent in packing his trunk, for, in spite of Joe's pleadings, he was determined not to return to Hilltop when his term of suspension was over. He expected to hear from his father in the morning, in which case he would take the noon train to New York on the first stage of his journey. That night they sat up late, since it was to be their last evening together, and Joe was very miserable. He begged Kenneth to go to Dr. Randall and tell just what had occurred. But Kenneth shook his head. "He wouldn't believe me if I did," he said. "And, anyhow, what's the use of staying while Whipple's here? He'd get me fired sooner or later. No, the best way to do is to quit now. I'm sorry, Joe; you and I were getting on together pretty well, weren't we?" "Yes," answered Joe sadly. And then he became reminiscent and asked whether Kenneth remembered the way they kicked the furniture around that first evening and how Kenneth had joshed Grafton Hyde. When they at last went to bed Kenneth found himself unable to sleep. Eleven o'clock struck on the town clock. From across the room came Joe's regular breathing and Kenneth, punching his pillow into a new shape, envied him. For a half hour longer he tossed and turned, and then slumber came to him, yet so fitfully that he was wide awake and out of bed the instant that that first shrill cry of "_Fire!_" sounded in the corridor. V Kenneth's first act after hearing the alarm was to awake Joe, This he did by the simple expedient of yanking the bedclothes away from him and yelling "Fire!" at the top of his lungs. Then, stumbling over the chairs, he groped his way to the hall door and opened it. The corridor was already filled with excitement and confusion. Of the eighteen boys who roomed on that floor fully half were in evidence, standing dazedly about in pyjamas or night shirts and shouting useless questions and absurd answers. Simms, who lived at the far end of the corridor, emerged from his room dragging a steamer trunk after him. Instantly the scantily clad youths dashed into their rooms intent on rescuing their belongings. Joe joined Kenneth at the door. "Where's the fire?" he gasped. "I don't know," answered Kenneth, "but I can smell it. Get something on; I'm going to. Has anyone given the alarm?" he asked, as Simms hurried back toward his study. "Yes! No! I don't know! Everything's on fire upstairs! You'd better get your things out!" "Somebody ought to give the alarm," said Kenneth. "Who's seen Mr. Bronson?" But none had time to answer him. Kenneth scooted down the hall and thumped at the instructor's door. There was no answer and Kenneth unceremoniously shoved it open. The study was in darkness. "_Mr. Bronson!_" he cried. "_Mr. Bronson!_" There was no reply, and Kenneth recollected that very frequently Mr. Bronson spent Sunday night at his home. He hurried back to his own room and found Joe throwing their belongings out of the windows. At that moment the bell on School Hall began to clang wildly and a second afterwards the alarm was taken up by the fire bell in the village, a mile away. Kenneth pulled on his trousers and shoes, looked for a coat only to find that Joe had thrown all the coats out of the windows, and went back to the corridor. All up and down it boys were staggering along with trunks and bags, while from the western end the smoke was volleying forth from Number 19 in great billowy clouds. From the floor above raced fellows with suit cases and small trunks, shouting and laughing in the excitement of the moment. One of the older boys, Harris by name, came galloping upstairs with a fire extinguisher, followed by a crowd of partly dressed fellows from Upper House. But the smoke which filled the end of the corridor drove them back and the stream from the extinguisher wasted itself against the fast yellowing plaster of the wall. The building was rapidly becoming uninhabitable and, calling Joe from the study, where he was vainly trying to get the study table through the casement, Kenneth made for the stairs. The light at the far end of the corridor shone red and murky through the dense clouds of smoke. "All out of the building!" cried a voice from below, and the half dozen adventurous spirits remaining in the second floor corridor started down the stairs. "Do you know how it began?" asked Joe of a boy beside him. "Yes," was the reply. "King, in 19, was reading in bed with a lamp he has, and he went to sleep and upset it somehow. He got burned, they say." "Serves him right," muttered some one. Kenneth glanced around and found Grafton Hyde beside him. "Hello," said Kenneth. "Hello," answered Grafton. "Did you save anything?" "Yes, I guess so," Kenneth replied. "Did you?" For the moment animosities were forgotten, wiped out of existence by the calamity. "Not much," said Grafton. "But I don't care. I tried to get my trunk down but the smoke was fierce and the end of the building was all in flames. So I lit out." The lower hall was crowded with boys. Dr. Randall, tall and gaunt in a red flowered dressing gown, and several of the instructors were doing their best to clear the building. "All out, boys!" called the doctor. "It isn't safe here now! The firemen will be here in a minute and you'll only be in the way! I want you all to go over to Upper House!" "Hello!" said Kenneth. "What's the matter with you, Jasper?" Jasper Hendricks, the youngest boy in school, was crouched in a dim corner of the hall, sobbing and shaking as though his heart was broken. "What's up?" asked Grafton. "Don't know. Here's young Jasper crying like a good one. What's the trouble, Jasper? Did you get hurt?" But the boy apparently didn't even hear them. "Lost his things, probably," suggested Grafton, "and feels it. Never mind, kid? you'll get some more." "I want every boy out of the building!" cried the doctor. But his voice was almost drowned in the babel of cries and shouts and laughter. "Come on, Jasper," said Kenneth, trying to raise him to his feet. "We've got to get out." For the first time he caught a glimpse of the boy's face. It was white and drawn and horror stricken. "What's the matter?" cried Kenneth in alarm. Young Hendrick's lips moved but Kenneth could not distinguish the whispered words. "Eh? What's that? Speak louder! You're all right now! Don't be scared! What is it?" And Kenneth bent his head as the younger boy clung to him convulsively. "_Mister Whipple!_" Kenneth barely caught the whispered words. "Mr. Whipple," he muttered. "What does he mean?" He pulled the lad's body around so that he could see his face in the smoke-dimmed light. "What about him, Jasper? He's safe, isn't he?" The white face shook from side to side. "What does he say?" cried Grafton. "Whipple? Isn't he down? Where is he?" "He must be--!" Kenneth paused, his own face paling, and looked fearsomely toward the stairs down which the gray-brown smoke was floating wraithlike. Then his eyes met Grafton's and he read his own horror reflected there. "Jasper's room is next to Mr. Whipple's," said Grafton hoarsely. "He must have seen something! _Jasper, is Mr. Whipple up there now?"_ The lad's head nodded weakly. Then he broke again into great dry sobs that shook him from head to foot. Kenneth seized him beneath the shoulders and dragged him a few yards nearer the door. There he put him down. "Don't cry, Jasper," he whispered kindly. "It's all right; we'll save him!" For an instant he looked about him. Through the doors the boys were pushing their way outward, protesting, laughing, excitedly. Of the faculty Dr. Randall alone was in sight. One other instant Kenneth hesitated. Then with a bound he was halfway up the first flight. "Who's that going up there?" cried the doctor. "Here, come back instantly!" But Kenneth did not hear, or, hearing, paid no heed. He was at the second floor, the evil-smelling smoke thick about him, blinding his eyes and smarting his throat. Above him was a strange lurid glare and the roaring of the flames. For a moment his heart failed him and he leaned weak and panting against the banister. Then a voice sounded in his ears. "It's no use, Garwood," cried Grafton. "We can't get up there." "We'll try," was the answer. Bending low, his sleeve over his mouth, Kenneth rushed the next flight. Grafton was at his heels. At the top Kenneth crouched against the last step and squinted painfully down the corridor in the direction of Mr. Whipple's room and the flames. The heat was stifling and the smoke rolled toward them in great red waves. Grafton, choking, coughing, crouched at Kenneth's side. "We can't reach him," he muttered. "The fire has cut him off." It seemed true. Mr. Whipple's room was at the far end and between his door and the stairway the flames were rioting wildly, licking up the woodwork and playing over the lathes from which the plaster was crumbling away. Kenneth's heart sank and for an instant he thought he was going to faint. Everything grew black before him and his head settled down on his outstretched arm. Then Grafton was shaking him by the shoulder and his senses returned. "Come on!" cried Grafton. "Let's get out of this while we can! We'll be burned alive in a minute!" There was panic in his voice and he tugged nervously at Kenneth's arm. At that moment a great expanse of plaster fell from the ceiling some thirty feet away and the flames glared luridly through the corridor, making everything for a brief moment as light as day. From below came calls, but Kenneth did not hear them. "Look!" he cried, seizing Grafton's arm. "_On the floor! Do you see?_" "Yes," shouted Grafton. "It's Mr. Whipple! Can we get him?" "I'm going to try," was the calm reply. "Will you come with me?" For a moment the two boys looked into each other's eyes, squinting painfully in the acrid smoke. The flames crackled and roared in their ears. The strained, terror-stricken look passed from Grafton's face. His eyes lighted and he even smiled a little. "Come on," he said simply. "Wait!" Kenneth leaned down so that his face was against the spindles and took a deep breath. There was a current of clearer air arising from the well and, although it smarted in his lungs, it gave him relief. Grafton followed his example. Then, for they realized that there was no time to lose, with one accord they rushed, stooping, down the corridor into the face of the flames. Mr. Whipple lay stretched face downward on the floor where he had fallen when overcome by the smoke and, as is more than likely, his terror. He was in his night clothes and one hand grasped a small satchel. Behind him the floor was afire scarcely a yard away. The thirty feet from the stairs to where he lay seemed as many yards to the rescuers, and the heat grew fiercer at every step. But they gained the goal, fighting for breath, bending their heads against the savage onslaughts of the flames, and seized the instructor's arms. Whether he was alive there was no time to ascertain. There was time for nothing save to strive to drag him toward the stairway. With tightly closed eyes, from which the smarting tears rolled down their faces, and sobbing breaths, they struggled back. But if it had been hard going it was trebly hard returning. The instructor was not a large man nor a heavy one, but now he seemed to weigh tons. Their feet slipped on the plaster-sprinkled boards and their hearts hammered in their throats. Ten feet they made; and then, as though angry at being deprived of their prey, the flames burst with a sudden roar through the melting partition a few feet behind them and strove to conquer them with a scorching breath. Kenneth staggered to his knees under its fury and Grafton gave a cry of anguish and despair. But the fiery wave receded and they struggled desperately on, fighting now for their own lives as well as for that of the instructor. Ten feet more and the worst was passed. A frenzied rush for the stairway and safety was in sight. Half falling, half stumbling, they went down the first few steps to the landing at the turn, Mr. Whipple's inert body thumping along between them. There, with faces held close to the boards, they lay drinking in grateful breaths of the smoke-poisoned air, which, after what they had been inhaling, was fresh and sweet. Then, above the booming of the fire, voices reached them, hoarse, anxious voices, and white faces peered up at them through the smoke from the corridor below. "All right!" called Kenneth, but, to his surprise, his words were only hoarse whispers. Struggling to his knees, he seized Mr. Whipple's arm and strove to go on. But Grafton offered no assistance. He lay motionless where he had thrown himself on the landing. "Come on!" croaked Kenneth impatiently, and tugged at his double burden. Then the crimson light went suddenly out and he subsided limply against the banisters just as the rescuers dashed up to them. When Kenneth came to a few minutes later he was being carried across the campus. Near at hand a fire engine throbbed and roared, sending showers of sparks into the winter darkness. Behind him a red glare threw long moving shadows across the grass. In his ears were shouts and commands and a shrill whistling. Then he lost consciousness again. VI Kenneth lay in bed in Dr. Randall's spare chamber. His left hand was bandaged and a wet cloth lay across his closed eyes. A window was open and the lowered shade billowed softly up and down, letting into the darkened room quick splashes of sunlight. From without came the cheerful patter of melting snow upon the sill. Kenneth had had his breakfast--how long ago he could not say, since he had slept since then--and had learned all the exciting news; that Lower House was so badly burned that there was no question of repairing it; that Mr. Whipple had been sent to the hospital at Lynnminster, seriously but not dangerously hurt; that Grafton Hyde had received no damage and was about this forenoon wearing a strangely blank expression due to the loss of his eyebrows; and that King, to whose disregard of the rules the fire had been due, had, previous rumors to the contrary, escaped unharmed. Kenneth's informant had been the school doctor, who had also imparted the information that Kenneth's injuries were trifling, a couple of scorched fingers and a pair of badly inflamed eyes, but that nevertheless he would kindly spend the day in bed, "as heroes are scarce these days and must be well looked after when found." There came a soft tapping at the door and Kenneth peeked eagerly out from under the bandage as Grafton Hyde entered and tiptoed across the floor. Kenneth looked for a moment and grinned; then he chuckled; then he threw an arm across his face and gave way to laughter unrestrained. Grafton laughed, too, though somewhat ruefully. "Don't I look like a fool?" he asked. Kenneth regained his composure with a gasp. "I--I didn't mean to be rude," he said contritely, "but--" "Oh, I don't mind," answered Grafton. "Besides, I'll bet you're the same way." "Me?" Kenneth looked startled and passed a finger questioningly across his eyebrows. "There's nothing here!" he gasped. Off came the bandage. "How do I look?" A smile started at Grafton's lips and slowly overspread his face. Kenneth smiled back. "We must be a pair of freaks," he said, chuckling. "Do they ever grow back again?" "Yes, in no time," answered Grafton. "Besides, Joe says that all you have to do is to take a pencil and rub it over and no one can tell. I'm going to try it." He sat down cautiously on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling!" he asked. "All right. Kind of tired, though. How about you?" "Fine." There was a silence during which he played nervously with a shoe strap. At last: "I say, Garwood," he blurted, "it's--it's all right about--about that, you know. I told President Randall." "You needn't have," muttered Kenneth. "I wanted to! And I'm sorry. It was a sneaky thing that I did to you. I--I don't know why I cared so much about staying on the team; I don't now." "Did he--was he mad about it?" "Wasn't he! I am to be suspended for a month." "I'm sorry," said Kenneth honestly. "It--it was decent of you to tell." "Decent nothing! It was decent of you not to blow on me the other day. Why didn't you?" he asked curiously. "Oh, I don't know," answered Kenneth embarrassedly. "I--I didn't like to, I suppose. When are you going?" "This afternoon. That's why I came to see you now, I wanted to--to tell you that I was sorry about it and see if you wouldn't be friends." "That's all right," said Kenneth. "I--I'm glad you came." Had they been older they would have shaken hands. As it was they merely avoided looking at each other and maintained an embarrassed silence for a moment. It amounted to the same thing. The silence was broken by a knock on the door. "Come!" called Kenneth. "Look at the heroes having a convention," said Joe gayly as he crossed the floor. "The Society of the Singed Cats! Well, how are you feeling, chum?" "Fine and dandy," answered Kenneth. "Good! Say, we had lots of fun last night! They bunked us in with the Upper House fellows, and maybe there wasn't a circus! Every time we see King we ask him if it's hot enough for him! I wouldn't be surprised if he folded his pyjamas like the Arabs--that's all he saved, you know--and as silently stole away. We've sure got him worried!" He paused and looked inquiringly from Kenneth to Grafton. "Did Graft tell you?" he asked. Kenneth nodded. "I always told you he wasn't a bad sort, didn't I? Don't you care, Graft; we'll keep a place warm for you, and a month is just a nice vacation. Wouldn't mind it myself! Say, are you going to be fit to play in Saturday's game, Kenneth?" "I don't know. Will they let me?" "Why not? They haven't anything against you now, have they? How about your blessed eyes?" "Oh, they'll be all right, I guess. But I wish--Graft was going to play." "Oh, I don't care," declared that youth stoutly. "Go in and give 'em fits, Kenneth. And--one of you fellows might write me about the game," he added wistfully. "We'll do it," said Joe. "We'll write a full account and send diagrams of the broken heads of the Uppers. Only thing I'm afraid of," he added soberly, "is that now that Kenneth hasn't any eyebrows they may take his head for the ball!" Kenneth was up the next day feeling as fit as ever, but when the subject of returning to basketball practice was broached to the doctor, Kenneth met with disappointment. "I can't allow it," said the doctor kindly but firmly. "I'm sorry, but you know we're responsible for you while you're here, my boy, and I think you'd better keep away from violent exercise for a week or two. No, no more basket ball this year." The verdict brought gloom to Lower House, or, as Upper facetiously called them now, the Homeless Ones. For with Grafton gone and Kenneth out of the game the team's plight was desperate. But there was no help for it, and so Jim Marble went to work to patch up the team as best he might, putting Simms back at guard and placing Niles, a substitute, at right forward. The Homeless Ones were quartered wherever space could be found for them. Joe and Kenneth were so fortunate as to get together again in an improvised bedroom, which had previously been a disused recitation room, at the top of School Hall. Most of the Lower House residents had saved their principal effects and those who had lost their clothing were reimbursed by the school. Friday morning two announcements of much interest were made. "On Monday next," said the doctor, "we receive a new member into the Faculty, Mr. George Howell Fair. Mr. Fair, who is a graduate of Princeton, will take the place left vacant by the resignation of Mr. Whipple, who was so unfortunately injured in the recent disaster. Mr. Fair will take up Mr. Whipple's work where that gentleman left off." There was a stir throughout chapel, and murmurs of satisfaction. The doctor picked up another slip of paper, cast his eyes over it and cleared his throat. "You will also be pleased to learn," he said, "that in our time of tribulation generous friends have come to our assistance. We have lost one of our buildings, but money has already been provided for the erection of a new and far more suitable one. I have received from Mr. John Garwood, of Cleveland, and Mr. Peter L. Hyde, of Chicago, a draft for the sum of one hundred thousand dollars for the erection of a large dormitory capable of housing the entire student body. The generous gift seems to me especially, singularly appropriate, coming as it does from the fathers of those two students who recently so bravely distinguished themselves. With this thought in mind the Faculty has already decided that the new dormitory when completed shall be known as Garwood-Hyde Hall." Well, Kenneth's secret was out! I hope and believe that his fellows held him in no higher esteem because they found out that he was the son of one of the country's wealthiest men. But true it is that for the next few days he was the object of violent interest not altogether unmixed with awe. But Joe had to have everything explained, and as the shortest means to that result Kenneth produced a letter which he had received from his father the day before and gave it to Joe to read. Only portions of it interest us, however. "The newspaper account" (ran the letter) "says that neither of you sustained serious injuries. I trust that it is so. But I think I had better satisfy myself on that point, and so you may look for me at the school on Saturday next. Your mother is anxious to have you come home, but I tell her that a little thing like pulling a professor out of the fire isn't likely to feaze a Garwood! "Now, another thing. You recollect that when you decided to go to Hilltop we talked it over and thought it best to keep dark the fact that you were my son. You wanted to stand on your own merits, and I wanted you to. Then, too, we feared that Hyde's boy, because of the misunderstanding between Peter Hyde and myself, might try to make it uncomfortable for you. That alarm seems now to have been groundless, since surely a boy who could do what he did--and join you in doing it--wouldn't be likely to pick on another. But that's of no consequence now, as it happens. "Quite by accident I met Peter here the day after the papers published the story of your little stunt. Well, he was so tickled about it that we shook hands and had a 'touching reconciliation,' quite like what you see in the plays. We talked about 'those worthless kids' of ours and it ended up with his coming home to dinner with me. So you see you did more than save a professor's life; you brought about a renewal of an old friendship. After dinner we got to talking it over and decided the least we could do was to replace that building. So I've sent your principal a draft by this mail which will cover the cost of a good new hall. I'm giving half and Peter's giving half. I hope you and young Hyde will be good friends, just as his father and I are going to be hereafter. You may expect me Saturday." "Now," cried Joe triumphantly when he had finished reading, "now I understand about those brushes!" "What brushes?" asked Kenneth. "Why, the night of the fire I threw your suit case out of the window, and when I went down to get it, it had bust open and was full of swell silver-backed things. I thought at first I'd got some one else's bag, but I found I hadn't. And I wondered why you hadn't had those brushes out." "Oh," laughed Kenneth, "I thought they looked a bit too giddy!" VII It was Saturday night and the gymnasium was crowded. The Faculty was there to a man, and with them, the honored guest of the evening, sat Mr. John Garwood, trying hard to make out what all the fuss was about and looking more often toward a bench at the side of the hall than toward the struggling players. On the bench, one of several red-shirted players, sat Kenneth. He was forbidden to enter the game, but there was nothing to prevent his wearing his uniform once more and sitting with the substitutes. But the fellows with him were not all subs. One was Simms, weary and panting, nursing a twisted ankle which a moment before had put him out of the game. And Upper House had suffered, too, for across the floor Carl Jones was viewing the last of the contest from the inglorious vantage of the side line. Upper and Lower were still shouting hoarsely and singing doggedly. On the scoreboard the legend ran: Upper House 11--Lower House 11. No wonder every fellow's heart was in his throat! It had been a contest to stir the most sluggish blood. In spite of the absence of Grafton and Kenneth, Lower had played a hard, fast game, and had she made a decent per cent of her tries at goal would have been the winner at this moment. But Jim Marble had missed almost every goal from foul, and Collier, who had tried his hand, had been scarcely more successful. And now the score was tied and it seemed ages agone since the timekeepers had announced one minute to play. The ball hovered in the middle of the floor, passed from side to side. Then Hurd of Upper secured it, and, with a shout to Knox, sped, dribbling, down the side line. But a red-shirted youth sprang in front of him and the two went to the floor together, while the ball bounded into the ready hands of Jim Marble. "Oh, good work, Joe!" shouted Kenneth, as Joe sprang to his feet and dived again into the play. Jim, taking long and desperate chances, tried for a basket from near the center of the floor and missed by a bare six inches. A groan went up from the supporters of the Red, while Upper House sighed its relief. Then there was a mix-up under Upper's goal and the whistle shrilled. "Double foul!" called the referee. A sudden stillness fell over the hall. Not a few of the players sank to the floor where they stood, while Knox picked up the ball and advanced to the line. Kenneth, watching with his heart in his throat, had a vague impression of Jim Marble bending across the rail in consultation with one of the Faculty. Then the ball rose gently from Knox's hands, arched in its flight and came down square on the rim of the basket. For a moment it poised there while hearts stood still. Then it toppled gently over the side to the floor. Knox had missed! Lower House set up a frantic chorus of triumph. If only Marble or Collier could succeed where Knox had failed! But neither Jim nor the left guard was going to try, it seemed. For over at the Red's bench a lithe form was peeling off his sweater, and in a moment the cry swept the hall: "Garwood's going to throw! Garwood! Garwood!" "It's all right," Jim had whispered. "I asked the doc. Do your best. If you make it we win, Garwood!" Kenneth, his pulses far from calm, walked out on the floor and picked up the ball. The shouting died away and the sudden stillness seemed appalling. He toed the black streak across the boards and measured the distance to the basket. Then, his legs astraddle, his knees slightly bent, he swung the ball once--twice-- There was a moment of suspense, and then-- Then pandemonium broke loose! The ball dropped to the floor unheeded, but above it the tattered meshes of the netting swayed where it had struck them going through! It was the cleanest kind of a basket, and it won the game and the series and the Shield for Lower House! Kenneth, fighting off the howling fellows who would have perched him on their shoulders, caught a glimpse of his father's amused face, and broke for the stairway. THE PROVING OF JERRY "I'm awfully sorry," said Ned Gaynor earnestly, "but it isn't as though you had been blackballed, Jerry." "I don't see what difference it makes," replied Gerald Hutton disconsolately. "I don't get taken in, do I?" "No, but when a fellow's name is 'postponed' he can try again any time. If he's blackballed, he's a goner until next year." "Oh, well, I don't want to join the old Lyceum, anyhow," said his roommate with a scowl. "Yes, you do," responded Ned, "and I want you to. And I'm going to bring your name up again just as soon as I think there's a chance of getting you elected." "When will that be?" asked Jerry dubiously. Ned hesitated. "I don't just know, Jerry," he answered finally. "You see, it's like this; the Lyceum is the only society we have here at Winthrop, and it's small, only thirty members, you know, while there are over seventy fellows in school this year. So of course there are lots of chaps who want to get in. And when it comes to selecting members the society naturally tries to get the best." "Which means I'm not one of the best," said Jerry with a grin. "No, it doesn't," replied his roommate. "It just means that you aren't very well known yet; you haven't proved yourself." "Shucks! I've been here ever since school opened in September, and I know almost every fellow here to speak to." "Well, but that isn't quite what I mean," replied Ned. "You--you haven't proved yourself." "What do you mean by 'proved myself'?" asked Jerry. "Well, you haven't done anything to--to show what you are. I can't explain very well, but--" "What the dickens do you want me to do? Burn down Academy Hall or chuck one of the Faculty in the river?" inquired Jerry sarcastically. "Oh, you know what I mean," answered Ned a trifle impatiently. "Sooner or later a fellow does something worth while, like getting a scholarship or making the Eleven or the Baseball Team. Then he's proved himself. You've been here only half a year, and, of course, yon haven't made yourself known." "I've done my best," replied Jerry disconsolately. "I worked like a slave for two weeks trying to get on the Football Team, and I almost broke my neck learning to skate well enough so I'd have a show for the Hockey Team." "Maybe you'll make the Nine," said Ned hopefully. "I guess if you do that there won't be any trouble about the Lyceum." "I'll never get on the Nine while Herb Welch is captain," said Jerry with a shake of his head. "He doesn't care for me much." "Well, I guess that's so," answered Ned thoughtfully. "The fact is, Jerry, it was Herb who objected to your election to the Lyceum." "I guessed as much," Jerry replied dryly. "I knew he'd keep me out if he could. Just as he will keep me off the Nine." "Oh, come now, Herb isn't that bad. He's sort of rough and bossy, but he's straight, Jerry. He was very decent at the election. He simply said--" "I don't want to hear what he said," interrupted Jerry peevishly. "He's a big bully. He's hated me ever since I interfered the time he was ducking young Gordon. Gordon couldn't swim, and he was so scared that his face was as white as that block of paper." "Well, it was pretty cheeky for a Sophomore to lay down the law to a Senior, you know," said Ned. "And it was pretty mean of a Senior to haze a Freshman, wasn't it?" Jerry demanded. "Anyhow, I spoiled his fun for him." "And got ducked yourself," laughed the other. "That was all right. I could swim and wasn't afraid. I was better able to take it than young Gordon was. Ever since then Welch has had it in for me. I dare say that if I went and licked his boots he'd let me into the Lyceum and give me a fair show for the Nine, but I'm not going to do it. I can play baseball, and I'd like to make the team, but if it depends on my toadying to Welch, why, I'll stay off, that's all." "Oh, come now, it isn't as bad as that," responded Ned. "Don't you bother. I'll get you elected before Class Day, Jerry. Grab your skates and come on down to the river." "Skates!" exclaimed Jerry. "Why, you can't skate to-day. The ice is all breaking up. Look at it!" From the dormitory window the river was visible for a quarter of a mile as it curved slowly to the south between Winthrop Academy and the town bridge. It was late February, and for two days the mercury had lingered around fifty degrees. Along the nearest shore the ice still held, but in midstream and across by the Peterboro side the river, swollen by melting snow and ice, flowed in a turbid, ice-strewn torrent. For a while at noon the sun had shone, but now, at four o'clock, the clouds had gathered and the moist air coming in at the open window of the room suggested rain. "There's plenty of ice along this bank," answered Ned cheerfully, "and as it may be the last chance I'll get to skate I'm going to make the most of it. I promised Tom Thurber and Herb Welch I'd meet them at four. I must get a move on." He closed the book before him and arose from the study table. "You'd better come along, Jerry." But Jerry shook his head, staring moodily out over the dreary prospect of wet campus and slushy road. A mile away the little town of Peterboro lay straggling along the river, the chimneys of its three or four factories spouting thick black smoke into the heavy air. Jerry was disappointed. It meant a good deal to win election to the Lyceum, and, in spite of what he had told Ned, he had all along entertained a sneaking idea that he would make it, Welch or no Welch. He wondered whether Ned couldn't have got him in if he had tried real hard. Ned and he were very good friends, even though they had never met until they had been roomed together in the fall, but Jerry was a new boy still, while Ned was a Junior and had known Herb Welch three years. "I suppose," he thought, "Ned didn't want to offend Welch. Much he cares whether I'm elected or not!" "Coming?" asked Ned, pausing at the door. Jerry shook his head. "No, I guess not. I think I'll walk over to town and get some things." "Well, buy me half a dozen blue books, will you?" asked Ned eagerly. He tossed a coin across and Jerry caught it deftly and dropped it into his pocket with a nod. Ned slammed the door behind him and went clattering downstairs. Jerry watched him emerge below, jump a miniature rivulet flowing beside the board walk and disappear around the corner of the dormitory. Then he got into his sweater, put his cap on, and in turn descended the stairs. It was a good twenty-minutes walk to the village. By keeping along the river path to the bridge he might have saved something in time and distance, but the river path was ankle-deep in slush and mud, while the road, although longer, gave firmer foothold. When he reached the old wooden bridge he paused and watched the water rushing under between the stone pillars. He had never seen the stream so high. The surface appeared scarcely eight feet beneath the floor of the bridge. Huge cakes of ice, broken loose upstream, went tearing by, grinding against each other and hurling themselves at the worn stones. And between the fragments of ice the surface was almost covered with a layer of slush. Jerry flattened himself against the wooden railing while a team of sweating horses, tugging a great load of hay, went creaking by him. Then he followed it across and turned to the right at the end of the bridge into the main street of the town. His purchases didn't take him long, and soon he was back at the bridge again. Upstream, on the Academy side of the river, he could see the skaters. Apparently half the school had decided to seize this last chance for indulging in the sport, for the long and narrow strip of ice remaining was quite black with figures. At the end of the bridge Jerry decided to take the river path, for a glance at his shoes and stockings convinced him that it was no longer necessary to consider them; they were already as wet and muddy as it was possible for them to be. He felt rather more cheerful after his tramp, and told himself that if there was time he would run up to the room, leave his purchases, get his skates, and join the group on the ice. By the time he had covered half the distance between bridge and Academy he could distinguish several of the skaters. There was Morris, with his blue sweater, and the tall fellow was, of course, Jim Kennedy; and there was Burns, and young Gordon; Gordon, even if he couldn't swim, was a dandy skater. "Only," thought Jerry, "if he got into the river it would be a bad outlook for him." He had left the bridge a full quarter of a mile behind when a sudden commotion among the skaters attracted his attention. There was a scurrying together and the skating stopped. Jerry paused and watched intently, but for a moment saw nothing to account for the actions of the fellows. They were lined up along the edge of the ice in little groups. Then several of them turned and skated frantically toward the bank. Jerry's first thought now was that some one had fallen into the water, that the ice had given way, as it was quite likely to do in its present half-rotten state, and he looked anxiously for young Gordon's slight figure. He couldn't see him, but that signified little, since the fellows were packed together and the light was failing. But in another instant Jerry saw that his surmise was wrong. For suddenly a single figure came into view, a figure huddled on hands and knees a full fifty feet away from his companions. For an instant Jerry couldn't understand. Then the huddled figure was swept farther away toward the opposite shore and a clear expanse of angry river showed between it and those on the ice. One of the fellows had ventured too far, the ice had broken away, and now he was being borne swiftly down the stream! Already the current had swept him away from all hope of assistance from his companions, for up there the channel ran close to the Peterboro shore. The fragment of ice to which he clung seemed to be fairly large, perhaps ten feet long by half that in width, but Jerry knew that the chance of its remaining unbroken for long was very slim. If the fellows had gone for a boat they might have saved themselves the effort, for no boat could be managed in that seething mass of broken ice. And a rope would be quite as useless, since the current would keep the boy along the farther shore and no one on earth could throw a coil of rope half the distance. Jerry had already broken into a run, but now he pulled himself up and glanced behind him toward the bridge. He could be of no more use up there than were the fellows grouped helplessly at the edge of the ice. If the boy was to be rescued it must be downstream somewhere, always supposing the cake of ice hung together and that he managed to retain his place on it. Jerry thought rapidly with fast-beating heart. Already the boy on the ice had covered half the distance to where Jerry stood, and the fellows up there where the accident had happened were leaving the ice, frantically freeing themselves from their skates and running down the path. Jerry turned and ran back the way he had come. If he could reach the bridge first there might be a chance! His feet slipped in the ice and slush of the path and it was slow going. Once he fell flat on his face, but was up again in a twinkling, wet and bruised. A glance over his shoulder told him that the pitching, whirling slag of ice with its human burden was gaining on him. If only he had started before! he thought. But he ran on, sliding and tripping, his breath coming hard and his heart pounding agonizedly against his ribs. He was almost there now; only another hundred yards or so remained between him and the end of the bridge. He prayed for strength to keep on as he glanced again over his shoulder. The boy had thrown himself face down on the ice and Jerry saw with a sinking heart that already the cake had diminished in size. If it struck one of the stone pillars of the bridge it would go to pieces without a doubt, and it would be a hard task for the strongest swimmer to battle his way clear of that rushing current. With his breath almost failing him, Jerry reached the bridge and ran out upon it. He was none too soon. Close to the farther shore the jagged fragment still held together as it dipped and turned, glancing from the jutting points of the shore ice and grinding between its fellows in the ugly green torrent. Face down lay the boy, limp, his hands outthrown beside him. Under the bridge the river rushed with a loud rushing sound, swift and relentless. Jerry ran with aching limbs to the third span, toward which the current was bearing the helpless, huddled figure. In the brief moment of time left him Jerry noted two things. One was that those in the van of the straggling line hurrying toward him along the river path were but a couple of hundred yards distant. The other was that his left shoulder was aching dully. He must, he thought, have struck on it when he fell. Then his gaze was on the motionless form sweeping toward him, and he was leaning over the wooden rail, his hands at his mouth. "Stand up!" he cried with all his might. But there was no answering movement from the boy. Jerry's heart sank, but once more he shouted, putting, as it seemed to him, every remaining bit of breath into his call: "_Stand up and I'll save you_!" The head raised and a white face gazed up at him as the narrowing current seized the ice fragment. With a gasp of surprise Jerry looked down into the horror-stricken eyes of Herbert Welch! Then he had thrown himself down on the floor of the bridge, his head and shoulders over the water. "_Stand up_!" he called again. And Welch staggered weakly to his knees, the ice beneath him tilting perilously. Jerry's hands stretched down over the rushing water. "_Catch hold!_" he cried. A momentary return of hope and courage came to Welch, and as his treacherous craft shot, crushing and grinding, into the maelstrom, he found his feet for a moment, and threw his arms above his head, his fingers clutching hungrily at the empty air. Then a corner of the ice fragment struck against the left-hand pillar and he lost his balance. But in that brief moment Jerry's left hand had grasped one of Welch's wrists, and now the latter hung between bridge and water, swinging slowly and limply. Then Jerry's right hand found a hold below his left, and he set his teeth and closed his eyes, praying, as he had done before on the river path, for strength and endurance. The strain was terrible. He felt the blood rushing to his head and throbbing there mightily. His left shoulder hurt worse every moment. But he could hold on a moment longer. Surely the others would be here in just a second. He thought he heard cries, but the roar of the water beneath and the throbbing in his head made it uncertain. Then he heard a voice. It was Herb Welch speaking. "Let me go, Hutton," said Welch quietly. "You can't hold me here." Jerry tried to answer, but the pressure against his chest was too severe. His left hand began to slip from Welch's wrist; the fingers wouldn't hold; there was a strange numbness from hand to shoulder. With a smothered groan he tried to tighten his clasp again. Then help came. Eager hands took his burden, and he felt himself being pulled back from the edge. He glanced up once and had a glimpse of somber twilight sky and Ned's brown eyes.... When he opened his eyes again he was lying on a couch in a cottage at the edge of the village. There were several figures about him, and one was Ned's. He smiled and tried to rise, but was glad to lay back again and look curiously at his bandaged shoulder. "It's only a busted collarbone," said Ned. "Doctor says it will be all right in two or three weeks. We're going to take you back in a minute. The carriage is coming now." "That's nice," said Jerry drowsily. "How's Welch?" "Not hurt a bit. He walked home. And say, Jerry," Ned went on, dropping his voice, "it's all right about the Lyceum. Herb says he's going to bring your name up himself at the next meeting. You--you proved yourself to-day, old chum!" McTURKLE, THE BAND We had had hard luck at Harvard all that fall. First Phinney, our 208-pound left guard, dislocated his shoulder in the Indian game; then Hobb, full back, got a swat on the head that sent him to the Infirmary for two weeks; then Jones, our best half, hurt his leg. Those were the principal troubles, but there were lots of smaller ones besides. Every team that came to Cambridge did something to us; if they didn't beat us they scored; if they didn't score they laid up one or two of our men just to show that there was no hard feeling. Then Penn rubbed it into us good and hard--which wasn't the way it was written--and about half the college began writing letters to the _Crimson_. To make matters look worse, Yale had the best team she had had in several years; in fact, since the Gordon Browne aggregation. And our chance of winning from her was about one in one hundred. But we were a daffy lot that fall, and every time fate smote us we grinned harder and hitched up the enthusiasm another peg. On the Thursday before the game we had our fourth mass meeting in the Union. The captain, very much embarrassed, assured us that every man on the team was ready to do his level best and lay down his life for the honor of the Crimson--a fact which we knew before, but which we applauded wildly. Then the trainer told us that every "mon on the tame" was in the best physical condition, something which we seriously doubted, but which we also applauded wildly. Then the head coach informed us that it was a great sight to see the college get together in this way and that if we stood loyally behind the team on Saturday the team would do its part and fight to the last breath--or ditch, I forget which. We applauded _that_ more wildly. Then the captain of the Nine got up, brushed the perspiration from his marble brow, and started the singing. The University Band, eleven strong, got together after a fashion and we pretty near lifted the roof. After that we cheered and sung some more and the enthusiasm kept on bubbling up. Finally, a lot of us in the back of the room yelled in unison: "We--want--another--meeting--to-morrow-night!" "So-do-we!" yelled the others. And we kept that up until the leader told us we could have it. And presently we stood up and sang "Fair Harvard"--or as much as we knew of it--and broke up. In the morning the _Crimson_ contained a notice which said that there would be no meeting that night. But we didn't believe it, because the meeting had been agreed upon. At least, a good many of us didn't. Some did, though, I guess, for at eight the room wasn't more than half full. We sat there and waited a while and did a little singing and cheering. But no one got on the platform to talk to us, and the band didn't show up. So about a quarter to nine we moseyed outside. But we were still full of enthusiasm, and we wanted to work it off. So we stood around, about eight hundred of us, and informed the world at large that we wanted the band. No one seemed to care. But, of course, every minute the crowd got bigger, just as it always will if you get out and yell something. After a bit we decided to do without the band, and so we formed in fours and marched over to the yard, singing and cheering like mad. After we'd marched around twice we had depopulated the buildings. Fellows put their heads out of windows, had a look, yelled enthusiastically, turned the gas up high, and tumbled downstairs and into line. By a quarter past nine we had easily two thousand fellows in the procession. And when you get that many together something simply _has_ to happen. "What we need," said Bud, "is a band." "But we can't get one," answered Withey. "Then let's get part of a band." "Where?" "McTurkle," answered Bud, with a grin. "A-a-aye!" we yelled. "McTurkle! We want McTurkle!" So we left the gang yelling themselves hoarse in front of the university and scooted over to our dormitory. McTurkle was in. He was sitting at his table with a green drop light casting a wan glow over his classic features. The table was piled high with all sorts of books, and you could just hear McTurkle's wheels go round. When we walked in he slipped the glasses from his nose by wriggling his eyebrows and turned around and looked at us blinking. McTurkle was a funny genius. He was forever grinding. When he wasn't grinding he was causing strange, painful sounds to emanate from his room. For a good while we had puzzled over those sounds. Then, finally, one fateful night, we had descended upon McTurkle in force and learned the truth. McTurkle performed on the French horn. A French horn is an instrument which is wound up in a knot like a morning-glory vine, and the notes have such a hard time getting out that they get all balled up and confused and are never the same afterwards. I'm not musical, and don't pretend to be, but I'll bet a hat that the man who invented the French horn was the same chap who invented French verbs. Well, we made McTurkle take a solemn oath never to practice after seven o'clock, because it was simply impossible to remember anything with those sounds sobbing along the entry. He was frightfully apologetic and promised at once. When we went in Bud winked at us to leave the negotiations in his hands. We did so, drawing up in a semicircle behind him and looking very grave. "McTurkle," said Bud, "we have come to you on behalf of the university." McTurkle blinked harder than ever and looked a bit scared. "Out there"--Bud waved his hand toward the window--"out there our college--your college--the college we all love awaits you." McTurkle gasped and tried to find his glasses, which were hanging over the back of his chair at the end of a black cord which he wore around his neck. "McTurkle," continued Bud, tensely, "as you know, we are on the eve of a great conflict. Tomorrow the pick of our athletic young manhood does battle with the brawny horde of Yale. Defeat looms ominous above--upon the horizon, but the unconquerable spirit of Harvard arises triumphant and--er--flaps its flaming pinions!" "A-a-aye!" murmured Withey. McTurkle found his glasses, fixed them on his lean nose, and regarded Bud with genuine alarm. "Not for a moment do we acknowledge defeat, sir! Not until the pall of evening settles over the trampled field of battle shall we abandon hope. The university stands firm and undismayed behind her loyal warriors. Listen, McTurkey--McTurkle, I mean!" Bud held up a hand imperiously and we all listened, McTurkle with his mouth wide open and his near-sighted eyes fixed in fascination upon the speaker's face. From outside came a long, impatient wail from two thousand throats: "We-want-to-go-to-the-Stadium!" "What of that, McTurkle!" demanded Bud, sternly. "The spirit of Harvard speaks! Her sons demand to be led to the scene of the conflict that with mighty voices they may--er--consecrate the field to victory!" "But--but--what is it you wish me to do?" stammered the dazed McTurkle, visibly affected. "To lead them!" thundered Bud. "Lead them?" cried McTurkle. "Who? Me? Me--ah--lead?" "Ah! You, McTurkle! You, with your French horn!" "You--you want me to play it?" "We do. The college calls for you. Your duty, McTurkle, your duty to that college, to your fellows, summons you. Listen, McTurkle, to the voice of Duty and Patriotism!" Apparently McTurkle's manner of listening was to hold his mouth open. He held it open now, wide open. Also his eyes. At last he said: "But--but--I'm afraid I don't know any of the--ah--the college airs." "What of that! It is your leadership we want; that and the inspiring strains of your dulcet horn. Play what you will, McTurkle, only play. Remember that the success of the team may depend upon you! That to-night it is our duty and pleasure to show the team that the whole college is behind them, eager and loyal in its support!" Never before in three years of college life had any one ever wanted McTurkle to do anything. And now the knowledge that the whole university demanded his aid, his leadership, was too much for McTurkle. His face glowed; he leaped to his feet; a Greek lexicon crashed to the floor; McTurkle was transformed. "I'll go!" he said, with majestic simplicity. We cheered. McTurkle feverishly wrested his French horn from its green bag, settled his glasses upon his aquiline nose, turned up the collar of his plaid lounging coat, and strode to the door. We followed in triumph. Over in front of the university they had cheered every one and everything, and now they were forming again into line of march. "On to Soldier's Field!" they cried. We hurried across to the head of the procession, McTurkle's long legs making us work hard to keep up with him. Arrived, Bud waved an arm for silence. "Fellows!" he shouted. "Fellows!" And when silence had fallen about us he swept his hand dramatically toward McTurkle. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the band!" "A-a-a-aye!" they cheered. "Band! band!" "Where's the band?" called those further down the line, and the news traveled fast until from far down by Thayer came wild paeans of delight. "Where'd they get it? ... Where is it? ... We want 'On Soldier's Field'! ... We want 'Veritas'! ... Strike up! Move on, there! ... 'Ray for the band! ... A-a-a-aye! Band! band!" Up at the head of the line we were all laughing and shouting for fair. McTurkle, beaming delightedly through his glasses, his head held back inspiritingly and the folds of his plaid jacket waving in the November wind, placed the French horn to his lips, took a mighty breath and--the procession moved forward to the strains of "Annie Laurie!" Now, I've heard since then that the French horn has a compass of only four octaves and is principally useful as an orchestral adjunct; that, in short, its ability is limited and its use as a solo instrument slight. All I can say is that the person who said that doesn't know a French horn; anyway, he doesn't know McTurkle's French horn. Four octaves be blowed! McTurkle went fourteen, or I'll eat my hat! Why, the way he put that thing through its paces was a caution! And as for--er--variations and such!--well, you ought to have heard him, that's all I've got to say! Out into the avenue we turned, through the Square and down Boylston Street. The line was so long that the cars were held up for ten minutes, and Bud was for circling back and holding them up ten minutes more. And all the while McTurkle, thin, gaunt, but impressive, marched at the head and informed us startlingly and with convincing emphasis that for Bonnie Annie Laurie he'd lay him down and dee. And we took up the refrain, and hurled it back to the gray November sky. Further along they were singing, "Hard luck for poor old Eli," and still further down the line they were informing the dark front of the post office that the sun would set in Crimson as the sun had set before. And way, way back they were cheering like Sam Hill. Oh, that was a glorious night! Talk about enthusiasm! We had it and to burn. We exuded it at every step. Enthusiasm was a drug on the market. Down by the river McTurkle gave Annie Laurie her final death blow and started in on the overture to "Martha." That carried us as far as the Locker Building, and we marched on to Soldiers' Field to the inspiriting strains of a selection from "Traviata." McTurkle told me what they were afterwards; that's how I know. Around the gridiron we marched once, the band still clinging to "Traviata" and the fellows singing whatever pleased them, generally "Up the Street." Then we had a snake dance, a wonder of a snake dance! The band got lost in the shuffle, but later on we found him standing serene and undismayed under the shadow of the west stand spouting "Auld Lang Syne" till you couldn't see. Then Bud climbed up on to the edge of the Stadium and we did some more cheering, and when he called for "a regular cheer for the band" the way we hit it up was a caution. Back in the Square, Bud led us over in front of the "Coop," mainly, I guess, so we would stop the cars for a while. We had some more cheering then, and then Bud leaped up on the steps and announced "Speech by McTurkle!" Nobody except a few of us knew who McTurkle was, but everyone cheered gloriously. We conducted McTurkle gently but firmly up the steps, and when the crowd got a good look at him they simply went crazy. McTurkle was deeply affected. So was the crowd. "Speech! speech!" they yelled. "Spe-e-eech!" McTurkle, embarrassed but courageous, his voice faint and tremulous with emotion, spoke. "Gentlemen," he began. "Apologize! ... Take it back! ... Who is he? ... It's the band! ... 'Ray for the band! ... Go on! Say it!" "Fellows," prompted Bud. "Fellows," repeated McTurkle. Deafening applause. "I wish to thank you for this--ah--this flattering evidence of--shall I say esteem?" "Don't say it if it hurts you, old man," some one advised. "What's he talking about?" asked another. "I appreciate the honor you have done me," continued McTurkle, warming to his work. "And it has been a pleasure, a great pleasure, as well as a privilege, to lead you this evening in your interesting--ah--exercises." "A-a-a-aye!" yelled the audience. "There is to be, I understand," said McTurkle, "a game to-morrow, a contest between this college and--ah--Yale." Laughter and deafening applause. "While lack of opportunity has kept me from a personal participation in your games and sports, yet I am heartily in sympathy with them. Physical exercise is, I am convinced, of great benefit. In conclusion let me say that I trust that in tomorrow's game of baseball--" "Football, you blamed fool!" whispered Bud, hoarsely. "Ah--I should say football--the mantle of victory will fall upon the shoulders of our--ah--representatives. I thank you." McTurkle bowed with gentle dignity. "What's his name?" cried a chap below. "McTurkle," answered Bud. "Wha-a-at?" "McTurkle!" "Cheer for McTurkey!" demanded the questioner. "A-a-aye!" cried the throng. Bud leaped to the top step. "Regular cheer, fellows, for McTurkle!" he cried. And it came. "Har-_vard!_ Har-_vard!_ Har-_vard!_ Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! The Turkey! The Turkey! The Turkey!" Then we went home. I suppose this isn't much of a story, especially as there is no climax; and I've taken enough English to know that there ought to be some sort of a climax somewhere. Maybe, though, what happened next day will serve for one. I got halfway over to the field and found I had forgotten my ticket, and had to go back to the room for it. McTurkle's door was ajar and through it came those awful sounds. I kicked it open and stuck my head in. "Hello," I said. "Do you know what time it is? You'll be late." McTurkle took the French horn from his face and wiped the mouthpiece gently with a silk handkerchief. "Late?" he asked. "Yes, for the game. You're going, of course, McTurkle?" He shook his head, beaming affably through his glasses. "No, no, I'm not going to attend the--ah--game." He waved a hand toward the book-covered table. "I shall be quite busy this afternoon, quite busy. But you have my--my best wishes. May the--ah--the mantle of victory fall upon the shoulders--" Well, we got licked that day. But, say, honest now, it wasn't McTurkle's fault, was it? THE TRIUMPH OF "CURLY" "Curly" sat with head in hands, elbows on desk, and eyes fixed unseeingly on the half-opened door. The afternoon sunlight made golden shafts across the rows of empty seats. The windows were open, and with the sunlight came the songs of birds, the incessant hum of insects, and occasionally a quick, rattling cheer. On the playground, under the bluest of blue skies, with a fresh, clover-perfumed breeze fanning their dripping brows, the boys of Willard's School were playing the third and deciding game of baseball with the nine of Durham Academy. But Curly neither heard the cheering nor had thought for the contest. Curly's real name was Isaac Newton Stone. He had taken the "A.M." degree the preceding June at a Western university, and had entered his name in the long list of those wishing to be teachers. As the summer had advanced his hope had waned. September found him without a position. During the fall and early winter he waited with what philosophy he could summon, and had studied doggedly, having in view the attainment of a Ph. D. Then, in February, an unforeseen vacancy at Willard's School had given him his place as instructor in Greek and German. It is a matter of principle at Willard's to haze new teachers. No exception was made in the case of Isaac Newton Stone, A. M. He was twenty-three years old, but looked several years younger. He was small, slight and wiry, with pale blue eyes, a tip-tilted nose and a fresh pink-and-white complexion. His hair was of an indeterminate shade between brown and sand-color, and it curled closely over his head like a baby's. Three days after his advent at Willard's he had become universally known as Curly. Former teachers at Willard's, with experience to guide them, had tolerated the hazing process, if not with enjoyment, at least with apparent good humor. But Curly, a novice, thought he saw his authority endangered, his dignity assailed. The ringleaders in the affair, five in number, were placed upon probation in exactly two seconds. The class gasped. Such a thing had never happened before. The hazing died a violent death, and Curly sprang into sudden fame as a tyrant. The role of iron-heeled despot was least of all suited to Curly or desired by him, but having momentarily adopted it, he had to continue it. He dared not take the frown from his face for a moment; intimidation was his only course. Meanwhile the faculty viewed events with dissatisfaction. Once or twice Curly's punishments were not upheld. In May he was informed that unless he could maintain discipline without such severity the faculty would be forced to the painful necessity of asking his resignation. His election, the principal explained kindly, had been in the nature of an experiment, and unsuccessful experiments must of course be terminated. The experiment was unsuccessful. It was June now, and class day was but two weeks distant. This morning there had been trouble in the German class, and as a result, two students had been placed on probation. The fact that one of them, Rogers, was the best pitcher in school, and that the loss of his services would in all likelihood mean the defeat of Willard's nine in this decisive game was most unfortunate. To be sure, Rogers had merited his punishment, but the school failed to consider that, and indignation ran high. Curly himself, seated in the silent class room, acknowledged failure at last. He looked at his watch. It was quarter past three. With a sigh he drew paper toward him, dipped pen in ink and began to write. The letter was brief, yet it took him nearly ten minutes. When at last it was finished, lacking only the signature, he read it over. He had made no attempt at explanation or extenuation, but had thanked the faculty for their kindness and patience, regretted their disappointment, and begged them to accept his resignation. He subscribed himself "Respectfully yours, Isaac Newton Stone," sealed the letter and addressed it to the principal. This done, he gathered his books, took up his hat and stepped from the platform. Footsteps sounded in the echoing corridor, and a flushed, perspiring face peered into the room. Then a boy of sixteen hurried up the aisle. "Mr. Stone, sir," he cried, "will you help us? It's the beginning of the sixth inning, and the score's eight to six in our favor. They've knocked Willings out of the box, sir, and we haven't anyone else. Apthorpe's cousin says you can pitch, and--and we want to know if you won't play for us, sir?" He ended with a gasp for breath. "But--I don't quite understand!" "Why, sir, we held 'em down until the fifth, and then they made six runs. Maybe they've scored some more. If you could only come right away!" "But who said I could pitch, Turner?" "Tom Apthorpe's cousin, sir; he's down for Sunday." "But how did he know?" "Why, sir, he knew you at college, and--" "What's his name?" "Harris, sir. He said--" "Jack Harris!" The instructor's eyes lighted. He tossed the books on the desk. "Run back and tell them I'll come as soon as I leave this note at Dr. Willard's." There came a cheer from the playground. It was not a Willard cheer. Turner listened dismayed. "Couldn't you come now, sir?" he begged. "It may be too late. They're batting like anything. Couldn't you leave the note afterwards, sir!" "Well, may be I could," said Curly. He dropped it into his pocket, put on his hat and strode down the aisle. "Come on, Turner!" he cried. Along the terrace of the playground, under the elms, were gathered the spectators--the boys of both schools and their friends. At the foot of the terrace, just back of first base, a striped awning warded off the sunlight from a little group of professors and their families. On the field the blue-stockinged players of Willard's were scattered about, and on a bench behind third base a row of boys wearing the red of Durham Academy awaited their turns at bat. This much Curly saw as he crossed the terrace. Then a tall, broad-shouldered man came toward him with a pleasant smile and outstretched hand. Curly recognized Harris, and sprang down the steps to meet him. At college they had been hardly more than acquaintances, yet to-day they met almost like fast friends. "I never thought to find you in this part of the world, Stone," said Harris. "I'm awfully glad to see you again. You're badly needed. Tom Apthorpe, my cousin, was bewailing the fact that he hadn't anyone to pitch. I saw that Durham was playing her professor of mathematics on first base, and asked him if there wasn't anyone in the faculty who could take Willings's place. Willings is used up, as you can see. Tom said there was no one unless "--Harris paused and grinned--"unless it was Curly. He didn't know whether you could play or not. Inquiries elicited the astounding fact that 'Curly' was none other than Newt Stone, pitcher and star batsman on our old class nine. I told him to hurry up and get you out. And so, for goodness' sake, Stone, get into the box and strike out some of those boys from Durham! The score's eight to eight now, and if they get that man on second in they'll have a good grip on the game and championship." "I'm afraid I'm all out of practice," objected Curly. "I haven't handled a ball for two years, but I'll do what I can. I wish you'd come round to my room afterwards and have a talk, if you've nothing better to do." Time had been called, and Apthorpe, who was both captain and catcher, ran across to them. "It's good of you, Mr. Stone," he said, wiping the perspiration from his face. "I don't think we fellows have much right to ask you to help us out, but if you'll do it for the school, sir, everyone will be mighty glad." "For the school!" Curly wondered rather bitterly what the school had done for him that he should come to her rescue. But he only answered gravely: "I'll do what I can, Apthorpe." He threw aside his coat and waistcoat and tightened his belt. Then he walked across the diamond and picked the ball from the ground. On the terrace bank a boy armed with a blue and white flag jumped to his feet, and amidst a ripple of clapping from the audience above, called for "three times three for Curl--for Mr. Stone!" There was a burst of laughter, but the cheer that followed was hearty. The batsman stepped out of the box and Curly delivered half a dozen balls to Apthorpe to get his hand in. Then the two met and agreed on a few simple signals, the umpire called, "Play!" and the game went on again. It was the first half of the sixth inning; the score was eight to eight; there was one man out, a runner on second, and Durham's left fielder at bat. Curly looked over the field, glanced carelessly at the runner, turned, and sent a swift, straight ball over the plate. Durham's players were eager for just that sort, and the batsman made a long, clean hit into the outfield between first and second. When the new pitcher got the ball again the man on second had gone to third, and Durham's left fielder was jumping about on first. Durham's next man up was her catcher. Curly strove to wipe out the intervening two years and to imagine himself back at college, pitching for his class in the final championship game. But alas! his arm was stiff and muscle-bound, and creaked in the socket every time he threw. There was a wild pitch that was just saved from being a passed ball by a brilliant stop of Apthorpe's; then the batsman hit an infield fly and was caught out. "Two gone, fellows!" shouted the captain. The runner on first took second unmolested, and the Durham coaches yelled themselves hoarse. But Curly was not to be rattled in that way; and besides, the stiffness was wearing out of his arm. He set his lips together and pitched the ball. "Strike!" cried the umpire. Willard's cheered vociferously. Then came a ball. Then another strike. Then the batter swung with all his might at a slow, curving ball--and missed it. "Striker's out!" called the umpire. Willard's rose as one man and cheered to the echo. In the tent the principal and his associates forgot their dignity for an instant, and added their shouts to the general acclaim. The new pitcher, his eyes sparkling, retired to the bench. The fielders, as they joined him, shot curious and admiring glances toward him. Harris leaned over the bench and talked with him about the incidents of old college games. And the boys near by listened, while the curly-haired instructor grew before their eyes into an athletic hero. The last of the sixth inning ended without a score. Pretty as it was to watch, the first of the seventh would make tame history. Not a Durham player reached first base. One--two--three was the way they struck out. Curly's arm worked now like a well-lubricated piece of machinery, and the outshoots and incurves and drops which he sent with varying speed into Apthorpe's hands puzzled the enemy to distraction. Nor was the second half of the inning much more exciting. To be sure, Apthorpe put a fly where the Durham right fielder could not reach it, and so got to first base, and Riding advanced him by a neat sacrifice; but he had no chance to score. Durham's best hitter was Mansfield, the instructor, who played first base. Just when or how the peculiar custom of recruiting baseball and football players from the faculty originated at Willard's and Durham is not known; but it was a privilege that each enjoyed and made use of whenever possible. This year, for almost the first time, Willard's team had been, until to-day, composed entirely of students. On the other hand, Mansfield had been playing with Durham all spring, and to his excellent fielding and hitting was largely due the fact that she had won the second of the three games. He was a player of much experience, and in the eighth inning, when he came to bat, he made a three-base hit. The little knot of Durhamites shrieked joyfully and waved their cherry-and-white banners. Curly faced the next batsman, tried him with a "drop," at which he promptly struck and failed to hit, and then gave his attention to Mansfield on third. Curly watched him out of the corner of his eye and pitched again. The umpire called another strike. Apthorpe threw back the ball to the pitcher; Curly dropped it, recovered it, and threw swiftly to third base. Large bodies move slowly. Mansfield was caught a yard from the base. He retired in chagrin, while Willard's cheered ecstatically. Then the batsman struck out on a slow drop ball. The third man made a leisurely hit and was thrown out at first. During the next half inning Curly held his court on the players' bench. Little by little timidity wore away, and the boys gave voice to their enthusiasm. They wished they had known he was such a ball player early in the spring. Next year he would play on the team, would he not? Curly remembered the letter in his pocket and sighed. Again Willard's failed to get a man over the plate, although at one time there was a player on third. The ninth inning began with the score still eight to eight. The spectators suggested ten innings, and fell to recalling former long-drawn contests. Curly had found his pace, as Harris put it. His white shirt was stained with the dust of battle; his shoes were gray and scuffed; his curly locks were damp and clung to his forehead; but his blue eyes were bright, and as he poised the ball in air, balancing himself before the throw, he no longer looked ridiculous. Harris, observing him from the bench, rendered ungrudging admiration. "Good old 'Newt' Stone!" he muttered. "It's the little chaps, after all, who have the pluck!" But pluck alone would not have succeeded in shutting Durham out in that inning. Science was necessary, and science Curly had. He had not forgotten the old knack of "sizing up" the batsman. He found, in fact, that he had forgotten nothing. Durham made the supreme effort of the contest in that first half of the ninth inning. It might be the last chance to score. The first man struck out as ingloriously as his predecessors; but the second batsman, after knocking innumerable fouls, made a slow bunt and reached his base. At that Durham's supporters found encouragement, and her cheers rose once more. Then fate threw a sop to the wearers of the cherry and white. The third man up was struck on the elbow with the ball, and trotted gleefully to first, the player ahead going to second. But Curly caught the runner on first napping, and the next batsman struck out. The blue-stockinged players came in from the field. "Stone at bat!" called the scorer. "Brown on deck!" "A run would do it, sir," said Apthorpe, eagerly. "One of those old-fashioned home runs, Newt," laughed Harris. Curly walked to the plate, and stood there, swinging the bat back of his shoulder in a way that suggested discretion to the wearied Durham pitcher. From the bank came encouraging cheers for "Mr. Stone." He made no offer at the first ball, which was out of reach. Then came a strike. The spectators fidgeted in their seats; the field was almost quiet. Then bat and ball met with a sharp crack, and Curly sped toward first. Across that base he sped, swung in a quick curve, and made for second. The center fielder had picked up the ball and was about to throw it in. It was a narrow chance, but when Curly scrambled to his feet after his slide, the umpire dropped his hand. Curly was safe. From the bank and along the base line came loud cheers for Willard's. But the following batsman struck out miserably. The next attempted a sacrifice, and not only went out himself, but failed to advance the runner. Then Curly, seeing no help forthcoming, advanced himself, starting like a shot with the pitcher's arm and rising safe from a cloud of dust at third. Apthorpe went to bat, weary but determined. Curly, on third, shot back and forth like a shuttle with every motion of the pitcher's arm. With two balls in his favor, Apthorpe thought he saw his chance, and struck swiftly at an outshoot. The result--he swung through empty air--appeared to unnerve him. He struck again at the next ball, and again missed. But he found the next ball, and drove it swift and straight at the pitcher. Curly was ten feet from the base when ball met bat. He stopped, poised to go on or to scuttle back, and saw the pitcher attempt the catch, drop the ball as if it were a red-hot cinder, and stoop for it. Then Curly settled his chin on his breast, worked his arms like pistons and his legs like driving shafts, and flew along the line. Beside him scuttled a coach, shouting shrill, useless words. All about him were cries, commands, entreaties, confused, meaningless. Ten feet from the plate he launched himself through space, with arms outstretched. The dust was in his eyes and nostrils. He felt a corner of the plate. At the same instant he heard the thud of the ball against the catcher's glove overhead, the swish of the down-swinging arm, and---- "Safe at the plate!" cried the umpire. At second Apthorpe was sitting on the bag, joyfully kicking his heels into the earth. On the bench the scorer made big, trembling dots on the page. Everywhere pandemonium reigned. The home nine had won game and championship. Curly jumped to his feet, dusted his bedraggled clothes, and walked into the arms of Harris. "The best steal you ever made!" cried Harris, thumping him on the back. As he went to the bench he heard an excited and perspiring youth exclaim proudly, "I have him in Greek, you know!" Two minutes later the cherry-colored banners of Durham departed, flaunting bravely in the face of defeat. Willard's danced across the terrace, shouting and singing. In their possession was a soiled and battered ball, which on the morrow would be inscribed with the figures "9 to 8," and proudly suspended behind a glass case in the trophy room. Curly and Harris sat together in the former's study. Supper was over. Curly held a sealed and addressed letter in his hands, which he turned over and over undecidedly. "Then--if you were in my place--under the circumstances--you--you wouldn't hand this in?" he asked. "Let me have it, please," said Harris, with decision. He tore the letter across, and tossed the pieces into the waste basket. "That's the only thing to do with that," he said. And in the successful two years of teaching since then Curly has come to feel that Harris was quite right. PATSY He made his first appearance one afternoon a week or so before the Fall Handicap Meeting. Mosher, Fosgill, Alien, Ronimus, and several more of us were down at the end of the field putting the shot. Fosgill, who was scratch man that year, had just done an even forty feet and the shot had trickled away toward the cinder path. Whereupon a small bit of humanity appeared from somewhere, picked up the sixteen pounds of lead with much difficulty, and staggered back to the circle with it. "Hello, kid," said Fosgill; "that's pretty heavy for you, isn't it?" "Naw," was the superb reply; "that ain't nothin'!" We laughed, and the youngster grinned around at us in a companionable way that won us on the spot. "What's your name?" asked Ronimus. "Patsy." "Patsy what?" "Burns." "How old are you?" "'Leven." "You're a Frenchman, aren't yon?" "Naw." "You're not?" Ronimus pretended intense surprise. "He's a Dutchman, aren't you, Patsy?" said Mosher. "Naw." "What are you then?" "Mucker," answered Patsy with a grin. For the rest of that day and for many days afterwards Patsy honored us with his presence. After each put he ambled forth, lifted the metal ball from the ground with two dirty little hands, snuggled it against the front of his dirty little shirt, and labored back with it. At the end of the week Patsy had become official helper. He was a diminutive wisp of humanity, a starved, slender elf with a freckled face, wizened and peaked, which at times looked a thousand years old. It reminded you of the face of one of those preternaturally aged monkeys that sit motionless in a dark corner of the cage, oppressed with the sins and sorrows of a hundred centuries. And yet it mustn't be supposed that Patsy was either a pessimist or a misanthrope. Patsy's gray Irish eye could sparkle merrily and his thin little Irish mouth usually wore a whimsical smile. It was as though he realized that life was but a hollow mockery and yet had bravely resolved to pretend otherwise, that we, young and innocent, might still preserve our cherished illusions. We made a good deal of Patsy. We pretended that he was very, very old and sophisticated--not a difficult task--and deferred to his judgment on all occasions. But in spite of this Patsy never became "fresh." To be sure, he speedily began calling Fosgill "Bull," but I don't think he meant the slightest disrespect; everyone called the big fellow "Bull," and it is quite possible that Patsy believed it to be a title of honor. He was attentive to all of us, but his heart was Fosgill's. He used to wait outside the Locker Building until we came out after dressing and then walk beside Fosgill until he reached the Square. Then Patsy would say: "Good night, Bull." And Fosgill would answer gravely: "Good night, Patsy." And Patsy would disappear. But the evening of the Handicaps we took him back to the boarding house with us, and he sat beside Fosgill and ate ravenously of everything placed before him. We learned Patsy's life story that evening. He went to school--generally. He lived with Brian. Brian was his brother, eighteen years old, and a man of business; Brian drove for Connors, the teamster. Patsy wasn't sure that he had ever had a mother, but he was absolutely certain about his father. He still had vivid recollections of the night they broke down the door and put the handcuffs on father after father had laid out the lieutenant with a chair. Patsy didn't know just what father had done, but he had an idea it was something regarding the disappearance of numerous suits of clothes from a tailor's shop. Patsy was going into business himself just as soon as they let him stop school; he was going to sell papers. He had tried several times to wean himself from education, but each time they haled him back to the schoolhouse. Patsy thought the thing was terribly wrong. When the snow covered the field we saw Patsy only occasionally. In the spring we got to work early. We believed we had a good show to win the Dual that year and a fighting chance at the Intercollegiate. We were strong on the sprints and distances, fair at the jumps and hurdles, and rather weak at the weights. We had a good man in Fosgill at the shot put, but that's about all. Along in May we had it doped out that if we could get first in the shot put we could win out by a point or two. But there wasn't anything certain about it, for our opponent was strong on second, near-"second," and third-place men. Patsy appeared with the first warm day, looking thinner and littler and older than ever. That first day the assistant manager was holding the tape for us, and it occurred to him to pick up the shot and toss it back. But he did it only once. The next time Patsy was astraddle of that sixteen-pound lump and was looking the assistant manager sternly in the eye. "I'm doin' this," said Patsy. After that he did it and no one disputed his right. When the gates were closed and fellows had to show their H. A. A. tickets to get in, Patsy was admitted without question. When all the other youngsters for miles around were gluing their faces to the iron fence watching the baseball games, Patsy's allegiance never faltered. He was somewhere around Fosgill, regarding that hero with worshiping gaze. It was in May, I think, that Patsy made his Great Resolution. He confided it to us on the steps of the Locker Building when we were waiting for one of the crowd. "I've decided not to go into business," said Patsy. "What are you going to do?" asked Billy Allen. "I'm going to college," replied Patsy easily. "I'm goin' to be a shot putter." "Good for you, kid!" said Billy. "What college you going to?" Billy winked at us and we watched eagerly while Patsy's countenance took on its expression of lofty contempt. "Huh!" said Patsy. That was all, but that eloquent monosyllable consigned all other colleges than ours to the nethermost regions. "But you'll have to go to school a long time, Patsy," said I, "if you expect to get into college." "Yep, I know. It's tough, but I guess I can do it. Was--was it hard for you?" I was forced to acknowledge that it had been. "An' you ain't much of a shot putter, either," said Patsy reflectively. Fosgill had done forty-two, eight and a half that afternoon and we were feeling pretty hopeful and good-natured after dinner. Some, one mentioned Patsy, and Mosher spoke up: "Say, fellows, let's see that that little cuss does get into college. What do you say?" "I'll go you!" cried Fosgill. "He's an all-right kid, is Patsy, and he deserves something better than spending his life on the streets. We'll adopt him." "Sure thing," said Allen. "But we'll have our hands full. And what's to happen when we leave college?" "We'll get some one to look after him We'll have a talk with Brother Brian about it. But, say, Bull, imagine Patsy putting the shot!" We laughed at that--which we wouldn't have done if Patsy had been there. "Well, I guess he won't make much of a show at athletics," said I, "but if we keep him off the streets we'll be doing a whole lot. And I like Patsy." We all did. And before we left the table that night we had the thing mapped out. Patsy was to be cared for and looked after. He was to finish grammar school, go to Latin school, and then to Harvard. And there were to be funds where they'd do good. Yes, we had it all fixed up for Patsy and we'd have done it just as planned if Patsy hadn't gone and spoiled it all. And it happened like this: When the Dual Meet came along in June we were all to the good. We couldn't see how we were to lose first in anything except the quarter, the high hurdles, the hammer throw and the broad jump. And we had enough seconds and thirds in sight to make good. If Bull Fosgill could beat Tanner with the shot we were it. That's the way we had the situation sized up, but of course things don't happen just as expected; they seldom do in athletics. Some of the firsts we had claimed went glimmering and we took in seconds and thirds where we hadn't expected them. But the final result was just about what we had figured it, and along toward five o'clock the meet depended on the outcome of one event, and that event was the shot put. To be sure, they were still fussing with the pole vault, but we were certain of first and third places and so could discount that. By some freak of fortune I had managed to qualify with a put of thirty-eight, one and a half. There were four of us in the finals, Fosgill, Tanner and Burt of the enemy, and I. Of course Patsy was there, and he worked like a Trojan. You could see, though, that it went against the grain with him to fetch for our opponents; Patsy had a good deal of the primeval left in him. And it's safe to say that no one there was more interested. I don't think he doubted for a moment that Fosgill would win, and I fancy he thought me pretty cheeky for aspiring so far as the final round. Fosgill was ahead with forty-one, ten and a half, Tanner had done three inches under that, and Burt and I were fighting along for third place, doing around thirty-eight, six. It was pretty close work, and even the officials were excited. We had finished one round when the accident occurred. Tanner was in the circle. Fosgill was down near the end of the tape and Patsy was close behind him. Tanner hopped across the circle, overstepped--fouling the put--and sent the shot away at a tangent. Fosgill had turned his head to speak to the measurer and never saw his danger. Tanner let out a shout of warning, and others echoed it. But it was Patsy who acted. He threw himself like a little catapult at Fosgill and sent him staggering across the turf. Then Patsy and the shot went down together. It was all beastly sudden and nasty. When we bent over that poor little kid he was sort of greenish-white and I'll never forget the way his freckles stood out. The shot had struck him on the breast and Patsy's weak little bones had just crushed in. Well, we did all we could; put him in a carriage at the gate and rushed him to the hospital. He was still breathing, but the doctor said he never knew anything after the shot struck him--not until evening. Well, we were all frightfully cut up, and Tanner sat down on the ground and nearly fainted. Fosgill kept saying "Poor little Patsy! Poor little kid!" half aloud and walking around in circles. He wanted to go to the hospital with him, but we told him he could do no good, and we each still had two puts. After a while we got our nerve back after a fashion, and went on, but, thunder! not one of us was worth a hang. I did thirty-six and thirty-seven, eleven, and won third place at that. Neither Fosgill nor Tanner equaled his first records and the event went to Bull at the ridiculous figures of forty-one, ten and a half. We got the meet by four and a half points. It was almost six o'clock by that time, and Fosgill and I and three others piled into Alien's auto and raced up to the hospital. They had just taken Patsy off the operating table and put him to bed. The doctor told us that the examination showed that there was nothing to be done; the heart had been injured and was liable to stop work any moment. Fosgill got the doctor to promise to call him up on the 'phone if Patsy showed any signs of consciousness. And he left orders that everything possible was to be done. Tanner had begged us to look after the kid and let him pay everything, but though we promised, we hadn't any idea of doing it; Patsy was our kid. We went back to training table, but we were a low-spirited lot. And just when we were finishing dinner the call came from the hospital. We made a record trip in Billy's machine and when we tiptoed into the accident ward the nurse smiled at us. And so did Patsy. He was a pathetic-looking little wisp as he lay there with the bedclothes lifted away from his body, but he smiled and moved his head a bit on the pillow. Fosgill sat down at the head of the cot and leaned over, his mouth all atremble. "Hello, Bull!" whispered Patsy. "Hello, Patsy!" answered Fosgill, trying to smile. "Did you--beat him?" "Yes, Patsy." "I knew--you would. I told--him so." He glanced at me: "Did you--beat--that--other chap?" I nodded and Patsy looked at me with a new respect. "Good--for you," he whispered. "Are you--does it hurt much, Patsy?" asked Fosgill. "No, not much." "That's good. We'll have you out before long." Patsy grinned. "Shut up!" he whispered. "You can't--fool me, Bull. I'm--a goner." Fosgill muttered something and Patsy's eyes brightened. "Bull," he whispered, "do you--think I--had a mother--like--other kids?" "I know you did, Patsy." "That's good," sighed the kid happily. "I guess--may be--I'll see her--where--I'm goin'." "You saved my life, Patsy," muttered Fosgill, "and there isn't a thing I can do for you. I wish--oh, it's a shame, kid!" "Huh! I'm glad--Bull. I'd--'a' done most anything--for you, Bull. You've been good--to me; so's the--others." He closed his eyes wearily for a moment. Then, "Do you think," he asked slowly, "I could--have learned--to put--the shot, Bull--some day?" "Yes," answered Fosgill sturdily. "You had the making of a great shot putter, Patsy. You'd have made a record for yourself, I'll bet!" "Are you--kiddin'--me, Bull?" "No, Patsy. I'll leave it to the others. Isn't it so, fellows?" We nodded vehemently, and Patsy closed his eyes with a smile of ineffable content on his little face. Presently the eyes flickered open again. "Anyhow," he said quite strongly and with an approach to his old air of self-importance, "anyhow--I guess I won--for Harvard--to-day. Huh?" "Yes, you did, Patsy," answered Fosgill. "We've got you to thank for it, dear little kid." Patsy smiled. Then: "Good-by--Bull," he said very softly. His eyes half closed. We waited in silence while the moments crept by, but Patsy didn't speak again. HIS FIRST ASSIGNMENT Tom Collins read again the inscription on the directory at the foot of the stairs: Room 36 _City Editor and Reporters_ glanced again toward the elevator, again drew his letter of introduction from his pocket, and--again retreated to the doorway. Once more his heart had failed him. The result of the impending interview with the city editor of the Washington Evening World meant so much to him that he feared to meet it. Another failure and--what? Surely not starvation. To a youth of nineteen, normally healthy and hopeful, the idea of starvation in a great city, surrounded by thousands of human beings, seems preposterous. And yet when the few coins yet remaining in his pocket were gone he would be absolutely at the end of his resources; unless--unless fortune favored him in the next few minutes. He had tried every newspaper office in the city with disheartening results; every office save this one. He reread, perhaps for the twentieth time, the letter he held, then placed it back in its envelope with a sigh. The words sounded so empty and perfunctory, the _World_ was such a big paper, his own ignorance was so great, and--and he was discouraged. However-- He thrust the letter back into his pocket, jammed his cap resolutely onto his head, and strode determinedly to the elevator. "City editor," he announced gruffly. Room 36 seemed acres big to Tom as he closed the door behind him. Some dozen men and youths occupied the apartments and to the nearest of these Tom applied. He was not much over Tom's age and was busily engaged in cutting a newspaper into shreds with a pair of extraordinarily large shears. When interrupted he looked up carelessly but good naturedly and pointed to a far corner of the room. "That's the city ed; the fellow with the glasses." Tom thanked him and went on. The man with the glasses took no notice of his approach but continued his writing, puffing the while on a very black briar pipe. He was apparently about thirty-five years of age, had a fierce and bristling mustache, and rushed his pencil vindictively across the copy paper as though he were writing the death sentence of his worst enemy. "Well?" Tom started. The voice was as savage as the man's appearance, and Tom's heart sank within him. "What do you want?" The editor's forehead was a mass of wrinkles and his eyes glared threateningly from behind his glasses. Tom found his voice and laid the letter on the desk. "Humph," said the editor. He read the short message and tossed it aside. "Ever done newspaper work?" he asked. "No, sir," Tom replied. "Then what do you want to begin for?" "To make a living." "Oh," sneered the editor, "thought perhaps you wanted to elevate the press. You're a college graduate, of course?" "I went to college for a year and a half, sir; I had to leave then." The editor's face brightened. "Did they throw you out?" "No, I--I had no money left; my father died very suddenly, and--and so I had to leave." "Too bad; if you'd been fired there might have been some hope for you." Tom tried to detect a smile somewhere on the frowning face; there was none. "So you think you can do newspaper reporting, do you?" "Yes, sir." "Of course you do! I never found a college boy yet that wasn't plumb sure he could start right in on fifteen minutes' notice and beat Horace Greeley or old man Dana. It's so easy!" "I don't think that," answered Tom, "but I think I could do reporting-- after a day or two. I'm ignorant as to the exact duties of a reporter, but I can learn, and I can write English." "But can you find out what other reporters can't? Can you interview the last new senator in town and make him tell you what he wouldn't have printed for a year's salary? Can you do that?" Tom hesitated; but he was gaining courage, and the other's gibes were slowly arousing his resentment. "If those things can be done by other fellows, I can do them." "Well, you've got confidence," acknowledged the editor, grudgingly. "But we don't break new men in here on the _World_; we wait until they have learned somewhere else, then we offer them a better salary; those are our methods. You go to work on the _Despatch_ or the _Star_, or somewhere, and when you prove that you can do as good work as three or four men on our staff you'll hear from us." The city editor went back to his pencil. Plainly the interview was at an end. Tom turned away. "Good day, sir," he muttered. There was a lump in his throat and his hand, seeking refuge in his pocket, closed on the half dozen coins. He turned suddenly and faced the city editor again. "Look here," he said doggedly, "I've got a right to better treatment than you have given me. I handed you a letter of introduction that ought to have a little weight, and--and even if it hasn't, it entitles me to common courtesy from you. I'm not a beggar asking for alms. All I want is a chance to show that I can do your work decently. I don't even ask any pay, I--I--" Tom's words died away. After all, what was the use? He had his answer and there could be no benefit gained from prolonging the interview. But the city editor was looking at him curiously now. "Here, hold on there," he commanded, and when Tom again faced him: "If you'd brought me a letter from Queen Victoria or the Angel Gabriel you'd have gotten the same treatment. I talk to an average of ten men like you every day of my life; young chaps who don't know what a newspaper's run for; who don't care, either. They think reporting or editing is a nice easy way to make a living, and so they come here expecting to fall into a position. They don't get it. But when a fellow shows sense I give him a chance. And I'll give you one. Hold on," he continued as Tom opened his mouth to thank him, "I'm not offering you a place; I'm not even giving you a fair deal." He paused and took a card from a drawer, scowling more than ever. "Write your name there and send it up to Senator August at the Hotel Torrence. If he sees you, interview him on the decision of last night's conference; find out whether they agreed on a nominee. You read the papers? Then you'll know what we're after. Now there's your chance, just a bare fighting chance; do you want it?" The card held the single line "For _The Washington Evening World."_ Tom put it in his pocket. "I know how desperate the chance is, sir, and I'll take it. And--and thank you." "All right. And remember that the last edition goes to press at five o'clock," he added grimly. As Tom passed out the youth by the railing had stopped cutting up newspapers and was writing as though his very life depended upon it. When he reached the street Tom remembered that he might have used the elevator. "Senator August left ten minutes ago," said the hotel clerk affably as he caught sight of the inscription on the card which Tom Collins held. "A new reporter," he added to himself. "Left?" echoed Tom in dismay. "Where has he gone?" "New York, I think. Went to the depot for the 2.20." Tom glanced at the clock. Another moment and he was boarding a passing car. He had six minutes to catch the 2.20. His chances of success were slim. For that matter, thought Tom, the whole undertaking was the merest forlorn hope; not even the fighting chance that the city editor of the _World_ had called it. For supposing that he found Senator August and got speech with him, was it likely that he would tell an inexperienced chap like Tom what the best reporters in Washington had failed to worm out of him? The Democratic National Convention to nominate a candidate for the presidency was but a month away. On the preceding evening, in a little room in the Hotel Torrence, Senator August, representing the sentiment of the Eastern democracy, and Senator Goodman, possessing full power to act for his party in the great West, had met to decide on a Democratic nominee. Dissension threatened. The East favored a man of moderate views on the subject of currency reform; the West and the greater portion of the South stood unanimous for a politician whose success in the coming battle would presage the most radical of measures. Final disagreement between the Democrats of East and West meant certain victory for the Republican Party. And to-day all the country was asking: Have the leaders agreed on a nominee; if so, which one? Senator Groodman, as uncommunicative as a statue, was already speeding back to the far West; and Senator August, equally silent, was on his way home. The newspapers were hysterical in their demands for information; all day the wires leading to Washington had borne message after message imploring news, but only baseless rumors had sped back. And Tom Collins, knowing all this, realized the hopelessness of his task. At the depot he left the car at a jump and dashed into the station. A train on the further track was already crawling from the shed. There was no time for inquiries. He ran for it and swung himself onto the platform of the Pullman. A porter was just closing the vestibule door. "Is Senator August on board?" gasped Tom. The porter didn't know. But he assured Tom that that was the train for New York and so the latter entered the Pullman. The car held seven men and an elderly lady. Tom's idea of a senator was a big man dressed in a black frock coat, a black string tie and a tall silk hat. But there was no one in sight attired in such fashion and Tom paused at a loss. Perhaps it was chance that led him halfway down the aisle and caused him to question a military, middle-aged gentleman who wore a quiet suit of gray tweeds and was deep in a magazine. The face that looked up was shrewd but kindly, albeit it frowned a little at the interruption. "I am Senator August," was the unexpected reply. "Oh!" exclaimed Tom blankly. Then he pushed aside a small valise on the opposite seat and took its place. The frown on the senator's face grew. "Reporter?" he asked laconically. "Yes," answered Tom. "I'm from the Washington _World._ I just missed you at the hotel so I took the liberty of following you to the train." Tom thought that sounded pretty well and paused to see what impression it had created. The result was disappointing. "Well?" asked the senator coldly. "The _World_ would like to know what decision was reached at last night's conference, senator." "I don't doubt it," answered the senator dryly. "Look here," he continued with asperity, "I've refused to talk to at least two dozen reporters and correspondents to-day. The results of last night's conference will be made public by Senator Goodman and myself at the proper time and place; and not until then. And that is all that I can tell you." "But--" began Tom. "Understand me, please; I will say nothing more on the subject." "Will you give me some idea as to when the proper time will be?" asked Tom respectfully. "No, I can't do that either. Perhaps to-morrow; perhaps not for several days." "Are you going to New York, sir?" "I am on my way to my home in Massachusetts." "Thank you. Have you any objection to my accompanying you on the same train?" Senator August opened his eyes a little. "Is that necessary? The announcement will be made to the Associated Press and, unless I am mistaken, the _World_ is a member of it." "Very true, sir, but I was assigned to get the result of the conference and I've got to do it--that is, if I can." "Very well, I have no objection to your traveling on the same train with me, just as long as you don't bother me. Will that do?" "Yes, sir, thank you. I am sorry that I have troubled you." "You're what?" asked the other. "Sorry to have troubled you, sir." "Hm; you're the first one to-day that has expressed such a feeling. You must be new at the business." "I am," answered Tom. "I've been a reporter only half an hour. In fact I'm not certain that I am one at all." "How's that?" asked the senator, turning his magazine face down on the seat beside him. And Tom told him. Told about his three weeks of dreary search for a position, of his interview with the city editor of the _Evening World_, and of the forlorn hope upon which he was entered. And when he had finished his story, Senator August was no longer frowning; the boy's tale had interested him. "Well, he did put you up against a hard task; doesn't seem to me to have been quite fair. He knew that every reporter had failed and he must have known that you would fail as well. Seems to have been merely a neat way of getting rid of you. What do you think?" Tom hesitated a moment. "I don't think it was quite that. And, anyhow, I knew what I was doing, and so it was fair enough, I guess." "But surely you had no idea of success?" "I ought not to have," answered Tom hesitatingly, "but I'm afraid I did." The senator looked out of the window and was silent for a moment while the express sped on through the afternoon sunlight. When he turned his face toward Tom again he was smiling. "Well, you appear to have pluck, my lad, and that is pretty certain to land you somewhere in the end even if you miss it this time. I'm very sorry that I am obliged to be the means of destroying your chance with the _World_; but I have no choice in the matter, I----" "Tickets, please." Blank dismay overspread Tom's countenance as he looked up at the conductor. "I--I haven't any." "Where do you want to go?" Tom put his hand into his pocket and brought out all his money; less than two dollars. He held it out to the gaze of the conductor. "How far can I go for that?" he asked. "Is that all you have?" asked the senator. Tom nodded. "All right conductor; we'll arrange this; come around again later, will you?" The conductor went on. Tom stared helplessly at his few coins and Senator August looked smilingly at Tom. "How about following me home?" he asked. "I--I'd forgotten," stammered Tom. "Well, never mind. I'll loan you enough to reach the first stop and to return to Washington. Nonsense," he continued, as Tom began a weak objection, "I haven't offered to give it to you; you may repay it some day." He pressed a bill into the boy's hand. "At Blankville Junction you can get a train back before long, I guess. Never mind that cold-blooded editor on the _World_; try the other papers again; keep at it; that's what I did; and it pays in the end. Hello, are we stopping here?" The train had slowed down and now it paused for an instant beside a little box of a station. Then it started on again and a train man appeared at the far end of the car holding a buff envelope in his hand. "Senator August in this car?" he asked. The telegram was delivered and its recipient, excusing himself to the sad-hearted youth on the opposite seat, read the contents hurriedly. Then he glanced queerly at Tom, while a little smile stole out from under the ends of his grizzled mustache. "You are lucky," he said. Tom looked a question, and the senator thrust the message into his hands. "Read that," he said; "it is from my secretary in Washington." He pressed the electric button between the windows and waited impatiently for the porter. Tom was staring hard at the yellow sheet before him; he reread it slowly, carefully, that there might be no mistake. It was as follows: "_Senator Harrison M. August, "On train 36, Waverly, Md._ "Following telegram just received: 'Chicago, 8, 1.45 P.M. Have just learned reliable source Republican managers using our silence regarding conference to advance W's candidacy in Middle West and have published report that we have agreed on compromise candidate. If report goes undenied many votes will be lost, especially in Iowa and Wisconsin. Advise immediate publication of our statement to press. Answer Auditorium, Chicago. Goodman.' Have advised Goodman of delay in reaching you. "_Billings_." "Do you understand what that means?" asked Senator August. Tom could only nod; he was too astounded to speak. The senator handed a message to the porter. "Get that off as soon as we reach Baltimore and bring me a receipt for it." Then he turned again to Tom and thrust the pad of Western Union message blanks toward him. "We reach Blankville Junction in eight minutes. Write what I dictate to you as fast as you can. You know shorthand? All the better." The senator leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he began to speak, rapidly but distinctly, and Tom's pencil flew over the pages, while the train sped on toward the junction. The hands of the office clock pointed to twenty minutes after five when Tom reached the _World_ building. There was no hesitancy now; he pushed open the little gate and hurried toward the city editor, who had already placed his hat on his head and was bundling up some papers to carry home. He met Tom's advance with a frown. "Well?" he asked coldly. For answer Tom placed a little package of copy before him. "What's this?" he demanded. But there was no necessity for reply for he was already reading the sheets. Halfway through he paused and lifted a tube to his mouth. "Brown? Say, Joe, get a plate ready for an extra in a hurry; about half a column of stuff going right up." Then he turned again to his reading. At the end he gathered the copy together and placed it on his desk. "Where'd you get this?" "On the New York express." "What station?" "I left the train at Blankville Junction." The city editor dated the copy with a big black pencil, ran three strokes the length of each sheet, wrote a very long and startling head over it and thrust it into the hands of a waiting boy. "Copy-cutter," he said. And as the boy sped off the editor turned to Tom. "How'd you do it?" he asked, frowning tremendously. But the city editor's frowns no longer struck terror into Tom's heart, and he told the story briefly, while his hearer puffed rapidly at his pipe. Only once was he interrupted. "Hold on there," said the editor. "Are you certain he said he'd not give out the statement again until he reached New York?" "Quite certain," was the reply. Something almost resembling pleasure appeared on the city editor's face. "He'll not get there until 8.30; too late for the evening papers. The biggest beat of the year, by George!" For a moment the glasses and the frown were lost in a cloud of smoke. Then "Go on," he commanded. Tom finished his story in a few words; told how he had found a train already waiting at the Junction, how he had written out his copy on the way back to Washington; and how, had it not been for a long delay just outside the city, he would have reached the office in time for the regular edition. And when he had finished he waited for a word of commendation. But none came. Instead, the city editor nodded his head once or twice, thoughtfully, frowningly, and said: "Well, you needn't wait around any longer; there's nothing else to be done." Tom arose, looking blankly at the speaker. Had he failed after all! Surely he was not being turned away? But the city editor's next words dispelled all doubt. "We go to work on this paper at eight o'clock, Mr. Collins; and by eight I mean eight, and not ten minutes past. I can't have any man working for me who cannot be prompt. You understand?" As Tom clattered happily downstairs a deep reverberation that shook the building from top to bottom told him that the presses were already printing the result of his first assignment. PEMBERTON'S FLUKE For an hour and a half Yale and Princeton had been battling on the gridiron; for an hour and a half the struggling lines had advanced and retreated from goal line to goal line; for an hour and a half the ball had gone arching up against the blue November sky, had been carried in short, desperate plunges or brilliant runs to and fro over the trampled white lines of Yale Field; for an hour and a half twenty-five thousand persons had watched the varying fortunes of the contest with fast-beating hearts, had waved their flags, sang their songs and shouted their cheers; and now, with the last half drawing toward its close, the score board still proclaimed: "Yale, 0; Opponents, 0." Pemberton had found the contest exciting, breathlessly so at moments, but disappointing. Being a freshman, as well as a 'varsity substitute of a week's standing, he was intensely patriotic, and the thought of a tie game was unbearable; to a youth of his enthusiasm a tie was virtually a defeat for the Blue; and a defeat for the Blue was something tragic, inconceivable! Pemberton was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed, round-faced chap of eighteen; in height, five feet nine; in weight, one hundred and sixty-eight; neither large nor heavy, but speedy as they make them, a bundle of nerves, endowed with a fanatical enthusiasm and a kind of brilliant, dashing recklessness that often wins where larger courage fails. At Exeter he hadn't gone in for football until his senior year; the Physical Director couldn't see the thing from Pemberton's viewpoint; physical directors are narrow-minded souls; Pemberton will tell you so any day. With three years of lost time to make up, Pemberton had put his whole mind into football with the result that he had made the team in time to play for five short, mad minutes against Andover. This fall he had distinguished himself on the Freshmen Eleven, and the game with the Harvard youngsters, if it hadn't resulted in a victory for Yale, had, at least, made the reputation of Pemberton, left half back. In that somewhat one-sided contest he had shown such dash and pluck, had eeled himself through the Crimson's line, or shot like a small streak of lightning around the ends so frequently that he had been called to the 'varsity bench. And on the 'varsity bench, one, and quite the smallest one, of a long line of substitutes, he had sat since the beginning of the Princeton game, with an excellent chance of staying there until the whistle blew. He wasn't a fellow to accept inactivity with gracefulness. That "they also serve who only stand and wait," he was willing to accept as true; but that wasn't the kind of serving he hankered for; Pemberton's ideal of usefulness was getting busy and doing things--and doing them hard. On opposite sides of the field rival bands were blaring out two-steps, the strains leaking now and then through the deep, thundering cheers. Down on Yale's thirty-five-yard line Princeton was hammering at right guard for short gains, edging nearer and nearer the goal, and thousands of eyes fixed themselves expectantly on Princeton's left half back, dreading or hoping to see him fall back for a kick. On the thirty yards Yale's line braced and held. Princeton tried a run outside of left tackle and got a yard. The ball was directly in front of goal. "Sturgis is a dub if he doesn't try it now," said the big fellow on Pemberton's left. "But he couldn't do it from the forty-yard line, could he?" asked Pemberton. "Search me; but from what he's done so far to-day I guess he could kick a goal from the other end of the field. Nothing doing, though; they're trying right guard again. There goes Crocker." Yale's line gave at the center and a Princeton tackle fell through for two yards. The Princeton cheers rang out redoubled in intensity, sharp, entreating, only to be met with the defiant slogan of Yale. Pemberton shuffled his scarred brown leather shoes uneasily and gnawed harder at his knuckles. Princeton was playing desperately, fighting for the twenty-yard line. A play that looked like a tandem at right guard resolved itself into a plunge at left tackle and gave them their distance. The Yale stands held staring, troubled faces. The Princeton stands were on their feet, shouting, waving, swaying excitedly; score cards were sailing and fluttering through the air; pandemonium reigned over there. Pemberton scowled fiercely across. His left-hand neighbor whistled a tune softly. Princeton piled her backs through again for a yard. "Oh, thunder!" muttered Pemberton. The other nodded sympathetically. "Here's where Old Nassau scores," he said. A last desperate plunge carried the little army of the Orange and Black over the coveted mark. The left half walked back; there were cries, entreaties, commands; the cheering died away and gave place to the intense silence of suspense; Pemberton could hear the little Princeton quarter back's signals quite plainly. Then, after a moment of breathless delay, the ball sped back, was caught breast high by the left half, was dropped on the instant and shot forward from his foot, and went rising toward the goal. The Yale forwards broke through, leaping with upstretched hands into the path of the ball, yet never reaching it. The field was a confusion of writhing, struggling bodies, but the ball was sailing straight and true, turning lazily on its shorter axis, over the cross bar. Over on the Princeton side of the field hats were in flight, slicing up and down and back and forth across the face of the long slope of yellow and black; flags were gyrating crazily; the space between seats and barrier was filled with a leaping, howling mass of humanity, and all the while the cheers crashed and hurtled through the air. Well, Princeton had something to cheer for; even Pemberton grudgingly acknowledged that. "Have we time to score?" he asked despondently. His neighbor turned, stretching out his long, blue-stockinged legs. "There's about five or six minutes left, I guess," he answered. "We've got _time_ to score, but will we?" Pemberton didn't think they would. Life seemed very cruel just then. "Hello," continued the other, "Webster's coming out! I guess here's where your Uncle Tom gets a whack at Old Nassau--maybe." He sat up and watched the head coach alertly. The next moment Pemberton was peeling off his sweater for him. Princeton ran Yale's kick-off back to her forty yards. The Blue's right guard was taken out, white and wretched, after the first scrimmage. Princeton started at her battering again, content now to make only sufficient gains to keep the ball. But with a yard to gain on the third down a canvas clad streak broke through and nailed her tackle behind the line. Pemberton, shouting ecstatically, saw that the streak was his erstwhile neighbor, and was proud of the acquaintance. Then Yale, with the ball once more in possession, started to wake things up. Past the forty yards again she went, throwing tackles and full back at every point in the Tiger's line for short gains, and showing no preference. But, all said, it was slow work and unpromising with the score board announcing five minutes to play. The Yale supporters, however, found cause for rejoicing, and cheered gloriously until there was a fumble and the Blue lost four yards on the recovery. Time was called and the trainers and water carriers trotted on the field. The head coach and an assistant came toward the bench, talking earnestly, the former's sharp eyes darting hither and thither searchingly. Pemberton watched, with his heart fluttering up into his throat. The head coach's gaze fixed itself upon him, passed on up the line, came back to him and stayed. Pemberton dropped his eyes. It isn't good form to stare Fate in the face. Was it a second later or an age that his name was called?" "Go in at left half; tell Haker to come out. And--er--Pemberton, here's a pretty good chance to show what you can do." Pemberton peeled off his white jersey with the faded "E" and raced into the field. Haker looked down uncomprehendingly at him from the superior height of six feet when he delivered his message. Pemberton repeated it. Haker shoved him aside, mumbling impatient words through swollen lips. It was only when he saw the head coach beckoning him from the side line that he yielded and took himself off with a parting insult to Pemberton: "All right, Kid." Pemberton's eyes blazed and his fists clenched. Kid! Well, he'd show Haker and everyone else whether he was a kid! Then he looked at the score board with sinking heart. Only four minutes left! Four minutes! But he took heart; after all, four minutes was two hundred and forty seconds, and if they'd only give him the ball! He had run a mile in 4:34 1-5! Suddenly the whistle blew and the players staggered to their places. It was second down now, with nine yards to gain. The tandem formed on the left, and Pemberton ranged himself behind the big tackle disapprovingly. Where was the use, he asked himself, of wasting a down by plunging at the line? What had they put him in there for if not to take the ball? Then the signal came and the next moment he was in the maelstrom. When the dust of battle lifted, the ball was just one yard nearer the Princeton goal. Princeton expected Yale to kick, for it was the third down and there was still eight yards wanted, and so the Princeton right half trotted tentatively to join the quarter. Yale placed a tackle, full back and left half behind her tackle guard hole on the left. Her right half fell back about six yards to a position behind quarter. It might mean a kick or a tandem, or a run around left end; Princeton's right half hesitated and edged back toward his line. Pemberton, puzzled, awaited the signal. Of course the ball was his, but why was he placed so far away from it? The only play from just this formation that he was acquainted with was one in which he merely performed the inglorious part of interference. However, maybe the quarter knew his business, though deep down in his soul he doubted it. Now, for an understanding of the remarkable events which followed, it is necessary to take the reader into the confidence of the Yale quarter back. Despite Pemberton's misgivings he really did know his business, which was to get that pigskin over the Tiger's goal line in the next four minutes, taking any risk to do it. And the present play was a risk. As planned it was this: at the snapping of the ball the head of the tandem, the tackle, was to plunge straight through the line between tackle and guard as though leading a direct attack at that point; full back and left half were to turn sharply to the left before reaching the line and clear out a hole between end and tackle; right half back, standing well behind the quarter, was to receive the ball on a toss and follow the interference; quarter was to stop tacklers coming around the right end of his line; in short, it was a play apparently aimed at the left center of Yale's line, but in reality going through at the left end. But the Yale quarter had reckoned without Pemberton. The play started beautifully. The ball was snapped back into quarter's waiting hands, tackle plunged madly ahead into the Princeton's defenses, the quarter swung around back to the line, ready for the toss to the right half, who was on his toes, waiting to dash across to where the hole was being torn open for him. And then something went wrong! A figure sped across toward the right end of the line between quarter and right half just as the ball left the former's hands. The ball disappeared from sight; and so, in a measure, did Pemberton. His excited brain had confused the 'varsity with the freshman signals. Starting on the supposition that he was to receive the ball, the numbers had somehow conveyed to him the idea that the play was around right end. The fact that he was to be practically unprovided with interference did not bother him; if he had had time to consider the matter he would probably have decided that they knew his ability and were not going to insult him by offering assistance. But Pemberton wasn't one to be worried over details. What was wanted was a touchdown, or, failing that, a good long gain. So, with the rest of the back field plunging toward the left, Pemberton started on his own hook toward the right. He was glad the quarter tossed the ball so exactly; otherwise he would have had to slow down. As it was he was going like an express train by the time he swept around the Princeton line outside of end. Pemberton could not only run like the wind, but could start like a shot from a rifle. That he got clean away before the opponents had found the location of the ball was partly due to this fact and partly to the fact that Yale's backs were messing around in a peculiarly aimless manner which, to the Princeton players, suggested a delayed pass or some equally heinous piece of underhand work. So Princeton piled through Yale's line to solve the difficulty, thinking little of the absurd youth who had shot around her left end without interference. From Princeton's center to her right end everything was confusion. It was a glorious struggle, but futile. For the ball was snuggled in Pemberton's right elbow, and Pemberton was down near the thirty yards sprinting for goal. In front of him was the Princeton quarter back; behind him, racing madly, came a Princeton half. To his left was a long, dark bank splotched and mottled with blue; from it thundered down a ceaseless cataract of sound that held as a motif entreaty and encouragement. Pemberton saw the waving flags from the corner of his eyes; and the chaos of cheers and shouts drowned the thumping of his heart and the _pat, pat_ of his feet on the trampled turf. Pemberton was enjoying himself immensely, and was grateful in a patronizing way for the coach's confidence in him. Then the quarter back engaged his attention. He glanced back. The foremost of the pursuers--for now the whole field was racing after him--was still a good ten yards behind. Pemberton was relieved. The twenty-yard line, dim and scattered, passed under his feet, and the Princeton quarter was in his path, white and determined, with fingers curved like talons in anticipation of his prey. Pemberton increased his speed by just that little that is always possible, feinted to the left, dug his shoes sharply in the turf and went by to the right, escaping the quarter's diving tackle by the length of a finger. The quarter dug his face in the ground, scrambled somehow to his feet, and took up the chase. But now he was second in pursuit, for the half back had passed him and was pressing Pemberton closely. If the latter had been content to make straight for the nearest point of the goal line the result would never have been in doubt; but Pemberton was not one to be satisfied with bread when there was cake in sight. Nothing would do but the very center of the goal line, and for that he was headed, running straight at top speed. There the pursuing half back found his advantage, for he held a course nearer the center of the field. It was a pretty race, but agonizing to the friends of Yale and Princeton alike. At the ten-yard line the flying Yale man was a yard to the good; at the five-yard line the Princeton. player had him by the thighs and was dragging like a ton of lead. Pemberton's fighting spirit came to his rescue. Did that idiot whose arms were slipping down around his legs think that he was going to be stopped here on the threshold of success? Did he know he was trying to hold _Pemberton_? Gosh! He'd show him! Every stride now was like pushing his knees into a stone wall; one, two, three, four, and still the line was three yards away. And now the tackler's arms had slipped down about his knees, holding them together as though with a vise. For an instant Pemberton fought on--a foot, half a foot--then further progress was impossible and he crashed over on his face, midway between the goal posts, the ball held at arms' length, his knuckles digging into the last streak of lime. Some one thumped down on to his head and strove to pull the ball back. But he locked his joints and strained forward until somewhere behind him a whistle shrilled. Then he rolled over on his back, closed his eyes and fought for breath. Few could have missed that goal; certainly not Yale's quarter back. Once more the ball went over the exact center of the goal line, but this time above the cross bar; and wherever one or more Yale men were gathered together there was rejoicing loud and continued. For the figures on the score board told a different story: Yale, 6; Opponents, 5. A few minutes later, in the car that was to take them back to town, Pemberton allowed the head coach to shake him by the hand, and strove to bear his honors becomingly. Congratulations roared in his ears like a torrent until he was moved to an expression of modest disclaim: "Oh, it wasn't anything much," said Pemberton. "I ought not to have allowed that Princeton chap to get near me. But the fact is"--he addressed the head coach confidentially--"the fact is, you see, I didn't quite understand that signal." THE SEVENTH TUTOR "I'm being perfectly honest with you," said dad. "I tell you frankly that I don't expect you to succeed, Mr. Wigg----" "Twigg," corrected the chap in the basket chair. "Pardon me; Twigg. The boy is simply unmanageable, especially where study is concerned. He--but, there, perhaps it will be best if I don't prejudice you too much. You'll have a free hand; I shan't interfere between you. The last tutor came to me every day with the story of his troubles. I paid him to keep them to himself; I don't want to hear them. I simply hand the boy over to you and say: 'Here he is; make a gentleman of him if you can, and incidentally get him ready for college. Punish him whenever you see fit. Take any method in doing it you like, so long as you don't forget you're a gentleman; brutality I won't stand.'" I wished I could see the chap's face; but I couldn't; just his feet. He wore low patent leathers. "If at the end of one month," dad went on, "you have managed to get the upper hand, we'll continue the arrangement. If you have failed I shall have no further need of you. In the meanwhile, until then, you're a member of the family, free to come and go as you like. See that you're comfortable. That's all, I guess. Want to try it?" "Yes," said the chap. I didn't like the way he said it, though; it sounded so kind of certain. All the others had been a bit nervous when dad got to that point. "Very well," dad answered. "We'll call it settled. As--er--as a--sidelight on Raymond's code of honor, Mr. Twigg--you said Twigg?--I'll mention that for the last few minutes he has been listening to our conversation from behind the hall door. You may come out now, Raymond." I went out, grinning. It was all well enough for dad to talk about "the last few minutes," but I was sure he hadn't known I was there until I kicked the door after the chap said "yes" like that. The chap got out of his chair and looked at me as though they hadn't been talking about me for half an hour. "Raymond, this is Mr. John Twigg, your new tutor," said dad. "Thought it was about time for another," I said. Twigg held out his hand, and so I shook with him. He shook different from the others; sort of as though he had bones and things inside his fingers instead of cotton wool. "Glad to see you," he said. "Hope we'll get on together." "Oh, I'll get on," said I; "but I don't know about you." "That'll do, Raymond," said dad angrily. "I don't expect you to act like a gentleman; but you might at least be less of a cad." "I ain't a cad!" I muttered. "What else are you when you listen behind doors to things you're not expected to hear? When you talk like a gutter snipe and act--" "You're a liar!" I shouted. "Liar! Liar! Liar!" Dad's face got purple like it always does when he's mad, and his hands shook. For a moment I thought he was going to jump for me; he never has, no matter how mad he gets. Then he leaned back again in his chair and turned to Twigg with a beast of a sneer on his face. "You see?" he asked, with a shrug. "Nice, sweet-tempered, clean-tongued youth, isn't he? Want to call it off?" I looked scowlingly at Twigg. He was leaning back, hands in pockets, looking at me through half-closed eyes as though I was a side show at a circus. I stared back at him defiantly. "Have a look," I jeered. He raised a finger and scratched the side of his nose without taking his eyes off me, just as though he was a doctor trying to decide what nasty stuff to give me. After a bit I dropped my eyes; I tried not to, but they got to blinking. "No," said Twigg. "If you don't mind I'll walk back to the station and telegraph for my trunk." "Sit still," said dad, "and I'll get the cart around. Or you can write your message and I'll have Forbes send it." "Thanks," said Twigg, "I'd like the walk." He turned to me. "Want to go along?" I grinned at him. "No, I don't want to go along," I said mockingly. He didn't seem to notice. "Luncheon is at--?" "Two o'clock," said dad. Dad went into the house, and Twigg put a gray felt hat on his head and strode off down the drive. I sat on the porch rail and watched him. He looked about five feet eight inches, and was broad across the shoulders. He had a good walk. I slouched when I walked. After he was out of sight I rather wished I'd gone along. There wasn't anything particular to do at home, and I could have told him about the other tutors; there's some things that dad doesn't know. I found Twigg kept a diary. He went to the city on the Wednesday afternoon after he came, and I rubbered around to see what I could find. The diary was in his table drawer. It was awful dull rot until I got to the last page or two. The day before he'd written a lot about me. This was it; I copied it: "June 1st. "Fourth day at Braemere. First desire to throw it up and acknowledge defeat quite gone. Am determined to see it through. I think I can win. At all events the thing won't lack interest. Can't flatter myself that I've made much headway. R. is like a rhinoceros. Can't find a vulnerable spot anywhere. He seems morally calloused. I say seems because I can scarcely believe that a boy of sixteen can really be as absolutely unmoral as he appears. Perhaps, eventually, I will find an Achilles' heel. "Mr. Dale stands by his agreement. He never offers to interfere. So much the better. Mr. D.'s attitude toward R. is humorous as well as lamentable. He views the boy as though he were entirely irresponsible for his being. It is plain that he sees no connection between the boy's extraordinary character and his own; yet they are alike in many particulars; one could almost express my meaning by saying that R. is his father in an uncultivated state. Mr. D. ascribes the boy's faults to the other side of the house; he is convinced that the ungovernable temper and lack of moral sense are unfortunate inheritances from the late Mrs. D. Probably this is true in a measure. R. was the only child. The mother died at his birth. Mr. D, returned to this country when R. was four years old, and purchased this estate. Here the boy has grown up practically neglected. During twelve years Mr. D. has been out of the country the better part of eight. The boy has been left to the care of servants. For the past three years he has been in the hands of tutors, whose periods of service ran from one week to three months. I am the seventh in line to attempt the work. "Physically R. is in good shape. He is fond of outdoor life; likes horses, dogs and animals generally; rides well; shoots and fishes. Mentally he is decidedly above normal, but quite untrained. Hates study. Would grade about third year in Latin school. I shall begin at the bottom with him. It's going to be a hard pull, but I'm going to win out." I was going to empty the ink bottle over the pages; but I knew if I did he'd hide the book or lock it up, and I wanted to see what else he'd write. So I put it back in the drawer. I was sure I'd have him done to a turn in a month. But it was going to take longer than with the other fools, though. "That'll do," said Twigg. "You haven't studied a lick, have you?" "Not a lick," I answered. "When do you think of beginning?" he asked. "Not going to begin at all." "Oh, poppycock, my boy." He tossed down the Latin book and yawned. "Don't you want to go to college?" "No; not if I've got to study all that darned stuff." "What kind of stuff?" "Darned stuff, I said. You heard me, didn't you?" "Yes; but I thought perhaps I'd mistaken. Well, we'll try this again to-morrow. How about mathematics?" I winked. "Not prepared? German ditto, I presume?" "I haven't studied at all, I tell you." "Well, we know where to begin to-morrow, don't we? Is there any decent fishing around here?" "Find out," I muttered. "Oh, well, I didn't suppose there was," he answered. "It's an out-of-the-way spot up here, anyway." "That's a lie! There's as good trout and pickerel fishing here as there is anywhere in the State, if you know the proper place to look for it." "Maybe; maybe there are lions and tigers if you know where to look for them. But I'll believe it when I see them." He yawned again and looked out the window and drummed on the desk. After a bit I said: "You city fellows think you know it all, don't you? If you want fishing I'll take you where you'll get it." "I'm not particular about it," he said. "I know about what that sort of fishing is; sit on a bank or stand up to your waist in water all day, and catch two little old four-ounce trout and a sunfish." I jumped up. "I guess I know more about this place than you do," I cried angrily. "You come with me and I'll show you fish." "Too sunny, isn't it?" he asked. "Not for where I mean." "Got an extra rod?" "Yes; you can take my split bamboo--if you won't go and bust it." "All right; if I break it I'll buy you another. Fish from the bank, do you? or shall I put boots on?" "Boots. Got any?" "Yes. I'll go up and put them on. Take those books off with you, please. You won't have time for studying before night." "I won't then, either," I said. "Well, anyhow, we won't leave them here. Let's keep the shop looking ship-shape. By the way, it's a bit late, isn't it? How about lunch?" "Take some grub with us. I'll tell Annie to put some up. I'll meet you on the steps in ten minutes." "All right; I'll be there. Er--Raymond!" "Huh?" said I. "You've forgotten the books." "Oh, let 'em wait." "All right." He sat down at the desk again. "Ain't you going fishing?" I asked. "No. I think not," he answered. "Somehow, while those books are here I feel that we ought to stay at home and study. I dare say the fish will be there to-morrow as well as to-day, eh?" "Oh, all right," I said sulkily. "Only you can't make me study, you know." I sat down and put my hands in my pockets. I looked at him out of the corners of my eyes. He didn't seem to have heard me. "Let's see," he said after a moment. "How many lines were we to have in this?" "I don't remember," I growled. Then I jumped up and grabbed the books. "You make me sick," I said. "I'm going fishing." I took the books out and slammed the door as hard as it would slam. The day after we went fishing, and got fourteen trout, I had early breakfast and rode Little Nell over to Harrisbridge and played pool with Nate Golden, whose dad has the livery stable, all morning. We had dinner at the inn, and when I got back it was nearly three o'clock. Tommy, the stable boy, told me as I rode in that Twigg had left word he wanted to see me when I got back. Well, I didn't want to see him. So I went in the kitchen way and up the back stairs to my room. When I opened the door there was Twigg, sitting in the rocker with the books all spread out on the center table. "Hello," he said. "I'm making myself at home, you see. We're a bit late with lessons, Raymond, so I thought we might have them up here; then we won't interfere with your father's writing." "I don't know 'em," I said. "I'm afraid you haven't studied them. Never mind; when you get your boots off we'll go over them together. Here, hold them up. There's no use bothering with jacks when you've got some one to pull them off for you." I let him do it. He sort of takes you by surprise sometimes and you don't know just what to say or do. Afterwards I threw myself onto the bed and lighted a cigarette. Twigg looked at me and raised his eyebrows. "Don't smoke while lessons are going on, please," he said. "Will if I like," I said. "I'm afraid I can't have that." "Well, if you don't like it you can lump it." But just the same I kept a sharp eye on him. "Well, you're the host up here," he answered calmly. "I suppose I must consider that." Then what did he do but take out that reeking briar pipe of his, ram it full of nasty strong tobacco and begin to smoke! "One thing at a time, eh? We'll have a quiet smoke first and lessons afterwards. Tell me what you've been doing." "None of your darned business," I said warmly. "I suppose it isn't." He took up a book, one of Marryat's, crossed his legs and began to read. Gee! how that old pipe smelled! I laid on the bed and watched him blowing big gray clouds out under the corner of his mustache. When I'd smoked three cigarettes he looked over at me. "Ready?" he asked. "No, I'm not ready." "Let me know when you are," he said. Then he filled the pipe again and went on reading. After a bit I crawled off the bed. My head felt funny, and I was almost choking with the smoke. He laid down the book and looked up at me. "Shall we begin?" he asked. "I don't care what you do," I growled. "I'm going outdoors." "Not yet," said he. He got up and locked the door and put the key in his pocket. "You forget the lesson." "You let me out, darn you!" I yelled. "I'm not going to study. You can keep me here all night and I won't study. You see if I do!" "Don't be silly," he said, just as though he were talking to a kid. "You and I are going over those lessons if it takes to-night and to-morrow and the rest of the week. When you're ready to begin let me know; I shan't ask you again." And then he went back to that book. After a while it began to get darkish. I went back to the bed and tried to sleep, but I couldn't. I could have killed Twigg; but there wasn't any way to do it. He kept on reading and smoking. About six o'clock he said: "This is quite a yarn, isn't it? Somehow I never seemed to find time for Marryat when I was a boy. You've read this, of course?" "Yes," I muttered. "Like it?" "Yes." "What's your favorite book?" "I dunno; Froissart, I guess." "Yes, that's a good one. Ever read 'Treasure Island'?" "No; who's it by?" "Stevenson; know him at all?" "Did he write 'Tower of London' and those things?" "No, he didn't. He wrote 'Kidnapped' and 'The Black Arrow' and 'David Balfour,' and a lot of other bully ones." "'Kidnapped'?" I said. "I'd like to read that. It sounds fine." "I'll get it for you, if you like." "You needn't; if I want it I can get it myself, I guess." "Certainly." About seven I began to get awfully hungry. Twigg lighted the gas and filled his pipe again. It made me feel sick and funny inside just to see him do it. "You stop smoking that smelly thing in my room," I said. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," he said. "Just remember, however, that it was I who objected to smoking in the first place." He put his pipe down. There was a knock at the door and Annie asked if we were there. "Yes, all right," Twigg said. "Please tell Mr. Dale that Raymond and I are going to do some studying before dinner, and ask him not to wait." "It's a lie!" I yelled. "He's locked me in. You tell my father he's locked me in, and won't let me have any dinner. Do you hear, Annie?" "Yes, Mr. Raymond." It sounded as though she was giggling. "You might leave some cold meat and a pitcher of milk on the sideboard, Annie; enough for two," said Twigg. "If we get through by nine we'll look for it." "Very well, sir," she answered. "You--you think you're smart, don't you?" I sobbed. "I'll--I'll get even for this, you bet!" I don't care! I was hungry, and the wretched old tobacco smoke made me feel funny. You'd have cried, too. He made believe he didn't hear me. "You're just a big, ugly bully! If I was bigger I'd smash your face! Do you hear me?" "Yes, my boy, and----" "I'm not your boy! I hate you, you--you----" "And let me remind you that you're wasting time." He took out his watch. "It's now a quarter after seven. If we're not through up here by nine, there'll be no dinner for either of us." "Glad of it! Hope you'll starve to death. I'm--I'm not hungry. I had dinner at Harrisbridge with Nate Golden." "Who's Nate Golden?" he asked. "None of your business. If he was here I'd get him to lick you!" "Lucky for me he isn't here, eh?" Then he went back to reading. I got hungrier and hungrier and had little pains inside me. I put a pillow over my head so he wouldn't hear me crying. Then, after a long while I got up and went to the table and took up a book. He didn't pay any attention. I went back and sat on the bed for a minute. Then I took up the book again and threw it down so it would make a noise. He looked around. "Ah, Raymond," he said, "all ready? Suppose we start with the Latin!" There wasn't any use not studying, because he didn't play fair. No man has any right to starve you. So I studied some every day after that. Old Gabbett, the chap I had before Twigg, used to shrug his shoulders when I wouldn't study, and tell me I was a good-for-nothing and would live to be hung. Then he'd go off to his room and let me alone. Browning, the chap before old Gab, used to get jolly mad and throw books at me, and swear to beat the band. I used to swear back and call him Sissy. He was a Sissy; he was about nineteen and didn't have any mustache or muscle, and he couldn't do a thing except study and play patience. It was rather good fun, though, getting him mad; it was mighty easy, too. But Twigg was different from any of them. When he wasn't putting it onto me he wasn't such a bad sort--for a tutor. Anyhow, he wasn't a Sissy. He could catch fish and ride fine, and he could beat me at target shooting with a .32 rifle. He told me one day that he was stroke on his crew for two years. I guess that's where he got his big shoulders and muscles. You ought to see his muscles. We went in swimming one day and I saw them. I'll bet he was the strongest chap up our way. After he had been there a couple of weeks he went to the city again; and I read his diary. But there wasn't anything in it about me except one thing which he had written on June 15th. It said: "R.'s propensity for eavesdropping and similar ungentlemanly actions renders it unadvisable to write anything here that I do not want read by others. Were it not for the aforesaid propensity and one or two lesser faults I could like the boy immensely. I have hopes, however, that when he realizes how contemptible and petty these things are he will cease doing them. He told me once that his favorite book was Froissart. I wonder if he thinks Froissart was ever guilty of listening behind doors, spying into others' diaries and swearing like a tough?" Wonder how he knew? * * * * * Two days after he went to town I met him going out of the house with some golf sticks. I went along with him to the meadow and watched him hitting the little white ball. After a bit he let me try it. It wasn't easy, though, you bet! But when I'd sort of got the hang of it I could hit them right well. He said I did bully and if I liked I could help him lay out a nine-hole course the next afternoon and we'd have some games. So we did. We paced off the distances between the holes and put up sticks with bits of white cloth on them. The housekeeper gave us an old sheet. And the next day we played a game. Of course he beat me. But he said I would make a good player if I tried hard and kept at it. After that we used to play almost every day, if it wasn't too hot. Only if I didn't have my lessons good he wouldn't play. One day I got behind the stone wall--we called it Stoney Bunker--and couldn't get out, and said "darn." And Twigg picked up the balls and started back to the house. "Golf's a gentleman's game, Raymond," he said. "We'll wait until yon get your temper back." That made me mad and I swore some more. And there wasn't any more golf for nearly a week. He won't get mad, too; that's what makes it so beastly. It got pretty hot the last of the month and there wasn't much to do except lay around and read. We had lessons before breakfast sometimes while it was nice and cool on the veranda; and in the forenoon we went swimming. One day he asked if I wanted him to read to me. I said he could if he liked. I wanted him to, but I didn't want him to know it. So we sat on the lawn and he read "Kidnapped," the book he'd spoken about. It was a Scotch story and simply great. After that when the afternoons were too hot for golf or riding he'd read. I forgot to say that dad went away about the middle of the month and stayed a week, I guess. "Hello," said Twigg, "where are you going?" "Oh, just for a ride," I said. He was on the porch and so I pulled Little Nell up alongside the rail. "All right; wait a minute, and I'll go along. Do you mind?" "She doesn't like to stand," I muttered. "She won't have to long." He grabbed the railing and vaulted over onto the drive, and I saw that he had his riding breeches and boots on. "All right," I said. "I'll wait here." He nodded and went over to the stables. When he was out of sight I jammed Little Nell with the spurs and tore down the drive lickety-cut. I was going over to Harrisbridge to see Nate Golden, but I didn't want to tell Twigg because he was so cranky; always trying to keep me at home. It was Sunday morning, and kind of cloudy and sultry. When I got to the road I turned Nell to the right before I remembered that I'd be in sight of the house for a quarter of a mile. But I wasn't going to turn back then, so I made for the beginning of the woods as fast as Nell could make it. I knew it would take Twigg two or three minutes to saddle Sultan, and by that time I could be out of reach. But Twigg is always doing things you don't expect him to. When I got to the edge of the woods I looked toward the house and what did I see but Twigg on Sultan trying to head me off by riding across the meadow. Just as I looked Sultan took the panel fence with a rush, got over finely and came thundering across the turf. "All right," I said to myself. "If it's a race you're after you can have it with me now!" Through the woods the road is a bit soft and spongy in places and so I pulled Nell down a little. Then came a long hill; and by the time I was on top of that I could hear Sultan rushing along behind. I gave Nell her head then, for it was a good, solid road and straight as a die for over a mile. She hadn't been out of the stall for two days, and maybe she didn't tear things up! Pretty soon I looked back. There was Twigg and Sultan just coming up over the hill. They'd gained some. I touched Nell with the spur and she laid back her ears and just flew! That mile didn't last long, I tell you. When I got to the Fork I switched off to the left toward Harrisbridge; it was dusty, and I was pretty sure Twigg wouldn't know which way I'd gone. The road wound sharp to the left and I'd be out of sight before Twigg reached the Fork. Two or three minutes later I pulled up a bit and listened. I couldn't hear a sound. I chuckled and let Nell come down to a trot, thinking, of course, Twigg had kept the right-hand road and was humping it away toward Evan's Mills. Then I got to thinking about it and somehow I kind of wished I hadn't been so darned smart. It seemed sort of mean because I'd said I'd wait for him and I hadn't. You see, Twigg had such fool ideas on some things, like keeping his word to you and all that. I had half a mind to turn around and go back and look for him. But just then I heard a crashing in the brush on the left and looked back and there was Twigg and Sultan trotting through the woods toward the road. He'd cut the corner on me! I made believe I didn't see him, and pretty soon he rode up to the stone wall and jumped Sultan over into the road almost beside me. "Well," he said, smiling, "you gave me quite a run!" "Yes; but I knew Nell could beat that beast and so I slowed down." "That's all right, then. I thought at first you were trying to give me the slip, but I knew you'd said you'd wait and so I concluded you wanted some fun." "Yes," I said. "This is the Harrisbridge road, isn't it?" he asked. "It goes to lots of places." "Harrisbridge among them?" "Yes." "Then we can keep on, eh? We might call on that friend of yours; what's his name? Nate something?" "Nate Golden," I muttered. "That's it. I suppose he'd be at home?" "He doesn't like swells," I said. "Am I a swell?" "Yes, you are." "And he wouldn't like me?" "No." "Why?" "Oh, just because he wouldn't; that's why. I'm going back now." "Very well; Harrisbridge some other day, Raymond." We turned the nags and walked them back toward the country road. Nell was puffing hard and Sultan was in a lather; he was a bit soft. Pretty soon Twigg said: "I'm going in to town to-morrow, Raymond; want to come along?" "Yes," I said. Dad never would let me go to the city more than once in six months. "Good enough; glad to have you. I'm going to run out to college in the afternoon to get some things from my trunk. Ever been out there?" I shook my head. "Maybe it'll interest you," he said. "I suppose you'll go there when you're ready, eh?" "Might as well go to one as another, I guess," said I. "Perhaps; but I'd like you to go to mine," he answered, kind of gravely. "I think it's a little better than the others, you see." "I suppose you won't be there," I said, flicking Nell's ear with my crop. "I'm not so sure," he said. "I'm trying for an instructorship. I get my Ph. D. next year. Then I want to go to Germany for a year to study. You're helping to pay for that," he said with a smile. "I am?" "Yes; the money I get for your tutoring is to go for that." "Oh," I said. "Then--then you're coming back to college?" "If they'll have me." "Hope they won't," I said. But I didn't. The next Wednesday we had lessons after breakfast, because it was a good deal cooler. Twigg said I had studied first rate, and if I liked we'd have a go at golf. So we did. I beat him one up and two to play. I thought at first he was just letting me win, but he wasn't. He didn't seem to be thinking of golf and looked sort of sober all the way round. When we'd finished he said: "Raymond, I don't think I'll have an opportunity to use my clubs again this summer, and so, if you'd like me to, I'll leave them here. I dare say you could get some fun out of them. You could get a good deal of practice that would help you a lot later on." "Leave them?" I asked. "I--I didn't know you were going away." "You forget that my month's up to-morrow," he answered quietly. "I was to have a month in which to see what I could do. If by the end of that time I had managed to get you in control I was to stay on. That was the agreement with your father." "Oh," I muttered. We were sitting under the big maple tree on the lawn. I had an iron putter and was digging a hole in the turf. "Yes," he continued, "to-morrow ends the present arrangement. I wish very much that I could go to Mr. Dale and tell him that I had won. But I can't. I haven't won, Raymond. I have gained ground, but the victory is still a long way off." "You--you've done better than the others," I muttered. "Have I? Well, I'm glad of that; that's something, isn't it? No man likes to acknowledge utter defeat; I'm certain I don't." I dug away with the putter for a minute. Then I said: "If I asked dad to let you stay, don't you think he would?" "Perhaps; but I wouldn't want to." "Oh, if you want to go away, all right," I grumbled. "I meant that I wouldn't care to remain just because of a whim of yours. If I believed that by staying I could accomplish something; if I thought that you wanted me to stay, knowing that it meant hard study--much harder than any you've been doing--and cheerful obedience; in short, Raymond, if I knew that I could honestly earn my salary, I'd stay." He took out his pipe and filled it. I shoved the earth back into the hole in the turf. Nobody said anything for a while. "I don't mind study--much," I said presently. "It hasn't been hard yet," he answered. "And I don't mind doing what you tell me to. You're--you're not like Simpkins, Browning, and Gabbett." "I haven't pulled on the curb yet," he said. I started a new hole. "There'd be no more Harrisbridge and Nate Golden," he said, after a bit, watching the smoke from his pipe. I stopped digging. "No more cigarettes; pipes are better." "Huh," I muttered. "No more swearing; there'd be a fine for swearing." "I--I wouldn't care," I said. "Sure?" "Sure!" I looked over at him. He was kind of smiling at me through the smoke. I tried to grin back, but my face got the twitches and there was a lump in my throat. "You--you just stay here," I muttered. A RACE WITH THE WATERS Roy Milford pulled the brim of his faded sombrero further over his blue eyes and urged Scamp into a trot, though it was broiling hot. Roy had left the town two miles behind, and three more miles stretched between him and home. From the cantle of his saddle hung the two paper parcels which, with the mail in his pocket, explained his errand. Not a breath of air stirred the dusty leaves of the cottonwoods along the road. Roy was barely fourteen years old; but his six years in Colorado had taught him what such weather foretold, and there were plenty of other signs of the approaching storm. In the uncultivated fields the little mounds before the prairie dog holes were untenanted; the silver poplars, weather wise, were displaying the under sides of their gleaming leaves; the birds were silent; and the still, oppressive air was charged with electricity. But, most unmistakable sign of all, over the flat purple peaks of the Mesa Grande, hung a long bank of sullen, blackish clouds. There was the storm, already marshaling its forces. Roy was certain that, after the month of rainless weather just passed, the coming deluge would be something to wonder at. Where the road crossed the railroad track Roy touched his buckskin pony with the quirt and loped westward until he reached a rail gate leading into an uncultivated field. Here he leaped nimbly out of the saddle, threw open the gate, sent Scamp through with a pat on the shoulder, closed the bars again, remounted, and trotted over the sun-cracked adobe. Two hundred yards away a fringe of greasewood bushes marked what, at this distance, appeared to be a water course. Such, in a way, it was. But Roy had never seen more water in it than he could have jumped across. It was a narrow arroyo or gully, varying in width from twelve to twenty feet, and averaging fifteen feet in depth. It ran almost due north and south for a distance of five miles, through a bare, level prairie tenanted only by roving cattle and horses--if one excepts rabbits, prairie dogs, rattlesnakes, owls, lizards, and scorpions. There was no vegetation except grease-wood, cactus, and sagebrush. In heavy rains or during sudden meltings of the snow back on the mountains, each of several small gullies bore its share of water to the junction at the beginning; of the arroyo, from whence it sped, tumbling and churning through the miniature gorge, southward to the river. To Roy, who loved adventure, the arroyo was ever a source of pleasure, with its twilit depths and firm sandy bed. He knew every inch of it. Many were the imaginary adventures he had gone through in its winding depths, now as a painted Arapahoe on the warpath, now as a county sheriff on the trail of murderous desperadoes, again as a mighty hunter searching the sandy floor for the tracks of bears and mountain lions. He had found strange things in the arroyo--rose-quartz arrow heads, notched like saws; an old, rusted Colt's revolver, bearing the date 1858, and a picture of the holding up of a stagecoach engraved around the chamber; queer, tiny shells of some long gone fresh-water snail; bits of yellow pottery, their edges worn smooth and round by the water; to say nothing of birds' nests, villages of ugly water-white scorpions; and lizards, from the tiny ones that change their color, chameleonlike, to "racers" well over a foot long. From end to end of the arroyo there were but two places where it was possible to enter or leave. Both of these had been made by cattle crossing from side to side. One was just back of Roy's home and the other was nearly two miles south. It was toward the latter that Roy was heading his horse. He thought with pleasure of the comparative comfort awaiting him in the shaded depths. Brushing the perspiration out of his eyes, he glanced northward. Even as he looked the summits of the peaks were blurred from sight by a dark gray veil of rain. Above, all was blackness save when for an instant a wide, white sheet of lightning blazed above the mesa, and was followed a moment later by the first tremendous roar of thunder. Scamp pricked up his drooping ears and mended his pace. "We are going to get good and wet before we get home," muttered Roy. "Come on, Scamp!" They reached the edge of the arroyo and the little pony, lurching from side to side, clambered carefully down the narrow path to the bottom. Once there, Roy used his quirt again, and the horse broke into a gallop that carried them fast over the sandy bed. On both sides the walls of adobe and yellow clay rose as straight as though of masonry. Along the brink grew stunted bushes of greasewood and of sage. Here and there the tap root of a greasewood was half exposed for its entire length, just as it had been left by the falling earth. Many of these yellow-brown roots, tough as hempen rope, descended quite to the bottom of the arroyo, for the greasewood perseveres astonishingly in its search for moisture. As Scamp hurried along the brown and gray lizards darted across his path, and the mother scorpions, taking the air at the entrances of their holes, scuttled out of sight. Roy took off his hat and let the little draught of air that blew through the chasm dry the perspiration on face and hair. Presently the sunlight above gave way to a sullen, silent shadow. The air grew strangely quiet; even the lizards no longer moved. Roy gazed straight upward into the slowly rolling depths of a dark cloud, and heartily wished himself at home. He had seen many a storm; but the one that was approaching now made him almost afraid. The little twigs of greasewood shivered and bent, and a cool breath fanned his cheek. There came a great drop, splashing against his bare brown hand; then another; then many, each leaving a spot of moisture on the dry sand as big as a silver dollar. Roy put his sombrero on and drew the string tightly back of his head. He buttoned his blue-flannel shirt at the throat, patted Scamp encouragingly on his reeking neck, and rode on. For the last ten minutes the thunder had been roaring at intervals, drawing nearer and nearer, and now it crashed directly overhead with a mighty sound that shook the earth and sent Scamp bounding out of his path in terror. Then down came the rain. It was as though a million buckets had been emptied upon him; it fell in livid, hissing sheets and walls, taking strange shapes, like pillars and columns that came from a dim nowhere and rushed past him into the gray void behind. He was drenched ere he could have turned in his saddle; his eyes were filled with rain, it ran dripping from his soaking hat brim and coursed down his arms and chest and back. For a moment even Scamp, experienced cow pony that he was, plunged and snorted loudly, until Roy's voice shouted encouragement. Then he raced forward again. But almost at once his gait shortened; the bed of the arroyo was running with water and the softened sand made heavy going. Roy could scarcely distinguish the walls on either side; but he knew that when the storm had broken the path leading up out of the arroyo was about a half mile ahead of him. As suddenly as it had begun the deluge lessened. The walls, running with mud, were crumbling and falling here and there in miniature landslides. Scamp was plunging badly in the soft ground, and so Roy slowed him down to a trot. He could not, he told himself grimly, get one speck wetter. There was little use in hurrying. With sudden recollection of his bundles, Roy glanced back. Only a wisp of wet brown paper sticking to the cantle remained; the water had soaked the wrappings--baking powder, flavoring extract, dried fruit, and all the rest of it, had utterly disappeared. But Roy's regrets were cut short by Scamp. That animal suddenly stopped short, pricked his ears forward, and showed every symptom of terror. Roy, wondering, urged him onward. But two steps beyond the horse again stopped and strove to turn. Roy quieted him and, peering forward up the gully, through the driving mist of rain, tried to account for the animal's fright. Was it a bear? he wondered. He knew that there were some in the foothills, and it was quite possible that one had taken shelter here in the arroyo. Then, as he looked, a roaring sound, which the boy had mistaken for the beat of the rain, rose and grew in volume until it drowned the hissing of the storm and filled the arroyo. Around a bend of the gully only a few yards ahead came a wave of turbid, yellow water, bearing above it a great rolling bank of white froth. For an instant Roy gazed. Then, heart in mouth, he swung Scamp on his haunches and tore madly back the way he had come. He knew on the instant what had happened. There had been a cloud-burst on the mesa or among the foothills, and all the little gullies had emptied their water into the mouth of the arroyo. He knew also that if the flood caught him there between those prisonlike walls he would be drowned like a rat. The nearest place of refuge was a mile and a half away! After the first moment of wild terror he grew calm. On his courage and coolness rested his chance for life. He crouched far over the saddle horn and lashed Scamp with the dripping quirt. Urging was unnecessary, for it seemed the horse knew that Death was rushing along behind them. He raced as Roy had never seen him run before. The walls rushed by, dim and misty. In a minute Boy gathered courage to glance back over his shoulder. His heart sank--only a yard or two behind them rushed the foam-topped wave. Here and there the sides of the arroyo melted in the flood and toppled downward, yards at a time, sending the yellow water high in air, but making no sound above its roaring. Behind the first wave, perhaps a half hundred feet to the rear, came a second, showing no froth on its crest, but higher and mightier. And farther back the arroyo seemed filled almost to the tops of the banks with the rushing waters. Roy used the quirt ruthlessly, searching the banks as they sped by in the forlorn hope of finding some place that would offer a means of egress, yet knowing well as he did so that the nearest way out was still a full mile distant. He wondered what death by drowning was like. Somewhere he had read that it was painless and quick; but that was in a story. Then he wondered what his mother would do without him to fetch the water from the cistern back of the kitchen, and feed the chickens and look after the hives. He wondered, too, if they would ever find his body--and Scamp's! The thought that poor, gallant old Scamp must die too struck him as the hardest thing of all. He loved Scamp as he loved none else save father and mother; they had had their little disagreements, when Scamp refused to come to the halter in the corral and had to be roped, but they always made up, with petting and sugar beets from Roy and remorseful whinnies and lipping of the boy's cheek from Scamp. And now Scamp must be drowned! It was difficult going now, for the turbid stream reached above the horse's knees; but the animal was mad with fright, and he plunged desperately onward. Roy looked up toward the gray skies, through a world of gleaming rain, and said both the prayers he knew. After that he felt better, somehow, and when the second wave caught them, almost bearing Scamp from his sturdy feet, he looked calmly about him, searching the uncertain shadows which he knew were the walls of the chasm. He had made up his mind to give Scamp a chance for life. He tossed aside his quirt, patted the wet neck of the plunging animal and whispered a choking "Good-by." Then, as the flood swept the horse from his feet and swung him sideways against one wall, Roy kicked his feet from the stirrups and sprang blindly toward the bank, clutching in space. He struck against the soggy earth and, still clutching with his hands, sank downward inch by inch, his crooked fingers bringing the moist clay with them and his feet finding no lodgment. The water swept him outward then, tearing at his writhing legs. Just as his last clutch failed him his other hand encountered something that was not bare, crumbling earth, and held it desperately. The flood buffeted him and tossed the lower half of his body to and fro like a straw. The muddy water splashed into his face, blinding, choking him. But the object within his grasp remained firm. For a moment he swung there, gasping, with closed eyes. Then he blinked the water from his lids and looked. His left hand was clutching the thick tap root of a greasewood. In an instant he seized it with his other hand as well, and looked about him. Scamp was no longer in sight. The water was rising rapidly. The noise was terrific. All about him the walls, undermined by the flood, were slipping down in wet, crumbling masses. He wondered if the root would hold him, and prayed that it might. Then the water came up to his breast, and he knew that if he were to save himself he must manage somehow to crawl upward. Perhaps--perhaps he might even climb quite out of the chasm! If only the earth and the root would hold! Taking a deep breath he clutched the tap root a foot higher and tried his weight upon it. It held like a rope. He pulled himself a foot higher from the waters. Once more, and then he found that he had command of his legs and could dig his feet into the unstable clay. Then, inch by inch, scarce daring to hope, he pulled himself up, up until he was free of the flood and between him and the ground above only a scant yard remained. Below him the rushing torrents roared, as though angry at his escape, and tossed horrid yellow spray upon him. Once more he took fresh grip of the slippery root, watching anxiously the low bush at the edge of the bank. Each moment he thought to see it give toward him and send him tossing back into the water. But still it held. At last, hours and hours it seemed since he had first begun his journey, his hand clutched the edge of the bank, but the earth came away in wet handfuls at every clutch. At length his fingers encountered a sprawling root or branch, he knew not which, just beyond his sight; and, digging his toes into the wall in a final despairing effort, he scrambled over the brink and rolled fainting to the rain-soaked ground. How long he lay there he never knew. But presently a tremor of the earth roused him. Stumbling to his feet, he rushed away from the arroyo just as the bank, for yards behind him, disappeared. After that he struggled onward through the driving rain until he sank exhausted to the ground, burying his head in his arms. They found him there, hours afterwards, fast asleep, his wet clothes steaming in the hot afternoon sunlight. They put him into the wagon of the nearest rancher and jolted him home, his head in his father's lap and the great horse blankets thrown over him, making him dream that he was a loaf of bread in his mother's oven. "When Scamp came in, wet and almost dead, we feared you were gone." They were sitting about the supper table. Roy had told his story to a wondering audience, and now, with his plate well filled with mother's best watermelon preserve and citron cake, he was supremely contented, if somewhat tired and sobered. His father continued, his rugged face working as he recalled the anxiety of the day: "I can't see how that broncho ever got out of there alive; can you, boys? And to think," he added wonderingly, "that it was the root of a pesky greasewood bush that saved your life! Boy, I don't reckon I'll ever have the heart again to grub one of 'em up!" A COLLEGE SANTA CLAUSE Satherwaite, '02, threw his overcoat across the broad mahogany table, regardless of the silver and cut-glass furnishings, shook the melting snowflakes from his cap and tossed it atop the coat, half kicked, half shoved a big leathern armchair up to the wide fireplace, dropped himself into it, and stared moodily at the flames. Satherwaite was troubled. In fact, he assured himself, drawing his handsome features into a generous scowl, that he was, on this Christmas eve, the most depressed and bored person in the length and breadth of New England. Satherwaite was not used to being depressed, and boredom was a state usually far remote from his experience; consequently, he took it worse. With something between a groan and a growl, he drew a crumpled telegram from his pocket. The telegram was at the bottom of it all. He read it again: E. SATHERWAITE, Randolph Hall, Cambridge. Advise your not coming. Aunt Louise very ill. Merry Christmas. PHIL. "' Merry Christmas!'" growled Satherwaite, throwing the offending sheet of buff paper into the flames. "Looks like it, doesn't it? Confound Phil's Aunt Louise, anyway! What business has she getting sick at Christmas time? Not, of course, that I wish the old lady any harm, but it--it--well, it's wretched luck." When at college, Phil was the occupant of the bedroom that lay in darkness beyond the half-opened door to the right. He lived, when at home, in a big, rambling house in the Berkshires, a house from the windows of which one could see into three states and overlook a wonderful expanse of wooded hill and sloping meadow; a house which held, besides Phil, and Phil's father and mother and Aunt Louise and a younger brother, Phil's sister. Satherwaite growled again, more savagely, at the thought of Phil's sister; not, be it understood, at that extremely attractive young lady, but at the fate which was keeping her from his sight. Satherwaite had promised his roommate to spend Christmas with him, thereby bringing upon himself pained remonstrances from his own family, remonstrances which, Satherwaite acknowledged, were quite justifiable. His bags stood beside the door. He had spent the early afternoon very pleasurably in packing them, carefully weighing the respective merits of a primrose waistcoat and a blue-flannel one, as weapons wherewith to impress the heart of Phil's sister. And now--! He kicked forth his feet, and brought brass tongs and shovel clattering on the hearth. It relieved his exasperation. The fatal telegram had reached him at five o'clock, as he was on the point of donning his coat. From five to six, he had remained in a torpor of disappointment, continually wondering whether Phil's sister would care. At six, his own boarding house being closed for the recess, he had trudged through the snow to a restaurant in the square, and had dined miserably on lukewarm turkey and lumpy mashed potatoes. And now it was nearly eight, and he did not even care to smoke. His one chance of reaching his own home that night had passed, and there was nothing for it but to get through the interminable evening somehow, and catch an early train in the morning. The theaters in town offered no attraction. As for his club, he had stopped in on his way from dinner, and had fussed with an evening paper, until the untenanted expanse of darkly furnished apartments and the unaccustomed stillness had driven him forth again. He drew his long legs under him, and arose, crossing the room and drawing aside the deep-toned hangings before the window. It was still snowing. Across the avenue, a flood of mellow light from a butcher's shop was thrown out over the snowy sidewalk. Its windows were garlanded with Christmas greens and hung with pathetic looking turkeys and geese. Belated shoppers passed out, their arms piled high with bundles. A car swept by, its drone muffled by the snow. The spirit of Christmas was in the very air. Satherwaite's depression increased and, of a sudden, inaction became intolerable. He would go and see somebody, anybody, and make them talk to him; but, when he had his coat in his hands, he realized that even this comfort was denied him. He had friends in town, nice folk who would be glad to see him any other time, but into whose family gatherings he could no more force himself to-night than he could steal. As for the men he knew in college, they had all gone to their homes or to those of somebody else. Staring disconsolately about the study, it suddenly struck him that the room looked disgustingly slovenly and unkempt. Phil was such an untidy beggar! He would fix things up a bit. If he did it carefully and methodically, no doubt he could consume a good hour and a half that way. It would then be half past nine. Possibly, if he tried hard, he could use up another hour bathing and getting ready for bed. As a first step, he removed his coat from the table, and laid it carefully across the foot of the leather couch. Then he placed his damp cap on one end of the mantel. The next object to meet his gaze was a well-worn notebook. It was not his own, and it did not look like Phil's. The mystery was solved when he opened it and read, "H.G. Doyle--College House," on the fly leaf. He remembered then. He had borrowed it from Doyle almost a week before, at a lecture. He had copied some of the notes, and had forgotten to return the book. It was very careless of him; he would return it as soon as--Then he recollected having seen Doyle at noon that day, coming from one of the cheaper boarding houses. It was probable that Doyle was spending recess at college. Just the thing--he would call on Doyle! It was not until he was halfway downstairs that he remembered the book. He went back for it, two steps at a time. Out in the street, with the fluffy flakes against his face, he felt better. After all, there was no use in getting grouchy over his disappointment; Phil would keep; and so would Phil's sister, at least until Easter; or, better yet, he would get Phil to take him home with him over Sunday some time. He was passing the shops now, and stopped before a jeweler's window, his eye caught by a rather jolly-looking paper knife in gun metal. He had made his purchases for Christmas and had already dispatched them, but the paper knife looked attractive and, if there was no one to give it to, he could keep it himself. So he passed into the shop, and purchased it. "Put it into a box, will you?" he requested. "I may want to send it away." Out on the avenue again, his thoughts reverted to his prospective host. The visit had elements of humor. He had known Doyle at preparatory school, and since then, at college, had maintained the acquaintance in a casual way. He liked Doyle, always had, just as any man must like an honest, earnest, gentlemanly fellow, whether their paths run parallel or cross only at rare intervals. He and Doyle were not at all in the same coterie, Satherwaite's friends were the richest, and sometimes the laziest, men in college; Doyle's were--well, presumably men who, like himself, had only enough money to scrape through from September to June, who studied hard for degrees, whose viewpoint of university life must, of necessity, be widely separated from Satherwaite's. As for visiting Doyle, Satherwaite could not remember ever having been in his room but once, and that was long ago, in their Freshman year. Satherwaite had to climb two flights of steep and very narrow stairs, and when he stood at Doyle's door, he thought he must have made a mistake. From within came the sounds of very unstudious revelry, laughter, a snatch of song, voices raised in good-natured argument. Satherwaite referred again to the fly leaf of the notebook; there was no error. He knocked and, in obedience to a cheery "Come in!" entered. He found himself in a small study, shabbily furnished, but cheerful and homelike by reason of the leaping flames in the grate and the blue haze of tobacco smoke that almost hid its farther wall. About the room sat six men, their pipes held questioningly away from their mouths and their eyes fixed wonderingly, half resentfully, upon the intruder. But what caught and held Satherwaite's gaze was a tiny Christmas tree, scarcely three feet high, which adorned the center of the desk. Its branches held toy candles, as yet unlighted, and were festooned with strings of crimson cranberries and colored popcorn, while here and there a small package dangled amidst the greenery. "How are you, Satherwaite?" Doyle, tall, lank and near-sighted, arose and moved forward, with outstretched hand. He was plainly embarrassed, as was every other occupant of the study, Satherwaite included. The laughter and talk had subsided. Doyle's guests politely removed their gaze from the newcomer, and returned their pipes to their lips. But the newcomer was intruding, and knew it, and he was consequently embarrassed. Embarrassment, like boredom, was a novel sensation to him, and he speedily decided that he did not fancy it. He held out Doyle's book. "I brought this back, old man. I don't know how I came to forget it. I'm awfully sorry, you know; it was so very decent of you to lend it to me. Awfully sorry, really." Doyle murmured that it didn't matter, not a particle; and wouldn't Satherwaite sit down? No, Satherwaite couldn't stop. He heard the youth in the faded cricket-blazer tell the man next to him, in a stage aside, that this was "Satherwaite, '02, an awful swell, you know." Satherwaite again declared that he could not remain. Doyle said he was sorry; they were just having a little--a sort of a Christmas-eve party, you know. He blushed while he explained, and wondered whether Satherwaite thought them a lot of idiots, or simply a parcel of sentimental kids. Probably Satherwaite knew some of the fellows? he went on. Satherwaite studied the assemblage, and replied that he thought not, though he remembered having seen several of them at lectures and things. Doyle made no move toward introducing his friends to Satherwaite, and, to relieve the momentary silence that followed, observed that he supposed it was getting colder. Satherwaite replied, absently, that he hadn't noticed, but that it was still snowing. The youth in the cricket-blazer fidgeted in his chair. Satherwaite was thinking. Of course, he was not wanted there; he realized that. Yet, he was of half a mind to stay. The thought of his empty room dismayed him. The cheer and comfort before him appealed to him forcibly. And, more than all, he was possessed of a desire to vindicate himself to this circle of narrow-minded critics. Great Scott! just because he had some money and went with some other fellows who also had money, he was to be promptly labeled "snob," and treated with polite tolerance only. By Jove, he would stay, if only to punish them for their narrowness! "You're sure I shan't be intruding, Doyle?" he asked. Doyle gasped in amazement. Satherwaite removed his coat. A shiver of consternation passed through the room. Then the host found his tongue. "Glad to have you. Nothing much doing. Few friends, Quiet evening. Let me take your coat." Introductions followed. The man in the cricket-blazer turned out to be Doak, '03, the man who had won the Jonas Greeve scholarship; a small youth with eaglelike countenance was Somers, he who had debated so brilliantly against Princeton; a much-bewhiskered man was Ailworth, of the Law School; Kranch and Smith, both members of Satherwaite's class, completed the party. Satherwaite shook hands with those within reach, and looked for a chair. Instantly everyone was on his feet; there was a confused chorus of "Take this, won't you?" Satherwaite accepted a straight-backed chair with part of its cane seat missing, after a decent amount of protest; then a heavy, discouraging silence fell. Satherwaite looked around the circle. Everyone save Ailworth and Doyle was staring blankly at the fire. Ailworth dropped his eyes gravely; Doyle broke out explosively with: "Do you smoke, Satherwaite?" "Yes, but I'm afraid--" he searched his pockets perfunctorily--"I haven't my pipe with me." His cigarette case met his searching fingers, but somehow cigarettes did not seem appropriate. "I'm sorry," said Doyle, "but I'm afraid I haven't an extra one. Any of you fellows got a pipe that's not working?" Murmured regrets followed. Doak, who sat next to Satherwaite, put a hand in his coat pocket, and viewed the intruder doubtingly from around the corners of his glasses. "It doesn't matter a bit," remarked Satherwaite heartily. "I've got a sort of a pipe here," said Doak, "if you're not overparticular what you smoke." Satherwaite received the pipe gravely. It was a blackened briar, whose bowl was burned halfway down on one side, from being lighted over the gas, and whose mouthpiece, gnawed away in long usage, had been reshaped with a knife. Satherwaite examined it with interest, rubbing the bowl gently on his knee. He knew, without seeing, that Doak was eying him with mingled defiance and apology, and wondering in what manner a man who was used to meerschaums and gold-mounted briars would take the proffer of his worn-out favorite; and he knew, too, that all the others were watching. He placed the stem between his lips, and drew on it once or twice, with satisfaction. "It seems a jolly old pipe," he said; "I fancy you must be rather fond of it. Has anyone got any 'baccy?" Five pouches were tendered instantly. Satherwaite filled his pipe carefully. He had won the first trick, he told himself, and the thought was pleasurable. The conversation had started up again, but it was yet perfunctory, and Satherwaite realized that he was still an outsider. Doyle gave him the opportunity he wanted. "Isn't it something new for you to stay here through recess?" he asked. Then Satherwaite told about Phil's Aunt Louise and the telegram; about his dismal dinner at the restaurant and the subsequent flight from the tomblike silence of the club; how he had decided, in desperation, to clean up his study, and how he had come across Doyle's notebook. He told it rather well; he had a reputation for that sort of thing, and to-night he did his best. He pictured himself to his audience on the verge of suicide from melancholia, and assured them that this fate had been averted only through his dislike of being found lifeless amid such untidy surroundings. He decked the narrative with touches of drollery, and was rewarded with the grins that overspread the faces of his hearers. Ailworth nodded appreciatingly, now and then, and Doak even slapped his knee once and giggled aloud. Satherwaite left out all mention of Phil's sister, naturally, and ended with: "And so, when I saw you fellows having such a Christian, comfortable sort of a time, I simply couldn't break away again. I knew I was risking getting myself heartily disliked, and really I wouldn't blame you if you arose _en masse_ and kicked me out. But I am desperate. Give me some tobacco from time to time, and just let me sit here and listen to you; it will, be a kindly act to a homeless orphan." "Shut up!" said Doyle heartily; "we're glad to have you, of course." The others concurred. "We--we're going to light up the tree after a bit. We do it every year, you know. It's kind of--of Christmassy when you don't get home for the holidays, you see. We give one another little presents and--and have rather a bit of fun out of it. Only--" he hesitated doubtfully--"only I'm afraid it may bore you awfully." "Bore me!" cried Satherwaite; "why, man alive, I should think it would be the jolliest sort of a thing. It's just like being kids again." He turned and observed the tiny tree with interest. "And do you mean that you all give one another presents, and keep it secret, and--and all that?" "Yes; just little things, you know," answered Doak deprecatingly. "It's the nearest thing to a real Christmas that I've known for seven years," said Ailworth gravely. Satherwaite observed him wonderingly. "By Jove!" he murmured; "seven years! Do you know, I'm glad now I am going home, instead of to Sterner's for Christmas. A fellow ought to be with his own folks, don't you think?" Everybody said yes heartily and there was a moment of silence in the room. Presently Kranch, whose home was in Michigan, began speaking reminiscently of the Christmases he had spent when a lad in the pine woods. He made the others feel the cold and the magnitude of the pictures he drew, and, for a space, Satherwaite was transported to a little lumber town in a clearing, and stood by excitedly, while a small boy in jeans drew woolen mittens--wonderful ones of red and gray--from out a Christmas stocking. And Somers told of a Christmas he had once spent in a Quebec village; and Ailworth followed him with an account of Christmas morning in a Maine-coast fishing town. Satherwaite was silent. He had no Christmases of his own to tell about; they would have been sorry, indeed, after the others; Christmases in a big Philadelphia house, rather staid and stupid days, as he remembered them now, days lacking in any delightful element of uncertainty, but filled with wonderful presents so numerous that the novelty had worn away from them ere bedtime. He felt that, somehow, he had been cheated out of a pleasure which should have been his. The tobacco pouches went from hand to hand. Christmas-giving had already begun; and Satherwaite, to avoid disappointing his new friends, had to smoke many more pipes than was good for him. Suddenly they found themselves in darkness, save for the firelight. Doyle had arisen stealthily and turned out the gas. Then, one by one, the tiny candles flickered and flared bluely into flame. Some one pulled the shades from before the two windows, and the room was hushed. Outside they could see the flakes falling silently, steadily, between them and the electric lights that shone across the avenue. It was a beautiful, cold, still world of blue mists. A gong clanged softly, and a car, well-nigh untenanted, slid by beneath them, its windows, frosted halfway up, flooding the snow with mellow light. Some one beside Satherwaite murmured gently: "Good old Christmas!" The spell was broken, Satherwaite sighed--why, he hardly knew--and turned away from the window. The tree was brilliantly lighted now, and the strings of cranberries caught the beams ruddily. Doak stirred the fire, and Doyle, turning from a whispered consultation with some of the others, approached Satherwaite. "Would you mind playing Santa Claus--give out the presents, you know; we always do it that way?" Satherwaite would be delighted; and, better to impersonate that famous old gentleman, he turned up the collar of his jacket, and put each hand up the opposite sleeve, looking as benignant as possible the while. "That's fine!" cried Smith; "but hold on, you need a cap!" He seized one from the window seat, a worn thing of yellowish-brown otter, and drew it down over Satherwaite's ears. The crowd applauded merrily. "Dear little boys and girls," began Satherwaite in a quavering voice. "No girls!" cried Doak. "I want the cranberries!" cried Smith; "I love cranberries." "I get the popcorn, then!" That was the sedate Ailworth. "You'll be beastly sick," said Doak, grinning jovially through his glasses. Satherwaite untied the first package from its twig. It bore the inscription, "For Little Willie Kranch." Everyone gathered around while the recipient undid the wrappings, and laid bare a penwiper adorned with a tiny crimson football. Doak explained to Satherwaite that Kranch had played football just once, on a scrub team, and had heroically carried the ball down a long field, and placed it triumphantly under his own goal posts. This accounted for the laughter that ensued. "Sammy Doak" received a notebook marked "Mathematics 3a." The point of this allusion was lost to Satherwaite, for Doak was too busy laughing to explain it. And so it went, and the room was in a constant roar of mirth. Doyle was conferring excitedly with Ailworth across the room. By and by, he stole forward, and, detaching one of the packages from the tree, erased and wrote on it with great secrecy. Then he tied it back again, and retired to the hearth, grinning expectantly, until his own name was called, and he was shoved forward to receive a rubber pen-holder. Presently, Satherwaite, working around the Christmas tree, detached a package, and frowned over the address. "Fellows, this looks like--like Satherwaite, but--" he viewed the assemblage in embarrassment--"but I fancy it's a mistake." "Not a bit," cried Doyle; "that's just my writing." "Open it!" cried the others, thronging up to him. Satherwaite obeyed, wondering. Within the wrappers was a pocket memorandum book, a simple thing of cheap red leather. Some one laughed uncertainly. Satherwaite, very red, ran his finger over the edges of the leaves, examined it long, as though he had never seen anything like it before, and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. "I--I--" he began. "Chop it off!" cried some one joyously. "I'm awfully much obliged to--to whoever--" "It's from the gang," said Doyle. "With a Merry Christmas," said Ailworth. "Thank you--gang," said Satherwaite. The distribution went on, but presently, when all the rest were crowding about Somers, Satherwaite whipped a package from his pocket and, writing on it hurriedly, was apparently in the act of taking it from the tree, when the others turned again. "Little Harry Doyle," he read gravely. Doyle viewed the package in amazement. He had dressed the tree himself. "Open it up, old man!" When he saw the gun-metal paper knife, he glanced quickly at Satherwaite. He was very red in the face. Satherwaite smiled back imperturbably. The knife went from hand to hand, awakening enthusiastic admiration. "But, I say, old man, who gave--?" began Smith. "I'm awfully much obliged, Satherwaite," said Doyle, "but, really, I couldn't think of taking--" "Chop it off!" echoed Satherwaite. "Look here, Doyle, it isn't the sort of thing I'd give you from choice; it's a useless sort of toy, but I just happened to have it with me; bought it in the square on the way to give to some one, I didn't know who, and so, if you don't mind, I wish you'd accept it, you know. It'll do to put on the table or--open cans with. If you'd rather not take it, why, chuck it out of the window!" "It isn't that," cried Doyle; "it's only that it's much too fine----" "Oh, no, it isn't," said Satherwaite. "Now, then, where's 'Little Alfie Ailworth'?" Small candy canes followed the packages, and the men drew once more around the hearth, munching the pink and white confectionery enjoyingly. Smith insisted upon having the cranberries, and wore them around his neck. The popcorn was distributed equally, and the next day, in the parlor car, Satherwaite drew his from a pocket together with his handkerchief. Some one struck up a song, and Doyle remembered that Satherwaite had been in the Glee Club. There was an instant clamor for a song, and Satherwaite, consenting, looked about the room. "Haven't any thump box," said Smith. "Can't you go it alone?" Satherwaite thought he could, and did. He had a rich tenor voice, and he sang all the songs he knew. When it could be done, by hook or by crook, the others joined in the chorus; not too loudly, for it was getting late and proctors have sharp ears. When the last refrain had been repeated for the third time, and silence reigned for the moment, they heard the bell in the near-by tower. They counted its strokes; eight--nine--ten--eleven--twelve. "Merry Christmas, all!" cried Smith. In the clamor that ensued, Satherwaite secured his coat and hat. He shook hands all around. Smith insisted upon sharing the cranberries with him, and so looped a string gracefully about his neck. When Satherwaite backed out the door he still held Doak's pet pipe clenched between his teeth, and Doak, knowing it, said not a word. "Hope you'll come back and see us," called Doyle. "That's right, old man, don't forget us!" shouted Ailworth. And Satherwaite, promising again and again not to, stumbled his way down the dark stairs. Outside, he glanced gratefully up at the lighted panes. Then he grinned, and, scooping a handful of snow, sent it fairly against the glass. Instantly, the windows banged up, and six heads thrust themselves out. "Good night! Merry Christmas, old man! Happy New Year!" Something smashed softly against Satherwaite's cheek. He looked back. They were gathering snow from the ledges and throwing snowballs after him. "Good shot!" he called. "Merry Christmas!" The sound of their cries and laughter followed him far down the avenue. THE TRIPLE PLAY "If they hadn't gone and made Don captain last year," said Satterlee, 2d, plaintively. "That's where the trouble is." "How do you mean?" asked Tom Pierson, looking up in a puzzled way from the hole he was digging in the turf in front of the school hall. "Why," answered Satterlee, 2d, with a fine air of wisdom, "I mean that it doesn't do for a fellow to have his brother captain. Don's been so afraid of showing me favoritism all spring that he hasn't given me even a fair chance. When I came out for the nine in March and tried for second he was worried to death. "Look here, Kid," he said, "there's no use your wanting to play on second because there's Henen and Talbot after it." "Well, how do you know I can't play second as well as they?" says I. He was--was horrified. That's it; a fellow can't understand how a member of his own family can do anything as well as some one else. See what I mean?" Tom Pierson nodded doubtfully. "'You try for a place in the outfield,' said Don. 'But I don't want to play in the outfield.' I told him. But it didn't make any difference. 'There's three fellows for every infield position.' said Don, 'and I'm not going to have the fellows accuse me of boosting my kid brother over their heads.' Well, so I did as he said. Of course I didn't have any show. There was Williams and Beeton and 'Chick' Meyer who could do a heap better than I could. They'd played in the outfield ail their lives and I'd always been at second--except one year that I caught when I was a kid. Well, maybe next year I'll have a better show, for a whole lot of this year's team graduate to-morrow. Wish I did." "I don't," said Tom. "I like it here. I think Willard's the best school in the country." "So do I, of course," answered Satterlee, 2d. "But don't you want to get up to college?" "I'm in no hurry; you see, there's math; I'm not doing so badly at it now since Bailey has been helping me, but I don't believe I could pass the college exam in it." "You and 'Old Crusty' seem awfully thick these days," mused the other. "Wish he'd be as easy on me as he is on you. You were fishing together yesterday, weren't you?" Tom nodded. "Sixteen trout," he said promptly. "Wish I'd been along," sighed Satterlee, 2d. "All I caught was flies during practice. Then when they played the second I sat on the bench as usual and looked on." "But Don will put you in this afternoon, won't he?" "I dare say he will; for the last inning maybe. What good's that? Nothing ever happens to a chap in center field. And when a fellow's folks come to visit him he naturally wants to--to show off a bit." Tom nodded sympathetically. "Hard lines," he said. "But why don't you ask your brother to give you a fair show; put you in the sixth or something like that?" "Because I won't. He doesn't think I can play baseball. I don't care. Only I hope--I hope we get beaten!" "No, you don't." "How do you know?" asked the other morosely. "Because you couldn't," Tom replied. "Is 'Curly' going to pitch?" "No, Durham's agreed not to play any of her faculty. Willings is going to pitch. I'll bet"--his face lost some of its gloom--"I'll bet it will be a dandy game!" "Who's going to win?" asked Tom anxiously. "You can search me!" answered Satterlee, 2d, cheerfully. "Durham's lost only two games this season, one to St. Eustace and one to us. And we've lost only the first game with Durham. There you are, Tommy; you can figure it out for yourself. But we won last year and it's safe to say Durham's going to work like thunder to win this. What time is it?" "Twenty minutes to twelve," answered Tom. "Gee! I've got to find Don and go over to the station to meet the folks. Want to come along? Dad and the mater would like to meet you; you see I've said a good deal about you in my letters." "Won't I be in the way?" "Not a bit. In fact--" Satterlee, 2d, hesitated and grinned--"in fact, it would make it more comfortable if you would come along. You see, Tom, Don and I aren't very chummy just now; I--I gave him a piece of my mind last night; and he threw the hairbrush at me." He rubbed the side of his head reflectively. Tom laughed and sprang to his feet. "All right," he said. "I'll go, if just to keep you two from fighting. We'll have to hurry, though; you don't want to forget that dinner's half an hour earlier to-day." "Guess you never knew me to forget dinner time, did you?" asked Satterlee, 2d, with a laugh. Three hours later the two boys sat nursing their knees on the terrace above the playground. Behind them in camp chairs sat Mr. and Mrs. Satterlee. To right and left stretched a line of spectators, the boys of Willard's and of Durham surrounded by their friends and relatives. Tomorrow was graduation day at the school and mothers and fathers and sisters and elder brothers--many of the latter "old boys"--were present in numbers. At the foot of the terrace, near first base, a red and white striped awning had been erected and from beneath its shade the principal, Doctor Willard, together with the members of the faculty and their guests, sat and watched the deciding game of the series. The red of Willard's was predominant, but here and there a dash of blue, the color of the rival academy, was to be seen. On a bench over near third base a line of blue-stockinged players awaited their turns at bat, for it was the last half of the third inning and Willard's was in the field. Behind the spectators arose the ivy-draped front of the school hall and above them a row of elms cast grateful shade. Before them, a quarter of a mile distant, the broad bosom of the river flashed and sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. But few had eyes for that, for Durham had two men on bases with two out and one of her heavy hitters was at bat. Thus far there had been no scoring and now there was a breathless silence as Willings put the first ball over the plate. "Strike!" droned the umpire, and a little knot of boys on the bank waved red banners and cheered delightedly. Then ball and bat came together and the runner was speeding toward first. But the hit had been weak and long before he reached the bag the ball was snuggling in Donald Satterlee's mitten, and up on the terrace the Willardians breathed their relief. The nines changed sides. "That's Fearing, our catcher, going to bat, sir," said Satterlee, 2d, looking around at his father. Mr. Satterlee nodded and transferred his wandering attention to the youth in question. Mr. Satterlee knew very little about the game and was finding it difficult to display the proper amount of interest. Mrs. Satterlee, however, smiled enthusiastically at everything and everybody and succeeded in conveying the impression that she was breathlessly interested in events. "Er--is he going to hit the ball?" asked Mr. Satterlee in a heroic endeavor to rise to the requirements of the occasion. "He's going to try," answered his youngest son with a smile. "But he isn't going to succeed, I guess," he muttered a minute later. For the catcher had two strikes called on him and was still at the plate. Then all doubt was removed. He tossed aside his bat and turned back to the bench. "And who is that boy?" asked Mrs. Satterlee. "That's Cook," answered Tom. "He plays over there, you know; he's shortstop." "Of course," murmured the lady. "I knew I had seen him." Cook reached first, more by good luck than good playing, and the Willard supporters found their voices again. Then came Brown, third base-man, and was thrown out at first after having advanced Cook to second. "Here comes Don," announced his younger brother with a trace of envy in his tones. "I do hope he'll hit the ball!" cried his mother. "Oh, he'll hit it all right," answered Satterlee, 2d, "only maybe he won't hit it hard enough." Nor did he. Durham's third baseman gathered in the short fly that the batsman sent up and so ended the inning. "Something's going to happen now, I'll bet," said Tom. "Carpenter's up." "He didn't do much last time," objected Satterlee, 2d, "even if he is such a wonder. Willings struck him out dead easy." Carpenter, who played third base for the visitors, was a tall, light-haired youth with a reputation for batting prowess. In the first game of the series between the two schools Carpenter's hitting had been the deciding feature. Three one-baggers, a two-bagger, and a home-run had been credited to him when the game was over, and it was the home-run, smashed out with a man on third in the eighth inning, which had defeated Willard's. In the second game, played a fortnight ago, Carpenter had been noticeably out of form, which fact had not a little to do with Willard's victory. To-day the long-limbed gentleman, despite his retirement on the occasion of his first meeting with Willings, was in fine fettle, and scarcely had Satterlee, 2d, concluded his remark when there was a sharp _crack_ and the white sphere was skimming second baseman's head. It was a clean, well-placed hit, and even the wearers of the blue had to applaud a little. Carpenter's long legs twinkled around the bases and he was safe at third before the ball had returned to the infield. Then things began to happen. As though the spell had been broken by the third baseman's three-bagger, the following Durhamites found the ball, man after man, and ere the inning was at an end, the score book told a different tale. On Durham's page stood four tallies; Willard's was still empty. And Willard's supporters began to look uneasy. Then there was no more scoring until the sixth inning, when a single by Donald Satterlee brought in Cook who had been taking big risks on second and who reached the plate a fraction of a second ahead of the ball. Willard's got the bases full that inning and for a time it seemed that they would tie the score, but Beeton popped a fly into shortstop's hands and their hopes were dashed. Durham started their half of the sixth with Carpenter up and that dependable youth slammed out a two-base hit at once. The flaunters of the red groaned dismally. Then the Durham pitcher fouled out and the next man advanced Carpenter but was put out at first. Willard's breathed easier and took hope. Over on third base Carpenter was poised, ready to speed home as fast as his long legs would carry him. Willings, who had so far pitched a remarkable game, suddenly went "into the air." Perhaps it was the coaching back of third, perhaps it was Carpenter's disconcerting rushes and hand-clapping. At all events, the Durham first baseman, who was a cool-headed youth, waited politely and patiently and so won the privilege of trotting to first on four balls. Fearing, Willard's catcher, walked down to Willings, and the two held a whispered conversation. They didn't lay any plots, for all Fearing wanted to do was to steady the pitcher. Then came a strike on the next batsman, and the Willardians cheered hopefully. Two balls followed, and Carpenter danced about delightedly at third and the two coaches hurled taunting words at the pitcher. The man on first was taking a long lead, pretty certain that Willings would not dare to throw lest Carpenter score. But Willings believed in doing the unexpected. Unfortunately, although he turned like a flash and shot the ball to Satterlee, the throw was wide. The captain touched it with his outstretched fingers but it went by. The runner sped toward second and Carpenter raced home. But Beeton, right-fielder, had been wide-awake. As Willings turned he ran in to back up Satterlee, found the ball on a low bounce and, on the run, sent it to the plate so swiftly that Fearing was able to catch Carpenter a yard away from it. The Durham third baseman picked himself up, muttering his opinion of the proceedings and looking very cross. But what he said wasn't distinguishable, for up on the terrace the red flags were waving wildly and the boys of Willard's were shouting themselves hoarse. When, in the beginning of the seventh inning, Durham took the field and Willings went to bat, Captain Don Satterlee came up the bank and threw himself on the grass by his father's side. He looked rather worried and very warm. "Well, my boy," said Mr. Satterlee, "I guess you're in for a licking this time, eh?" "I'm afraid so," was the morose reply. "We can't seem to find their pitcher for a cent." He turned to his brother. "I'll put you in for the ninth, if you like," he said. "Oh, don't trouble yourself," answered the other. "You've got along without me so far and I guess you can finish." "Well, you needn't be so huffy," answered the elder. "You can play or not, just as you like. But you don't have to be ugly about it." "I'm not," muttered Satterlee, 2d. "Sounds mighty like it. Want to play?" The other hesitated, swallowed once or twice and kicked the turf with his heel. "Of course he wants to play, Don," said Tom Pierson. "Give him a chance, like a good chap." "Well, I've offered him a chance, haven't I?" asked Don ungraciously. "I guess it doesn't make much difference who plays this game." He scowled at Willings who had been thrown out easily at first and was now discouragedly walking back to the bench. "You can take Williams's place when the ninth begins," he added, turning to his brother. The latter nodded silently. A slightly built, sandy-haired man, with bright blue eyes and a look of authority, approached the group and Don, with a muttered apology, joined him. "That's our coach," explained Tom to Mrs. Satterlee. "He's instructor in Greek and German, and he's a peach! The fellows call him 'Curly' on account of his hair. He pitched for us last year and he won the game, too! I guess he and Don are trying to find some way out of the hole they're in. If anyone can do it he can, can't he?" Thus appealed to, Satterlee, 2d, came out of his reverie. "Yes, I guess so. I wish he was pitching, that's all I wish! I'll bet Carpenter wouldn't make any more of those hits of his!" Willard's third out came and once more the teams changed places. The sun was getting low and the shadows on the terrace were lengthening. Durham started out with a batting streak and almost before anyone knew it the bases were full with but one out. Then, just when things were at their gloomiest, a short hit to second baseman resulted in a double play, and once more Willard's found cause for delight and acclaim. The eighth inning opened with Don Satterlee at bat. Luck seemed for a moment to have made up its mind to favor the home team. An in-shoot caught the batsman on the thigh and he limped to first. Meyer--"Chick" Meyer, as Tom triumphantly explained--sent him to second and gained first for himself, owing to an error. Then came an out. Beeton followed with a scratch hit just back of shortstop and the bases were full. Up on the terrace the cheering was continuous. Williams was struck out. Then came Willings with a short hit past third and Don scored. And the bases were still full. But the next man flied out to left fielder and the cheering died away. But 2 to 4 was better than 1 to 4, and the supporters of the home team derived what comfort they could from the fact. In the last of the eighth, the doughty Carpenter started things going by taking first on balls. It was apparent that "Willings had given it to him" rather than risk a long hit. The next man was less fortunate and was thrown out after a neat sacrifice which put Carpenter on second. Then a pop-fly was muffed by Willings and there were men on first and second. But after that Willings, as though to atone for an inexcusable error, settled down to work and struck out the next two Durhamites, and the red flags were suddenly crazy. Satterlee, 2d, peeled off his sweater and trotted down to the bench. The ninth inning opened inauspiciously for the home nine. Willard's shortstop fell victim to the rival pitcher's curves and third baseman took his place. With two strikes called on him he found something he liked and let go at it. When the tumult was over he was sitting on second base. Don Satterlee stepped up to the plate and the cheerers demanded a home-run. But the best the red's captain could do was a clean drive into right field that was good for one base for himself and a tally for the man on second. That made the score 3 to 4. It seemed that at last fortune was to favor the red. The cheering went on and on. Meyer sent the captain to second but was thrown out at first. Another tally would tie the score, but the players who were coming to bat were the weakest hitters, and Willard's hopes began to dwindle. But one can never tell what will happen in baseball, and when Fearing lined out a swift ball over second baseman's head and Don Satterlee romped home, the wearers of the red shrieked in mingled delight and surprise. The score was tied. But there was more to come. Beeton waited, refusing all sorts of tempting bait, and during that waiting Fearing stole second. With three balls and two strikes called on him, Beeton let the next one go by, and---- "Four balls!" decided the umpire. Satterlee, 2d, felt rather limp when he faced the pitcher. His heart was pounding somewhere up near his mouth and it made him feel uncomfortable. Down on second Fearing was watching him anxiously. On first Beeton was dancing back and forth, while behind him Brother Don coaching hoarsely and throwing doubtful glances in the direction of the plate. "He thinks I can't hit," thought Satterlee, 2d, bitterly. "He's telling himself that if he'd left Williams in we might have tallied again." Satterlee, 2d, smarting under his brother's contempt, felt his nerves steady and when the second delivery came he was able to judge it and let it go by. That made a ball and a strike. Then came another ball. They had told him to wait for a good one, and he was going to do it. And presently the good one came. The pitcher had put himself in a hole; there were three balls against him and only one strike. So now he sent a swift straight one for a corner of the plate and Satterlee, 2d, watched it come and then swung to meet it. And in another moment he was streaking for his base, while out back of shortstop the left fielder was running in as fast as he might. And while he ran Fearing and Beeton were flying around the bases. The ball came to earth, was gathered up on its first bound and sped toward the plate. But it reached the catcher too late, for Fearing and Beeton had tallied. And down at second a small youth was picking himself out of the dust. But Satterlee never got any farther, for the next man struck out. No one seemed to care, however, except Satterlee, for the score had changed to 6-4, and the 6 was Willard's! But there was still a half inning to play and Durham had not lost hope. Her center fielder opened up with a hit and a moment later stole second. Then came a mishap. Willings struck the batsman and, although Fearing claimed that the batsman had not tried to avoid the ball, he was given his base. Things looked bad. There on second and first were Durham runners and here, stepping up to the plate with his bat grasped firmly in his hands, was Carpenter, and there was none out. A two-base hit would surely tie the score, while one of the home-runs of which Carpenter was believed to be capable--such a one as he made in the first game of the series--would send Willard's into mourning. The terrace was almost deserted, for the spectators were lined along the path to first base and beyond. Don was crying encouragement to his players, but from the way in which he moved restively about it could be seen that he was far from easy in his mind. As for Satterlee, 2d--well, he was out in center field, hoping for a chance to aid in warding off the defeat that seemed inevitable, but fearing that his usefulness was over. Willings turned and motioned the fielders back, and in obedience Satterlee, 2d, crept farther out toward the edge of the field. But presently, when a ball had been delivered to the batsman, Satterlee, 2d, quite unconsciously, moved eagerly, anxiously in again, step by step. Then came a strike and Carpenter tapped the plate with the end of his bat and waited calmly. Another ball. Then a second strike. And for a brief moment Willard's shouted hoarsely. And then---- Then there was a sharp sound of bat meeting ball and Carpenter was on his way to first. The ball was a low fly to short center field and it was evident that it would land just a little way back of second base. Neither Carpenter nor the runners on first and second dreamed for a moment that it could be caught. The latter players raced for home as fast as their legs would take them. Meanwhile in from center sped Satterlee, 2d. He could run hard when he tried and that's what he did now. He was almost too late--but not quite. His hands found the ball a bare six inches above the turf. Coming fast as he was he had crossed second base before he could pull himself up. From all sides came wild shouts, instructions, commands, entreaties, a confused medley of sounds. But Satterlee, 2d, needed no coaching. The runner from second had crossed the plate and the one from first was rounding third at a desperate pace, head down and arms and legs twinkling through the dust of his flight. Now each turned and raced frantically back, dismay written on their perspiring faces. But Satterlee, 2d, like an immovable Fate, stood in the path. The runner from first slowed down indecisively, feinted to the left and tried to slip by on the other side. But the small youth with the ball was ready for him and had tagged him before he had passed. Then Satterlee, 2d, stepped nimbly to second base, tapped it with his foot a moment before the other runner hurled himself upon it, tossed the ball nonchalantly toward the pitcher's box and walked toward the bench. The game was over. But he never reached the bench that day. On the way around the field he caught once a fleeting vision of Brother Don's red, grinning countenance beaming commendation, and once a glimpse of the smiling faces of his father and mother. He strove to wave a hand toward the latter, but as it almost cost him his position on the shoulders of the shrieking fellows beneath, he gave it up. Social amenities might wait; at present he was tasting the joys of a victorious Caesar. THE DUB "BRIGGS, Bayard Newlyn, Hammondsport, Ill., I L, H 24." That's the way the catalogue put it. Mostly, though, he was called "Bi" Briggs. He was six feet and one inch tall and weighed one hundred and ninety-four pounds, and was built by an all-wise Providence to play guard. Graduate coaches used to get together on the side line and figure out what we'd do to Yale if we had eleven men like Bi. Then after they'd watched Bi play a while they'd want to kick him. He got started all wrong, Bi did. He came to college from a Western university and entered the junior class. That was his first mistake. A fellow can't butt in at the beginning of the third year and expect to trot even with fellows who have been there two years. It takes a chap one year to get shaken down and another year to get set up. By the time Bi was writing his "life" he had just about learned the rules. His second mistake was in joining the first society that saw his name in the catalogue. It was a poor frat, and it queered Bi right away. I guess he made other mistakes, too, but those were enough. In his junior year Bi was let alone. He was taking about every course any of us had ever heard of--and several we hadn't--and had no time for football. We got licked for keeps that fall, and after the _Crimson_ and the _Bulletin_ and the _Graduates' Magazine_ and the newspapers had shown us just what ailed our system of coaching, we started to reorganize things. We hadn't reorganized for two years, and it was about time. The new coach was a chap who hadn't made the Varsity when he was in college, but who was supposed to have football down to a fine point; to hear the fellows tell about the new coach made you feel real sorry for Walter Camp. Well, he started in by kidnaping every man in college who weighed over a hundred and sixty-five. Bi didn't escape. Bi had played one year in the freshwater college at left tackle and knew a touchdown from a nose-guard, and that was about all. Bi was for refusing to have anything to do with football at first; said he was head-over-ears in study and hadn't the time. But they told him all about his Duty to his College and Every Man into the Breach, and he relented. Bi was terribly good-natured. That was the main trouble with him. The fellows who did football for the papers fell in love with him on the spot. He was a good-looker, with sort of curly brown hair, nice eyes, a romantic nose, and cheeks like a pair of twenty-four-dollar American Beauties, and his pictures looked fine and dandy in the papers. "Bayard Briggs, Harvard's new candidate for guard, of whom the coaches expect great things." That's the way they put it. And they weren't far wrong. The coaches did expect great things from Bi; so did the rest of us. When they took Bi from the second and put him in at right guard on the Varsity we all approved. But there was trouble right away. Bi didn't seem to fit. They swapped him over to left guard, then they tried him at right tackle, then at right guard again. Then they placed him gently but firmly back on the second. And Bi was quite happy and contented and disinterested during it all. _He_ didn't mind when six coaches gathered about him and demanded to know what was the matter with him. He just shook his head and assured them good-naturedly that he didn't know; and intimated by his manner that he didn't care. When he came back to the second he seemed rather glad; I think he felt as though he had got back home after a hard trip. He stayed right with us all the rest of the season. I think the trouble was that Bi never got it fully into his fool head that it wasn't just fun--like puss-in-the-corner or blind-man's-buff. If you talked to him about Retrieving Last Year's Overwhelming Defeat he'd smile pleasantly and come back with some silly remark about Political Economy or Government or other poppycock. I fancy Bi's father had told him that he was coming to college to study, and Bi believed him. Of course, he didn't go to New Haven with us, He didn't have time. I wished afterwards that I hadn't had time myself. Yale trimmed us 23 to 6. The papers threshed it all out again, and all the old grads who weren't too weak to hold pens wrote to the _Bulletin_ and explained where the trouble lay. It looked for a while like another reorganization, but Cooper, the new captain, was different. He didn't get hysterical. Along about Christmas time, after everyone had got tired of guessing, he announced his new coach. His name was Hecker, and he had graduated so far back that the _Crimson_ had to look up its old files to find out who he was. He had played right half two years, it seemed, but hadn't made any special hit, and Yale had won each year. The _Herald_ said he was a successful lawyer in Tonawanda, New York. He didn't show up for spring practice; couldn't leave his work, Cooper explained. Bi didn't come out either. He couldn't leave _his_ work. At the end of the year he graduated _summa cum laude_, or something like that, and the _Crimson_ said he was coming back to the Law School and would be eligible for the team. Just as though it mattered. We showed up a week before college began and had practice twice a day. At the end of that week we knew a whole lot about Hecker. He was about thirty-six, kind of thin, wore glasses, and was a terror for work. When we crawled back to showers after practice we'd call him every name we could think of. And half an hour later, if we met him crossing the Square, we'd be haughty and stuck-up for a week if he remembered our names. He was a little bit of all right, was Hecker. He was one of the quiet kind. He'd always say "please," and if you didn't please mighty quick you'd be sitting on the bench all nicely snuggled up in a blanket before you knew what had struck you. That's the sort of Indian Hecker was, and we loved him. Ten days after college opened we had one hundred and twenty men on the field. If Hecker heard of a likely chap and thought well of his looks, it was all up with Mr. Chap. He was out on the gridiron biting holes in the sod before he knew it. That's what happened to Bi. One day Bi wasn't there and the next day he was. We had two or three weeding-outs, and it got along toward the middle of October, and Bi was still with us. We were shy on plunging halfs that fall and so I got my chance at last. I had to fight hard, though, for I was up against Murray, last year's first sub. Then a provisional Varsity was formed and the Second Team began doing business with Bi at right guard again. The left guard on the Varsity was Bannen--"Slugger" Bannen. He didn't weigh within seven pounds of Bi, but he had springs inside of him and could get the jump on a flea. He was called "Slugger" because he looked like a prizefighter, but he was a gentle, harmless chap, and one of the Earnest Workers in the Christian Association. He could stick his fist through an oak panel same as you or I would put our fingers through a sheet of paper. And he did pretty much as he pleased with Bi. I'll bet, though, that Bi could have walked all over "Slugger" if he'd really tried. But he was like an automobile and didn't know his own strength. We disposed of the usual ruck of small teams, and by the first of November it was mighty plain that we had the best Eleven in years. But we didn't talk that way, and the general impression was that we had another one of the Beaten But Not Humiliated sort. A week before we went to Philadelphia I had a streak of good luck and squeezed Murray out for keeps. Penn had a dandy team that year and we had to work like anything to bring the ball home. It was nip and tuck to the end of the first half, neither side scoring. Then we went back and began kicking, and Cooper had the better of the other chap ten yards on a punt. Finally we got down to their twenty yards, and Saunders and I pulled in eight more of it. Then we took our tackles back and hammered out the only score. But that didn't send our stock up much, because folks didn't know how good Penn was. But the Eli's coaches who saw the game weren't fooled a little bit; only, as we hadn't played anything but the common or garden variety of football, they didn't get much to help them. We went back to Cambridge and began to learn the higher branches. We were coming fast now, so fast that Hecker got scary and laid half the team off for a day at a time. And that's how Bi got his chance again, and threw it away just as he had last year. He played hard, but--oh, I don't know. Some fellow wrote once that unless you had football instinct you'd never make a real top-notcher. I think maybe that's so. Maybe Bi didn't have football instinct. Though I'll bet if some one had hammered it into his head that it was business and not a parlor entertainment, he'd have buckled down and done something. It wasn't that he was afraid of punishment; he'd take any amount and come back smiling. I came out of the Locker Building late that evening and Hecker and Cooper were just ahead of me. "What's the matter with this man"--Hecker glanced at his notebook--"this man Briggs?" he asked. "Briggs?" answered Cooper. "He's a dub; that's all--just a dub." That described him pretty well, I thought. By dub we didn't mean just a man who couldn't play the game; we meant a man who knew how to play and wouldn't; a chap who couldn't be made to understand. Bi was a dub of the first water. We didn't have much trouble with Dartmouth that year. It was before she got sassy and rude. Then there were two weeks of hard practice before the Yale game. We had a new set of signals to learn and about half a dozen new plays. The weather got nice and cold and Hecker made the most of it. We didn't have time to feel chilly. One week went by, and then--it was a Sunday morning, I remember--it came out that Corson, the Varsity right guard, had been protested by Yale. It seemed that Corson had won a prize of two dollars and fifty cents about five years before for throwing the hammer at a picnic back in Pennsylvania. Well, there was a big shindy and the athletic committee got busy and considered his case. But Hecker didn't wait for the committee to get through considering. He just turned Corson out and put in Blake, the first sub. On Tuesday the committee declared Corson ineligible and Blake sprained his knee in practice! With Corson and Blake both out of it, Hecker was up against it. He tried shifting "Slugger" Bannen over to right and putting the full back at left. Jordan, the Yale left guard, was the best in the world, and we needed a man that could stand up against him. But "Slugger" was simply at sea on the right side of center and so had to be put back again. After that the only thing in sight that looked the least bit like a right guard was Bayard Newlyn Briggs. They took Bi and put him on the Varsity, and forty-'leven coaches stood over his defenseless form and hammered football into him for eight solid hours on Wednesday and Thursday. And Bi took it all like a little woolly lamb, without a bleat. But it just made you sick to think what was going to happen to Bi when Jordan got to work on him! We had our last practice Thursday, and that night we went to the Union and heard speeches and listened to the new songs. Pretty poor they were too; but that's got nothing to do with the story. Friday we mooned around until afternoon and then had a few minutes of signal practice indoors. Bi looked a little bit worried, I thought. Maybe it was just beginning to dawn on Me that it wasn't all a lark. What happened next morning I learned afterwards from Bi. Hecker sent for him to come to his room, put him in a nice easy-chair, and then sat down in front of him. And he talked. "I've sent for you, Mr. Briggs," began Hecker in his quiet way, "because it has occurred to me that you don't altogether understand what we are going to do this afternoon." Bi looked surprised. "Play Yale, sir?" "Incidentally; yes. But we are going to do more than play her; we are going to beat her to a standstill; we are going to give her a drubbing that she will look back upon for several years with painful emotion. It isn't often that we have an opportunity to beat Yale, and I propose to make the best of this one. So kindly disabuse your mind of the idea that we are merely going out to play a nice, exhilarating game of football. We are going to simply wipe up the earth with Yale!" "Indeed?" murmured Bi politely. "Quite so," answered the coach dryly, "I suppose you know that your presence on the team is a sheer accident? If you don't, allow me to tell you candidly that if there had been anyone else in the college to put in Corson's place, we would never have called on you, Mr. Briggs." He let that soak in a minute. Then: "Have you ever heard of this man Jordan who will play opposite you to-day?" he asked. "Yes, sir; a very good player, I understand." "A good player! My dear fellow, he's the best guard on a college team in twenty years. And you are going to play opposite him. Understand that?" "Er--certainly," answered Bi, getting a bit uneasy. "What are you going to do about it?" "Do? Why, I shall do the best I can, Mr. Hecker. I don't suppose I am any match for Jordan, but I shall try----" "Stop that! Don't you dare talk to me of doing the best you can!" said the coach, shaking a finger under Bi's nose--"for all the world," as Bi told me afterwards, "as though he was trying to make me mad!" "'Best you can' be hanged! You've got to do better than you can, a hundred per cent better than you can, ever did, or ever will again! That's what you've got to do! You've got to fight from the first whistle to the last without a let-up! You've got to remember every instant that if you don't, we are going to be beaten! You've got to make Jordan look like a base imitation before the first half is over! That's what you've got to do, my boy!" "But it isn't fair!" protested Bi. "You know yourself that Jordan can outplay me, sir!" "I know it? I know nothing of the sort. Look at yourself! Look at your weight and your build! Look at those arms and legs of yours! Look at those muscles! And you dare to sit there, like a squeaking kid, and tell me that Jordan can outplay you! What have you got your strength for? What have we pounded football into you for?" Over went his chair and he was shaking his finger within an inch of Bi's face, his eyes blazing behind his glasses. "Shall I tell you what's the matter with you, Briggs? Shall I tell you why we wouldn't have chosen you if there had been anyone else? Because you're a coward--a rank, measly coward, sir!" Bi's face went white and he got up slowly out of his chair. "That will do, sir," he said softly, like a tiger-puss purring. "You've done what no one else has ever done, Mr. Hecker. You've called me a coward. You're in authority and I have no redress--now. But after to-day--" He stopped and laughed unpleasantly. "I'll see you again, sir." "Heroics!" sneered the coach. "They don't impress me, sir. I've said you're a coward, and I stand by it. I repeat it. You are a coward, Briggs, an arrant coward." Bi gripped his hands and tried to keep the tears back. "Coward, am I? What are you, I'd like to know? What are you when you take advantage of your position to throw insults at me? If you weren't the head coach, I'd--I'd----" "What would you do?" sneered Hecker. "I'd kill you!" blazed Bi. "And I'll do it yet, you--you----" "Tut, tut! That's enough, Briggs. You can't impose on me that way. I haven't watched you play football all the fall to be taken in now by your melodrama. But after to-day you will find me quite at your service, Mr.--Coward. And meanwhile we'll call this interview off, if you please. The door, Mr. Briggs!" Bi seized his hat from the table and faced Hecker. He was smiling now, smiling with a white, set, ugly face. "Perhaps I am wrong," he said softly with a little laugh. "I think I am. Either that or you are lying. For if you are really willing to meet me after to-day's game you are no coward, sir." Then he went out. We lined up at two o'clock. There was a huge crowd and a band. I didn't mind the crowd, but that band got me worried so, that I couldn't do a thing the first ten minutes. It's funny how a little thing like that will queer your game. One fellow I knew once was off his game the whole first half because some idiot was flying a kite over the field advertising some one's pills. We had the ball and began hammering at the Yale line and kept it up until we had reached her fifteen yards. Then she got together and stopped us; held us for downs in spite of all we could do. Then she kicked and we started it all over again. It wasn't exciting football to watch, maybe, but it was the real thing with us. We had to work--Lord, how we had to work! And how we did work, too! We made good the next time, but it took us fifteen minutes to get back down the field. Cooper himself went over for that first touchdown. Maybe the crowd didn't shout! Talk about noise! I'd never heard any before! It was so unexpected, you see, for almost everyone had thought Yale was going to do her usual stunt and rip us to pieces. But in that first half she was on the defensive every moment. Seven times she had the ball in that first thirty-five minutes, but she could no more keep it than she could fly. Altogether she gained eighteen yards in that half. It was one-sided, if you like, but it was no picnic. It was hammer and tongs from first to last--man's work and lots of it. We didn't rely on tricks, but went at her center and guards and just wore them down. And when that first half was over--11-0 was the score--the glory of one Jordan was as a last season's straw hat. A new star blazed in the football firmament; and it was in the constellation of Harvard and its name was Bi Briggs. What I'm telling you is history, and you needn't take my word alone for it. I never really saw a man play guard before that day--and I'd watched lots of fellows try. Bi was a cyclone. To see him charge into Jordan--and get the jump on him every time--was alone worth the price of admission. And as for blocking, he was a stone wall, and that's all there is to it. Never once did the Elis get through him. He held the line on his side as stiff as a poker until quarter had got the ball away, and then he mixed things up with the redoubtable Jordan, and you could almost see the fur fly! Play? O my! He was simply great! And the rest of us, watching when we had a chance, just felt our eyes popping out. And all the time he smiled; smiled when he went charging through the blue line, smiled when he took Toppan on his shoulder and hurled him over the mix-up for six yards, smiled when we pulled him out of a pile-up looking like a badly butchered beef, and still smiled when we trotted of the field in a chaos of sound. But that smile wasn't pretty. I guess he was thinking most of the time of Hecker; and maybe sometimes he got Hecker and Jordan mixed up. When we came back for the second half we weren't yet out of the woods, and we knew it. We knew that Yale would forget that she was bruised and battered and tired and would play harder than ever. And she did. And for just about ten minutes I wouldn't have bet a copper on the game. Yale had us on the run and plugged away until we were digging our toes into our twelve-yard line. Then we held her. After that, although she still played the game as though she didn't know she was beaten, she was never dangerous. We scored twice more in that half. When there was still ten minutes of play the whistle blew, and Jordan, white, groggy, and weepy about the eyes, was dragged off the field. Bi had sure used him rough, but I'm not pretending Jordan hadn't come back at him. Bi's face was something fierce. The blood had dried in flakes under his nose, one eye was out of commission, and his lip was bleeding where his tooth had gone through it. But he still smiled. When we trotted off for the last time the score board said: "Harvard, 22; Opponents, 0." And those blurry white figures up there paid for all the hard work of the year. It was past seven when we assembled for dinner. About all the old players for twenty years back were there and it sounded like a sewing circle. Bi was one of the last to come in. He pushed his way through the crowd about the door, shaking off the fellows' hands, and strode across to where Hecker was standing. Hecker saw him coming, but he only watched calmly. Bi stopped in front of him, that same sort of ugly smile on his face. "We've broken training, sir?" he asked quietly. "Yes," answered the coach. Then Bi's hand swung around and that slap was heard all over the room. There was a moment of dead silence; then half a dozen of us grabbed Bi. We thought he'd gone crazy, but he didn't try to shake us off. He just stood there and looked at Hecker. The coach never raised a hand and never changed his expression--only one cheek was as red as the big flag at the end of the room. He held up his hand and we quieted down. "Gentlemen," he said, "Mr. Briggs was quite within his rights. Please do not interfere with him." We let Bi go. "The incident demands explanation," continued the coach. "As you all know, we were left in a hole by the loss of Corson and Blake, and the only man who seemed at all possible was Mr. Briggs. But Mr. Briggs, playing as he had been playing all year, would have been no match for Jordan of Yale. We tried every means we could think of to wake Mr. Briggs up. He had, I felt certain, the ability to play football--winning football--but we couldn't get it out of him. As a last resort I tried questionable means. I asked Mr. Briggs to call on me this morning. I told him we must win to-day, and that in order to do so he would have to play better than he'd been doing. He told me that he would do his best, but that he knew himself no match for Jordan. That spirit wouldn't have done, gentlemen, and I tried to change it. I told Mr. Briggs that he was a coward, something I knew to be false. I insulted him over and again until only my authority as head coach kept him from trying to kill me. He told me he would do so when we had broken training and I promised to give him satisfaction. What I did is, I am well aware, open to criticism. But our necessity was great and I stand ready to accept any consequences. At least the result of today's contest in a measure vindicates my method. You who saw Mr. Briggs play will, I am sure, find excuses for me. As for the gentleman himself, it remains with him to say whether he will accept my apology for what passed this morning, taking into consideration the strait in which we were placed and the results as shown, or whether he will demand other satisfaction." Half a hundred surprised, curious faces turned toward Bi, who, during Hecker's statement, had looked at first contemptuous, then bewildered, and finally comprehending. For about ten seconds the room was as still as a graveyard. Then Bi stepped up with outstretched hand like a little man, and for the second time that day we went crazy! Bi was hailed as the greatest guard of the year, and they put him on the All-American team, but I don't think Bi cared a button. Anyhow, when they tried to get him to come out for the eleven the next fall he absolutely refused, and nothing anyone could say would budge him. He said he was too busy. THE END