"If there was only a moon," said Clint, "it would help some. You can't see a blessed thing."

"If there was a moon it wouldn't get through the clouds. It feels to me as if it might rain."

"You certainly have cheerful thoughts," Clint grumbled. "I wonder if it would do any good if we yelled."

"We might try it. Suppose we give the Brimfield cheer, Clint."

"Oh, shut up! You make me tired, Amy. Come on, now. Yell as loud as you can. All ready?"

"Hold on I What am I to yell?"

"Yell 'Help!' you idiot!"

"Oh, all right." They raised their voices together in a loud appealing shout. Then they listened. Not a sound answered them.

"Once more," said Clint. Again they shouted and again they listened. Deep silence, broken only by the chirping of crickets.

"No good, I guess," said Clint despondently.

"Nobody home," murmured Amy. "Now what? I'll tell you frankly, as man to man, that I can't go on walking all night, Clint. I'm dog-tired and my left leg's got a cramp in it and I'm weak with hunger. Let's find a cosy corner somewhere and go to sleep."

"I reckon we'll have to. I'm about all in, too. We'd better find a place where there's more shelter than there is here, though. Gee, but we are certainly a fine pair of idiots!"

"We are indeed!" assented Amy with enthusiasm. "I suppose that the time will come, perhaps twenty or thirty years from now, when we'll be able to look back on this night's jolly adventures and appreciate all the fun we're having, but just now—" Amy's voice trailed off into silence.

"Jolly adventures!" grunted Clint. "Don't talk rot!"

Five minutes later they stopped. That is, Clint stopped and Amy ran into him with a grunt.

"I suppose you haven't got a match, have you?" asked Clint.

"Right-o! You're a fine little supposer," chattered Amy.

"There's something here and I want to see what it is," said Clint. As he spoke he moved forward a step or two and felt around in the darkness. "It feels like a fence," he muttered, "a board fence. No, it isn't, it's a house! Here's a window."

"A hole, I'd call it," said Amy. "Let's find the door."

They moved to the right, following the building, and promptly collided with a tree. They had to go around that, since there was no room to squeeze past it. Then the hut, for it was evidently no more, presented a doorway, with a door half-open on broken hinges. They hesitated a moment.

"Wonder what's inside," said Clint in a low voice.

"Spooks," suggested Amy, none too bravely.

"Shut up! Would you go in?"

"Sure, I would. Come on."

Very cautiously they edged past the crazy door, their hands stretched warily ahead. There was a sudden scurrying sound from the darkness and they jumped back and held their breaths.

"P-probably a rat," whispered Amy.

"Or a squirrel," said Clint. They listened. All was silent again. A damp and musty odour pervaded the place. Under their feet the floor boards had rotted and as they made a cautious circuit of the interior they trod as often on soil as on wood. The hut was apparently empty of everything save a section of rusted stovepipe, dangling from a hole in the roof, some damp rags and paper in a corner and a broken box. Clint discovered the box by falling over it with a noise that sent Amy a foot off the ground. When all was said the advantages presented by the hut were few. It did protect them from the little chill breeze that stirred and it put a roof over their heads, although, as Clint said, if it rained before morning they'd probably find the roof of little account. On the other hand, it was damper than the outdoors and the mustiness was far from fragrant. They decided, however, to take up their quarters there until morning. Looking for the road was evidently quite useless, and, anyway, they were much too tired to tramp any longer. They found a place away from door and window where some of the floor-boards still survived and sank down with their backs to the wall. Amy heaved a great sigh of relief.

"Gee," he muttered, "this is fine!"

"Pull the blanket up," murmured Clint with a pathetic effort at humour. Amy chuckled weakly.

"I can't reach it," he said. "Guess it's on the floor. Anyway, the night air is very beneficial."

"Could you eat anything if you had it, Amy?"

"Shut up, for the love of Mike! I could eat a kitchen range. Clint, did I cast any aspersions awhile ago on cold lamb?"

"Uh-huh," said the other faintly.

"I was afraid so. I wish I hadn't now. A great, big platter of cold lamb would—would—Oh, say, I could love it to death! Gee, but I'm tired! And sleepy, too. Aren't you?"

Clint's response was a long, contented snore. Amy grunted. "I see you're not," he murmured. "Well—" He pushed himself a little closer to Clint for warmth and closed his eyes.

Many times they stirred and muttered and reached for bedclothes that were not there, but I doubt if either of them once really fully awoke until a sudden glare of light illumined the hut and flashed on their closed eyelids.



CHAPTER VIII

THE MYSTERIOUS AUTO

They awoke then, alarmed and confused, and stared with sleepy eyes at the white radiance which, entering door and window, showed with startling detail the bare walls of their refuge. Even as they looked the light vanished and, by contrast, the darkness seemed blacker than ever.

"Awake, Amy?" whispered Clint.

"Yes. Say, what the dickens was that?"

"I don't know. Listen!"

From somewhere not far away came the steady purring of a motor car. Their minds didn't work very quickly yet, and it was fully a minute before Clint exclaimed: "An auto! Then we must be near the road!"

He scrambled to his feet and crept, unsteadily because of chilled limbs, to the doorway. Amy followed. At first there was nothing to be seen. The night was still cloudy. But the sound of the running motor reached them distinctly, and, after a minute of strained peering into the darkness, they made out a line of trees against the sky. Apparently there was a road between them and the trees and the automobile was in the road. But no lights showed from it.

"Do you suppose," whispered Amy, "it's that fellow looking for us?"

"No, but maybe, whoever it is, he will give us—"

Clint's whisper stopped abruptly. A light flashed a few yards away, such an illumination as might be from a pocket electric lamp, and a voice broke the stillness. Clint grasped Amy's arm, warning to silence. Footsteps crossed the ground toward the hut.

Again the light flashed, but this time its rays were directed toward the ground and showed two pairs of legs and something that looked like a stout stick. Then it went out again and the footsteps stopped. The two men, whoever they were and whatever they were doing, remained some twenty feet from the watchers at the door. Now and then they spoke, but so softly that the boys could not hear what was said. Neither could they determine what the other sound was that reached them. It seemed almost as though the men were scuffing about the ground, and the absurd notion that they had lost something and were seeking it occurred to both. But to look for anything in the dark when there was a light at hand was too silly, and that explanation was discarded. For fully ten minutes—it seemed much longer to the shivering pair in the doorway—the motor chugged and the men continued their mysterious occupation. Amy's teeth were chattering so that Clint squeezed his arm again. Then the light again flashed, swept the ground for an instant and was as suddenly shut off, and the footsteps retreated.

The boys eased their cramped positions. A minute passed. Then they leaped aside from the doorway, for the flood of white light from the car was again illumining the hut and the engine was humming loudly. A moment of suspense, and the light swept past them, moved to the right, fell on a line of bushes and trees, turned back a little and bored a long hole in the darkness at the bottom of which stretched a roadway. And then, with a final sputter of racing engine and a grind of gears, the car sprang away up the road, the light dimmed and blackness fell again. The chugging of the auto diminished and died in the distance. Amy arose stiffly from where he had thrown himself out of the light.

"Now, what the dickens?" he demanded puzzledly.

"I can't imagine," replied Clint. "And I don't much care. What gets me is why we didn't speak to them!"

"That's so," agreed Amy. "Somehow, there was something sort of sneaky about them, though, wasn't there? Bet you anything they were robbers or—or something."

"Robbers don't usually travel around the country at night in autos," said Clint thoughtfully. "But I felt the way you did about them, I guess. I sort of felt that it would be just as well if we didn't butt in! One of them had a club that looked right hefty."

"Let's go out there and see if we can find anything," suggested Amy.

"All right, but I don't suppose we can even find the place in the dark."

They went out very cautiously and tramped about where it seemed that the mysterious visitors had been, and Amy even got down on hands and knees and felt over the ground. But nothing of moment rewarded their search, the only thing either of them discovered being a head-high bush into which Clint walked. At last:

"Well, this isn't much fun," said Amy. "And I'm cold clear through. Now we know where the road is, Clint, let's get on it and walk. At least it will warm us up."

"All right. I wish I knew what those fellows were up to, though. Maybe if we waited until daylight—"

"And froze to death! Nothing doing," chattered Amy. "Curiosity killed a cat, and although I don't feel exactly kittenish, I refuse to take any chances. What time do you suppose it is?"

"About midnight, I guess." Clint drew out his watch, but he couldn't even discern the outline of it. "A fellow's a fool to go without matches," he muttered disgustedly.

"Bet you it's a whole lot later than that," said Amy. "Anyway, let's get going. Which direction do you think Wharton is?"

They debated that for some time after they had reached the road, and in the end they decided that the town lay to their left, although, as Clint pointed out, the men in the automobile had gone in the opposite direction.

"They might be going to Thacher," said Amy. "Anyhow, we're bound to get somewhere in time. All I ask of Fortune is a bed and a breakfast; and I could do without the bed, I guess. Somewhere in the world, Clint there are two cups of hot coffee waiting for us. Is that not a cheering thought?"

"I wish I had mine now," replied the other shiveringly. "I dare say we're headed in the wrong direction for Wharton."

"Say not so," exclaimed Amy, whose spirits were rapidly returning. "Courage, faint heart! Onward to coffee!"

For awhile they speculated on the mysterious mission of the two men in the automobile, but neither of them could offer a satisfactory solution of the problem, and finally they fell silent. Fortunately the road ran fairly straight and they got off it only once. After they had been walking what seemed to them to be about an hour, although there was no way of knowing, Clint called attention to the fact that he could see the road. Amy replied that he couldn't, but in a moment decided that he could. To the left of them there was a perceptible greying of the sky. After that morning came fast. In a few minutes they could make out dimly the forms of trees beside the way, then more distant objects became visible and, as by a miracle, the sleeping world suddenly lay before them, black and grey in the growing light. Somewhere a bird twittered and was answered. A chilling breeze crept across a field, heralding the dawn and bringing shivers to the boys. Soon after that they came across the first sign of life, a farm with a creaking windmill busily at work, and a light showing wanly in an upper window of the house.

"Some poor fellow is getting out of a nice, warm bed," soliloquised Amy. "How I pity him! Can't you see him shaking his fist at the alarm-clock and shivering as he gets into his panties?"

"He's lucky to have a nice, warm bed," responded Clint. "If I had one it would take more than an alarm-clock to get me out of it!"

"Me too! Say, what do you think about sneaking over there to the stable and hitting the hay for a couple of hours? Maybe the chap might give us some coffee, too."

"More likely he'd set the dog on us at this time of morning," answered Clint. And, to lend weight to his objection, a challenging bark came across the field.

"Right-o," agreed Amy. "I didn't want any coffee, anyway. Isn't that a sign-post ahead?"

It was a sign-post, looming black and forbidding, like a wayside gibbet, where a second road turned to the left. "Wharton, 2 M—Levidge's Mills, 4 M—Custer, 6 M," they read with difficulty.

"We can do two miles in half an hour easily," said Amy. "Gee, I can almost smell that coffee, Clint!"

They went on in the growing light, passing another farm-house presently and another unfriendly dog. The greyness in the east became tinged with rose. Birds sang and fluttered. A rabbit hopped nimbly across the road ahead of them and disappeared, with a taunting flick of his little white tail, in the bushes. Further on a chipmunk chattered at them from the top of the wall and then, with long leaps, raced ahead to stop and eye them inquiringly, finally disappearing with a last squeal of alarm. A second sign-post renewed their courage. Wharton, it declared, was but a mile distant. But that was a long, long last mile! They were no longer sleepy, but their legs were very tired and the chilly breeze still bored through their coats. But their journey came to an end at last. Straggling houses appeared, houses with little gardens and truck patches about them. Then came a factory building with row on row of staring windows just catching the first faint glow of the sun. Then they crossed a railroad and plunged into the town.

But it was a silent, empty town, for this was Sunday morning, and their steps on the brick sidewalk echoed lonesomely. The awful thought that perhaps there would be no eating-place open assailed them and drew a groan of dismay from Amy. "Still," he declared, "if the worst comes to the worst, we can break a window and get taken to jail. They feed you in jail, don't they?" he added wistfully.

But near the centre of town a cheering sight met their anxious eyes. A little man in a white apron was sweeping the doorway of a tiny restaurant, yawning and pausing at intervals to gaze curiously toward the approaching travellers. Before they reached him, however, his curiosity either gave out or was sated, for, with a final tap of the broom against the doorway, he disappeared. "Suppose," exclaimed Amy, "he changes his mind and locks up again!" They urged tired feet to a faster pace and reached the door. On one wide window was the legend: "Cannister's Cafe." The door was closed but unlocked. They opened it and entered.

There was no one in sight, but from beyond a partition which ran across the room at the back came the cheering sounds of rattling dishes and the heartening fragrance of coffee. There were eight small tables and a little counter adorned with a cash register and a cigar case, and these, excepting an appropriate number of chairs, comprised the furnishings; unless the various signs along each wall could be included. These announcements were printed in blue on grey card-board, and the boys, sinking into chairs at the nearest table, read them avidly: "Beef Stew, 15 Cents"; "Pork and Beans, 10 Cents"; "Boiled Rice and Milk, 10 Cents"; "Coffee and Crullers, 10 Cents"; "Oysters in Season"; "Small Steak, 30 Cents"; "Buy a Ticket—$5.00 for $4.50"; "Corn Beef Hash, 15 Cents; With 1 Poached Egg, 20 Cents."

Their eyes met and they smiled. It was pleasantly warm in the little restaurant, the sun was peeping in at the window, the odour of coffee was more delightful than anything they had ever inhaled and it was extremely good to stretch tired legs and ease aching muscles, and for several minutes they were content to sit there and feast their hungry eyes on the placards and enjoy in anticipation the cheer that was to follow.

"What are you going to have?" asked Amy presently.

"Beans and a lot of bread-and-butter and seventy-five cups of coffee," replied Clint rapturously.

"Corned beef hash for mine. And a lot more coffee than that. Say, why doesn't he come?"

Evidently the proprietor had drowned the sound of their entrance with the rattle of dishes, for the swinging door in the partition remained closed and the little ledged window beside it showed only a dim vista of hanging pots and saucepans. Amy rapped a knife against the edge of a glass and the noise at the rear ceased abruptly, the door swung open and the man in the enveloping white apron viewed them in surprise. He was a bald-headed, pink-faced little man with a pair of contemplative blue eyes.

"Morning, boys," he said. "I didn't hear you come in. Don't usually get customers till most seven on Sundays. Want something to eat?"

"Yes, can we have something pretty quick?" asked Clint. "We're nearly starved."

"Well, I ain't got anything cooked, but the fire's coming up fast and it won't take long. What would you want?"

They made known their wishes and the little man leisurely vanished again. A clock above the counter announced the time to be twenty-five minutes to seven.

"We might have got him to bring us some coffee now," said Amy.

"I'd rather wait until I get my breakfast," Clint replied. "I wonder when we get a train for Brimfield. I reckon they don't run very often on Sundays."

"Maybe this chap can tell us. We'll ask him when he comes back."

Other and delicious odours mingled with the coffee fragrance, and a promising sound of sizzling reached them. "That," said Amy, settling back luxuriously and patting his waistcoat, "is my corned beef hash. I sort of wish I'd ordered an egg with it. Or, maybe, two eggs. Guess I will. Some crullers would taste pretty good, wouldn't they?"

"Anything would taste good," agreed Clint longingly.

Ten minutes passed and the door opened to admit another customer. After that they drifted in by ones and twos quite fast. The boys gathered that the newcomers were men employed at the railway yards nearby, and presently Amy questioned one who was reading a paper at the next table.

"Can you tell us when we can get a train for Brimfield?" he asked.

"Brimfield? Yes, there's one at seven-twelve and one at nine-forty-six."

"I guess we couldn't get the seven-twelve," said Amy, glancing at the clock. "The other would be all right."

"I ain't sure if that one stops at Brimfield, though. Say, Pete, does the nine-forty-six stop at Brimfield?"

"No," replied a man at another table. "Express to New York."

"You're wrong," volunteered a third. "It runs accommodation from here on Sundays."

"That's so," agreed the other. "I'd forgot."

Amy thanked his informant and at that moment the proprietor, who had been in and out taking orders, appeared with the boys' breakfasts. The baked beans and the hash were sizzling hot and looked delicious, and the coffee commanded instant attention. A plate piled with thick slices of bread and two small pats of very yellow butter completed the repast. For five minutes by the clock not a word was said at that table. Then, having ordered a second cup of coffee apiece, the boys found time to pause.

"Gee, but that was good!" murmured Amy. "I suppose I must have eaten awfully fast, for I don't seem to want those eggs now."

"How about the crullers?" asked Clint.

"They wouldn't be half bad, would they? Have some?" Clint nodded and four rather sad-looking rings of pastry appeared. It was still only a quarter past seven and, since they could not continue their journey before nine-forty-six, they consumed the crullers and their second cups of coffee more leisurely. The little restaurant began to get pretty smoky, and the combined odours of a dozen breakfasts, now that they had completed their own repasts, failed to delight them. But they stayed on, hating the thought of the walk to the station, quite satisfied to remain there without moving in the warmth and cheerful bustle. If they could have laid their heads against the wall and gone to sleep they'd have asked nothing more. Amy nodded drowsily once or twice and Clint stared out the sunny window with the somnolent gaze of a well-fed cat. It was, he reflected, a very beautiful world. And then their pleasant day-dreams were disturbed by the sudden and rather boisterous entry of a big, broad-shouldered man who seemed to take entire possession of the restaurant and quite dwarf its size.

"Hello, boys!" The newcomer skimmed his hat dexterously to a peg, pulled out a chair with twice as much noise as usually accompanies such an operation and plumped his big body into it with a heartiness which almost set the dishes to rattling in the kitchen. Everyone in the room except the two boys answered his greeting.

"Hello, Mike! How's the lad?"

"Fine! And hungry to beat the band! Can, you old rascal! Where are you? Fry me a couple of eggs and some bacon, Can, and draw one."

"All right, Mike!" The proprietor's pink face showed for an instant at the window. The newcomer opened a morning paper with a loud rustling, beating the sheets into place with the flat of a huge hand. "You fellows hear about the burglary?" he asked.



CHAPTER IX

UNDER SUSPICION

"Burglary? No. Where was it?" asked several voices.

"Black and Wiggin's jewelry store."

"What? Who says so?"

"I says so! I seen it just now."

"Saw the burglary?"

"Naw! Saw where they'd cut a chunk out of the window and gone in. Where you fellows been all morning?"

"Maybe you did it, Mike," suggested a small man across the room, winking to his neighbour.

"Maybe I wished I had!" was the reply. "They say they got away with nearly a thousand dollars' worth of stuff. Blew the safe, they did, and cleaned it out pretty."

"That right? When was this, Mike?"

"Some time last night. A watchman at the collar factory says he seen an automobile stop around the corner near the Baptist Church about three o'clock. Says it didn't have no lights on it. He didn't think much about it, though, he says, and the next time he came round front he looked again and it was gone. The papers had it last week where there was a job just like that done over to Maynard. Two ginks in an automobile came along one night and lifted six or eight hundred dollars' worth of stuff out of a gent's furnishing shop. If they don't raise my pay at the Yards pretty quick I'm going to hire me an automobile, fellows."

This aroused laughter, and an excited discussion of the burglary followed, during which Mr. Cannister quite forgot his orders on the stove and was only recalled to them by an odour of scorching eggs. Two of the customers, having finished breakfast, made known their intention of visiting the scene of the crime, and went out. At the first table inside the door two boys were regarding each other with round and inquiring eyes.

"Do you suppose—" began Clint. But Amy hissed him to silence.

"Wait till we hear more," he cautioned.

But, although they listened with all ears, little more information was forthcoming, save that one Carey, Chief of the local police, was already busy. "He's telephoned all around," said Mike, "and told them to look out for the automobile. But, say, what chance has he got, eh? You can't stop every automobile that goes through and search it for jewelry!"

"What sort of jewelry did they get, Mike?" asked the proprietor.

"Rings and pins and things like that." He chuckled. "It seems that whoever closed up last night left the box they keep their diamonds and stones that ain't set in out of the safe. They found it back of the counter this morning. The robbers hadn't ever seen it. I guess they'd be good and mad if they knew!"

"Come on," whispered Amy. They settled their checks and left the restaurant, trying to disguise their eagerness. After the door had closed behind them the man whom they had asked about the Brimfield trains inquired: "Who are those boys, Can?"

"Don't know. They walked in here about six-thirty and wanted some breakfast. Said they was nigh starved. Looked it, too. And mighty tired. Nice-appearing young fellows. Off on a lark, maybe, trampin' around country."

"Thought they were strangers here. Got any more coffee, Can?"

* * * * *

"What do you think?" asked Amy eagerly as they walked up the street.

"I don't know," replied Clint doubtfully. "What would they be doing there?"

"Burying the stuff they stole, of course! That's what they did, all right. You see if it isn't. Maybe they'll offer a reward and all we'll have to do is go there and dig the things up and—"

"I guess we'd better find the police station and tell what we know, reward or no reward," answered Clint. "And another thing we'd better do is telephone to school and tell them we aren't dead. We're going to catch the mischief, anyway, I reckon, but we might as well save ourselves all we can. Wonder where there's a telephone."

"There's a blue sign over there in the next block," said Amy. "Who—who's going to do the talking?"

"Well, you're pretty fond of it," suggested Clint.

"Not today! Not on Sundays, Clint! I never could talk on Sundays! You'd better do it. And get Josh himself, if you can. He'll like it better than if he hears it from an H.M. Tell him we got lost and—"

But Amy's further instructions were interrupted. A blue-coated policeman who had been observing their approach with keen interest hailed them from the curb at the corner.

"Hello, boys!" he said. "Where'd you come from?"

"We came from Thacher," replied Clint. "That is, we came from there this morning, or, rather, last night. We're from Brimfield, really."

"Are, eh? Thought you said Thacher. What you doing here?''

"Waiting for a train. We lost our way last night and only got here this morning."

"Why didn't you take the seven-o'clock then?"

"We didn't know about it until it was too late. We were getting some breakfast at a restaurant down the street there. We're going to take the nine-forty-six."

"The nine-forty-six is an express to New York, son. What's your name? And what's his?"

"My name's Thayer and his is Byrd. We go to Brimfield Academy."

"Do, eh? Aren't you a long way from home?"

"Yes. You see, we went over to Thacher to the football game and lost the trolley. And then a fellow offered to give us a ride in an automobile as far as this place and we got in and a wheel came off and we had to walk the rest of the way. But we got lost in the woods somewhere and—"

"What sort of a looking fellow was this? The one with the auto, I mean?"

"Oh, he was about twenty years old, with kind of long hair, light-brown, and sort of greyish eyes."

"Tell you his name?"

"No, sir, we didn't ask him. He drives the auto for some liveryman in Thacher, he said."

"Hm. Well, that may be all right, kids, but I've been instructed to look out for suspicious characters this morning, and I guess you'd both better step around to the station with me." He smiled. "I don't suppose the Chief'll keep you very long, but he might like to ask you some questions. See?"

The boys nodded not over-enthusiastically and accompanied the officer. The police station was but a half-block distant on a side street and their captor ushered them up the steps and into a room where a tall, bushy-whiskered man with much gold on his shoulders sat writing at a flat-topped desk.

"Chief, here's a couple of youngsters I met on Main Street just now. I guess they're all right, but I thought maybe you'd like to look 'em over."

The Chief nodded and proceeded to do so. He had a most disconcerting stare, had the Chief, and the boys began to wonder if they had not, perhaps, after all performed that burglary!

"Well, boys," he said finally, "where do you belong?"

"Brimfield Academy," replied Amy.

"Running away, are you?"

"No, sir, we're trying to get back. We went to Thacher yesterday with the football team and started over here in a fellow's auto and it broke down about—about four miles back and we got lost and slept in a sort of hut and got here this morning."

"Where was the hut?" asked the official.

"Just off the road between here and Thacher. About four miles, or maybe five."

"Nearer six," corrected Clint. "We walked four miles, I guess, before we found that sign-post."

The Chief questioned particularly regarding the automobile and its driver, finally taking up the telephone and inquiring of the two local garages if such a car had been brought in for repairs. Both garages replied that they hadn't seen the car and the Chief looked back at Amy speculatively.

"He must have gone back and found that nut," said Amy, "and repaired it himself."

"Maybe," said the Chief. "Who did you say the fellow drove the auto for?"

"I didn't say. I've forgotten the name. Some liveryman in Thacher."

"And he was coming here to get the hotel proprietor, eh?"

"That's what he said."

"And you didn't see him again?"

"No, sir, not unless—"

"Unless what?"

Amy glanced inquiringly at Clint and Clint nodded.

"Unless he was in the car that stopped at the hut in the night," concluded Amy, "and I don't believe he was."

The Chief exchanged a quick look with the policeman and asked indifferently: "Oh, there was a car stopped in the night, eh? What for? Who was in it?"

"We couldn't see who was in it. We were asleep in the hut and woke up with the light in our eyes. Then we heard the car chugging on the road and two men got out and came toward the hut and sort of—sort of walked around for about ten minutes and then went off again."

"Walked around? What were they walking around for?"

"I don't know, sir, but—"

"We think," interrupted Clint, "that they were the men who robbed the jewelry store and that they were burying the things they had stolen."

"You do, eh? Who told you any jewelry store had been robbed?"

"We heard some men talking about it at the restaurant where we had breakfast."

"Where was that?"

"About five blocks that way," said Clint.

"Cannister was the name on the door," explained Amy.

"If you thought the men in the automobile were burying something why didn't you find out what it was after they had gone?"

"We didn't think that until we got here and heard about the burglary. We didn't know what they were doing. It was dark and we had no matches. After they had gone we did sort of feel around there to see if we could find anything, but we couldn't."

"What time was it?"

"I suppose it was about four o'clock. We couldn't see our watches."

The Chief held a hand across the desk. "Let me see yours," he said.

"See what, sir?" asked Clint.

"Your watch." Clint took it off and laid it in the Chief's hand. It was a plain and inexpensive gold watch and was quite evidently far from new. The Chief examined it, opened the back and read the number, and referred to a slip of paper beside him. Then he asked for Amy's and smiled as Amy passed him his nickel timepiece.

"All right," he said, returning them. "What did those two men look like?"

"We couldn't see, sir," replied Amy. "They just had an electric torch and they lighted it only twice. We could just see two pairs of legs and that was all. And a stick."

"A stick?"

"I think it was a shovel," said Clint.

"Were the lights on the car lighted all this time?"

"No, sir, they put them out."

"Could you see the car enough to say whether it was a big one or a little one?"

"No, sir," said Clint, "but I have an idea it was sort of small. The engine sounded like it."

"Suppose you give me your names." They did so and the Chief took off the telephone receiver again. "Hello! Get me Brimfield Academy at Brimfield. This is Chief Carey. I want to talk with the president—"

"Principal, sir," whispered Amy.

"With the principal." A minute or two passed in silence. Then: "Hello," said the Chief. "Is this Brimfield Academy? Well, who am I talking to, please? Mr. Ferner? Fernald?" He looked questioningly at Clint and Clint nodded his head. "Well, this is the Chief of Police at Wharton. Have you got two boys at your school named Clinton Thayer and Amory Byrd, Mr. Fernald? Have, eh? Are they there now?... I see. Well, I guess I've got them here.... No, no, nothing like that. There's been a robbery here and the boys seem to think they have a clue to it. I wanted to find out if they were all right. Yes, they're right here. Certainly, sir."

The Chief held out the telephone and Clint took it.

"Mr. Fernald? This is Thayer, sir. We're awfully sorry, sir, but we got lost last night and had to sleep in a hut near here and we've only just got here a little while ago. We are coming right back, sir."

"How did you happen to get lost?" asked the principal's voice.

Clint explained as best he could.

"Byrd is there with you?"

"Yes, sir. Do you want to speak to him?"

"No. Get back here as soon as you can and come and see me at once. I want this explained a little better, Thayer. That's all. You're not—um—you're not in trouble with the police?"

"No, sir."

"All right. Get back on the first train."

Clint sighed with relief as he returned the telephone to the desk.

"Was he very waxy?" asked Amy anxiously.

"Not very, I reckon," Clint replied. "He wants us to beat it back and see him at once."

"I can scarcely restrain my eagerness," murmured Amy.

"What train were you thinking of taking?" asked the Chief, drawing the telephone toward him again.

"They said there was one at nine-forty-six," replied Clint, "but this—this officer says it doesn't stop at Brimfield."

"We'll soon find out, boys." The Chief consulted a time-table and nodded. "Brimfield at ten-fifteen." He looked at the big clock on the wall. "Seven-forty-five," he muttered. "I guess we can make it." He put the receiver to his ear once more. "Operator? Wharton, 137-M, please. Hello! That you, Gus? This is Dave Carey. Say, Gus, I want an auto to hold five of us besides your driver. What say? Yes, right away. Well, hunt him up. Get here by eight sure. At the station, yes. All right." The Chief returned the receiver and leaned back. "I guess," he said, "you boys had better show us where that place is and we'll have a look at it. It doesn't seem probable to me that the crooks would hide that stuff in a hole, but they might have. If it was getting late they might have been afraid they'd get held up and searched before they got clear. Anyway, we'll have a look."

"Is there any reward for it?" asked Amy.

"Not that I know of," laughed the Chief. "I guess there's a reward for the capture of the fellows who did it. If you can show us where they are you might make a couple of hundred dollars, son. The Jewellers' Protective Association would be glad to square you."

"I'm afraid I don't get that," mourned Amy. "How much is the stuff worth that they swiped?"

"Oh, seven or eight hundred, I guess. Wiggin didn't seem to know just what had been taken. Here's a list of some of it, though. Seven watches, eleven seals and a lot of pins and brooches and studs. They missed the unset stones, the thieves did. Bill, you dig up a couple of spades somewhere and bring around here by eight."

The policeman disappeared and the boys seated themselves to wait.



CHAPTER X

BURIED TREASURE

Some twenty minutes later they were headed in a big seven-seating automobile toward the scene of the boys' early morning adventure. On the front seat with the chauffeur sat Chief Carey and in the tonneau were Clint and Amy and two policemen, one of them the officer who had taken them to the station. At their feet were two brand-new spades.

It was a fine, clear morning and promised to be quite warm by noon. But Clint and Amy snuggled down into the seat and presented as small a portion of their anatomies as was possible to the fresh morning breeze that rushed by them. They passed the first sign-post and the second and the first farm they had seen, but after that the road was quite unfamiliar since they had travelled over it in the dark. The car whisked along at an even thirty-mile speed until, shortly after the farm-house was passed, Clint suggested that as neither he nor Amy were certain as to the location of the hut the car proceed more slowly. After that a careful look-out was kept. No one in the car could recall a hut of any sort along the road, and, when they had travelled at least eight miles from Wharton without finding it, Chief Carey showed signs of impatience. The car was stopped and a consultation was held. The boys reiterated their statement that the hut, to the best of their knowledge, was between four and six miles from Wharton. Finally it was decided that they should turn around and go back slowly in order that the boys could identify the spot where the automobile had met its mishap the afternoon before. Clint was not at all certain that he would know the place when he saw it again, but Amy stoutly asserted that he would recognise it at once. And he did.

There, finally, was the quick turn in the road and beyond, still plainly visible, the tracks of the auto in the looser soil and turf of the bank and meadow.

"There's the tree we ran into," pointed out Amy, "and there's the field we went across. Now let's see. We found a stream there; you can see it, can't you? Then we followed along this side of it and up that sort of hill—"

But beyond that he couldn't trace their wanderings. Woods and pastures ran into each other confusingly. One thing was explained, however, or, rather, two things; why they didn't find the trolley line and why they didn't succeed in reaching the road again. The trolley line, the chauffeur explained, was more than a mile distant, and the road ahead of them turned widely to the left just beyond. They had, consequently, roamed over a stretch of country at least two miles broad between dirt road and railroad. When they went on, which they did very slowly, all hands peered intently along the right side of the highway. They had proceeded possibly three-quarters of a mile when one of the officers called out and the car stopped.

"I think I saw it," he said. "Anyway, there's something there. Back up a little, Tom." The chauffeur obeyed and the quest was at an end. There was the hut, but so hidden by young oak trees with russet leaves still hanging that only from one point was it noticeable. Out they all piled.

"Now," said the Chief, "you boys get in there and stand just where you did last night and then come out and indicate about where those fellows dug—if they did dig."

Clint and Amy obeyed and the others followed slowly across the intervening space. The hut stood further from the road than it had seemed to in the night. A good thirty yards separated the two, and the yellowing turf of long meadow grass was interspersed here and there with clumps of goldenrod and asters and wild shrubs and with small second-growth trees. At the side of the doorway was the tree which they had collided with, a twenty-foot white birch. The hut was even more dilapidated than they had supposed. It looked as if a good wind would send its twisted, sun-split grey boards into a heap. Inside, however, with the sunlight streaming through doorway, window and cracks, it looked more inviting than it had at night. Weeds were growing between the rotting boards and in one corner a hornets' nest as big as their heads hung from a sagging rafter.

"Gee," muttered Amy, "I'm glad we didn't accidentally disturb that, Clint!"

In the doorway they stood and tried to re-enact the happenings of the night. It wasn't easy to decide on the spot where the men had stood, however, but finally they agreed as to its probable location and walked toward the road, keeping a little to the left, for some fifteen yards. That brought them close to a six-foot bush which, they decided, was the one Clint had walked into. The Chief and the others joined them.

"About here, you think?" asked the Chief.

"Yes, sir, as near as we can tell," replied Clint, none too confidently. They viewed the place carefully, but, save that the grass seemed a trifle more trampled than elsewhere, there was nothing to indicate that the soil had been disturbed. Nothing, at least, until one of the officers picked up a torn and twisted oak-seedling some sixteen inches long which lay a few feet away. It's brown roots were broken as if it had been pulled up by force and tossed aside. The Chief nodded and went minutely over the turf for a space several yards in extent, finally giving a grunt of satisfaction.

"Here you are," he said, straightening his body and pointing the toe of one broad shoe at the ground. "They lifted the turf off and put it back again. A pretty good job to do in the dark, I say. Bring your shovels, men."

It was easy enough to see the spot now that the Chief had found it. The turf had been cut through with a shovel or spade and rolled or lifted back. Close looking showed the incision and there still remained some loose soil about the roots of the grass at one side, although the men had evidently striven carefully to hide all traces of their undertaking. In a moment the turf was once more up and the spades were plunging into the loosened soil beneath. Clint and Amy watched excitedly. Presently one of the officers stopped digging, since there was now only room for one spade in the excavation. Once there was an expectant pause while the digger reached in with his hands and grubbed in the moist red gravel. But it was only a stone he pulled out.

The hole was down almost two feet now and the Chief was beginning to frown anxiously. "They made a good job of it," he growled. "I guess—"

But he forgot to say what he guessed, for just at that moment there was an exclamation from the officer who was wielding the spade and all bent forward as he dropped his implement and reached down into the hole. When he straightened up again he brought a small bundle wrapped in a piece of black rubber sheeting. The Chief seized it and unwrapped the sheeting, laying bare a small pasteboard box tied with a piece of pink string. With the string undone and the lid off one glance was enough to show that they had found the stolen jewelry.

"That's the stuff, all right," said the Chief with satisfaction. "And I guess it's all here, from the looks. You'd better dig down and make sure, though."

The officer obeyed, while the others crowded around the Chief. The stolen things had been tossed carelessly into the box, a few still wrapped in squares of tissue paper but the most rattling together indiscriminately. There were watches and scarfpins and brooches and studs and watch charms and several bracelets and one platinum and gold chain. The robbers had selected carefully, for every article was valuable, although it still seemed possible that the Chief's estimate of seven hundred dollars was generous enough.

"They'll be some surprised if they ever come back for it, won't they?" asked the chauffeur with a chuckle. "Say, Chief, why don't you set a man to watch for 'em?"

"I would if I knew when they were coming," replied the official drily. "But they may not come back here for a month. Maybe they won't then. They won't if we can get our hands on them," he added grimly.

The officer who had been probing the hole further reported nothing more there, and, well satisfied, they returned to the car.

"I'll check this up when we get back to the station," said the Chief, tossing the box carelessly to the seat. "Black and Wiggin are mighty lucky to get it back. They wouldn't have if it hadn't been for these chaps. Say, boys, you tell Wiggin he ought to give you something for this. You certainly deserve it." And the officers agreed.

"Oh, if there isn't any reward offered," said Amy, "we don't want anything."

"Well, he ought to be willing to give you something. How much time is there before that train goes? Most an hour? That's all right then. We'll go back to the station and I'll 'phone Wiggin to come around."

The return trip was made in quick time and almost before they knew it the boys were back in the Chief's office at the station house. The Chief wouldn't consent to their leaving until Mr. Wiggin had arrived, although they both declared that the jeweller didn't owe them anything and that they mustn't on any account lose their train.

"You won't," replied the Chief. "You can walk to the station in three minutes and you've still got forty. Sit down there while I check this stuff up."

They obeyed and looked on while he dumped the things from the box to the top of the desk and pulled his memorandum toward him. One by one he pushed the articles aside and checked the list with a pencil. Finally he chuckled. "Wiggin didn't know much more'n half the stuff he lost," he said. "There's nine watches here instead of seven and a lot more other things than he's got down here on his list. Here he is now, I guess."

Mr. Wiggin was a bewhiskered, nervous-mannered little man and he hurried into the Chief's office as though he had run all the way from his house or store.

"Well, well, Chief!" he exclaimed breathlessly. "So you've found it, eh? I want to know! I want to know! Got the thieves too, eh?" He scowled darkly at Clint and Amy, and Amy was heard to assert under his breath that he hoped Mr. Wiggin would choke. The Chief laughed.

"No, we haven't got the thieves, Mr. Wiggin. These boys gave us the clue that led to the stuff. Shake hands, boys, with Mr. Wiggin. That's Byrd and that's Thayer. They're Brimfield Academy fellows, Mr. Wiggin, and they happened to see the thieves burying the things about five miles out of town toward Thacher." Whereupon the Chief told the story to the jeweller and the latter, recovering from his embarrassment, insisted on shaking hands again.

"I want to know!" he ejaculated, beaming at them like a pleased sparrow. "I want to know! Smart lads, eh, Chief? Now—now—" He hesitated, his eyes darting from Clint to Amy and from Amy to the Chief. Then he cleared his throat nervously, slapped his hands together gently and continued. "There—hem—there was no reward offered, boys, but—"

"That's all right," replied Amy briskly. "We don't want anything, Mr. Wiggin."

"No, no, of course not, of course not! Only—hem—I was thinking that—possibly, say, fifty dollars between you, or—"

"No, thanks," interrupted Clint. "We're glad we were able to help you recover the things, sir. And now I reckon we'll have to be getting to the station."

But Mr. Wiggin was the sort who becomes more insistent against opposition. Really, the boys must take something! Really they must! He appealed to Chief Carey, and the Chief agreed. "Now—now—" continued the jeweller, "say a watch apiece, if they didn't like to take money. Just a gold watch. Here were two nice ones!"

In the end his insistence won, the boys becoming at last too embarrassed and too fearful of losing their train to refuse longer. A handsome gold watch, not much thicker than a book-cover, was attached to Amy's chain, while Clint, having a perfectly good watch already, was invited to select something else from the array on the desk and finally allowed himself to become possessed of a diamond and ruby scarfpin which was much the finest thing he had ever owned. And then, with ten minutes to reach the station in, they shook hands with the jeweller and Chief Carey and relievedly hurried out, the Chief's hearty invitation to come and see him again pursuing them into the corridor.

A very few minutes afterwards they were seated in the train and speeding toward Brimfield.

"And now," said Amy brightly, "all we've got to do is to give our little song and dance to Josh!"



CHAPTER XI

BRIMFIELD MEETS DEFEAT

The interview with Mr. Fernald was not, however, the ordeal they had feared. The principal pointed out to them that they should have returned from Thacher to Wharton by trolley with the other students, and not experimented with a strange automobile. When the boys had shown proper contrition for that fault Mr. Fernald allowed a note of curiosity to appear in his voice.

"Now," he said, "about this burglary, Byrd. What—a—what was all that?"

So Amy narrated in detail and they exhibited their presents and the principal was frankly interested. He smiled when he returned Clint's scarfpin. "You young gentlemen had quite an adventure, and I consider that you behaved very—ah—circumspectly. I congratulate you on your rewards. If I remember rightly, Byrd, you lost a watch last Winter."

"Yes, sir, I left it at the rink."

"This is much too fine a one to lose. See if you can't hold on to it. You may be excused from church attendance this morning. If you'll take my advice you'll clean up and then get some sleep. As near as I can see you didn't have much last night."

"Thank you, sir," said Amy. "I'm sorry we—got lost, Mr. Fernald."

"Are you, Byrd?" There was a twinkle in the principal's eye. "You know if you hadn't got lost you wouldn't have a nice new watch!"

They were challenged several times before they reached their room by boys who wanted to know where they had been and what had happened to them, but both were too sleepy and tired to do the subject justice and so they observed a mysterious reticence and resisted all pleas. They bathed, Amy nearly falling asleep in the tub, and then stretched themselves out gratefully on their beds. That was the last either knew until, almost two hours later, Penny Durkin began an ambitious attempt on Handel's largo in the next room. They managed to get to dining hall without being penalised for tardiness and ate like wood-choppers.

That evening they went over to Hensey and called on Jack Innes and Amy told the story of their adventures to a roomful of fellows who utterly refused to believe a word of it until Clint had subscribed to the main facts and the watch and scarfpin had been passed around. You could scarcely have blamed them for their incredulity, either, for the story as Amy told it was wonderfully and fearfully embroidered. It was a good story, though, a mighty good story. Amy acknowledged that himself!

"It's a wonder," jeered Tracey Black, "you didn't stay over at Wharton and help your friend the Chief capture the robbers!"

"He wanted us to," replied Amy gravely, "but of course we couldn't. We gave him some good advice, though, and told him he could call us up by 'phone if he got stuck."

"Gee, I'll bet that was a big relief to him," said Steve Edwards. "I feel sort of sorry for those burglars, fellows. They haven't a ghost of a show now."

Amy smiled tolerantly.

After that the conversation got around to the absorbing subject of football and stayed there until the gathering broke up. There was some discussion of yesterday's contest, but more of the next Saturday's game with Morgan's School. Morgan's was a new opponent on Brimfield's schedule and not a great deal was known about its prowess. Black thought, or pretended to think, that the Maroon-and-Grey was in for a beating, but couldn't give any very convincing reasons.

"Oh, piffle," grunted Still, "who ever heard of Morgan's School until you put it on the schedule, Tracey?"

"I didn't put it on. Lawrence did, naturally. And it's silly to say that no one ever heard of Morgan's. Just because it isn't near New York you think it can't possibly be any good!"

"Where is it, anyway?" inquired Tom Hall.

"Manningsville, Delaware," replied the manager. "It's a whopping big school, with about three hundred fellows, and last year they licked about everyone they met up with."

"Time, then, they came up here and saw a real team," said Marvin. "Bet you we score twice as much as they do, Tracey."

"Bet you we don't! Bet you the sodas for the crowd!"

"Got you," answered Marvin, pulling Still's pillow further under his head where he lay sprawled on the bed. "Get your mouths fixed, fellows. Mr. Black's treat!"

"What do you think, Jack?" asked Edwards.

"Shucks, I don't know anything about it. And I don't see that it matters. If we beat them, all right; if they beat us, all right. The main thing is to play the best we know how and get as much fun and profit as we can out of the game. I don't care a brass tack about any of the games except Claflin and Chambers. I would like to beat Chambers, after the way they mussed us up last year. By the way, fellows, I got word from Detweiler this morning and he says he will come about the first of November and put in a week or so on the tackles and ends. That's bully news, isn't it?"

Several agreed enthusiastically that it was, but Gilbert, a second team substitute, who was a protege of Marvin's, asked apologetically who Detweiler was.

"Joe Detweiler was all-America tackle on the Princeton team last year," responded Captain Innes, "and the year before that, too. He was captain here five years ago."

"Oh, that Detweiler!" said Gilbert. "I didn't know!"

"Your ignorance pains me sorely, Gilbert," said Amy. "You could be excused for not recalling the name of the President, for not knowing whether Thomas Edison or J.P. Morgan built the first steamboat or whether Admiral Dewey was a hero or a condition of the weather, but, Gilbert, not to know Detweiler proves you hopeless. I'm sorry to say it, but your mind is evidently of no account whatever. Detweiler, you poor benighted nut, is a Greek of the Grecians! He has a chest measurement of ninety-eight inches under-all! His biceps are made of Harveyised steel and his forceps—"

"For the love of Mike, Amy, shut up!" begged Marvin.

"Oh? very well! If you want the poor idiot to go through life with no knowledge of the important—er—"

"We do!" agreed Innes.

"Of course I know who Detweiler is," said Gilbert, a trifle indignantly. "But there might be more than one, mightn't there? How did I know—"

"More than one Detweiler!" exclaimed Amy horrifiedly. "Is there more than one Washington? More than one Napoleon? More than one Huxley? More than one Thackeray? More than one—one Byrd?"

"You bet there are!" asserted Black. "There are jays and parrots!"

"Amy, you're a crazy nut," laughed Innes.

"A nut I may be," replied Amy with dignity, "but I have raisins."

There was an excruciating howl of agony and Amy was violently set upon, deposited on the nearer bed and pummelled until he begged for mercy. When quiet was restored Edwards asked: "Is 'Boots' coming back this year, Jack?"

"Yes, he'll be here in a day or two, I think. Robey had a letter from him last week."

"Thought someone said he wasn't coming back," observed Still.

"He said in the Spring he didn't think he could," explained Jack, "but you couldn't keep him away if you tried, I guess. You second team fellows will know what hustling means when he takes hold of you, Thayer."

Clint smiled and looked politely interested, but the subject was not continued, for at that moment, Amy, who had been craftily biding his time, reached out and pulled Still's chair over, and in the ensuing confusion the gathering broke up. On the way along the Row, Clint asked Amy about the mysterious "Boots."

"His name is Boutelle," explained Amy. "We call him 'Boots' for short; a sort of a last name." Amy chuckled gleefully.

"What's the joke?" asked Clint.

"Didn't you get it? Last name; see? 'Boots'—last!"

"Oh!"

"Thank you! I was afraid I'd have to explain it for you in a foot-note."

"What's he do? Coach the second?"

"He do. And he's a mighty nice chap, 'Boots' is. The fellows were quite crazy about him last year. He did good work, too. Turned out a second that was some team, believe me! Maybe if 'Boots' gets hold of you, Clint, you may amount to something. I've done what I could for you, but I think you've got where you need a firmer hand."

"You're getting where you need a firm foot," laughed Clint. "And I'm the one to apply it!"

"Tut, tut!" murmured the other. "Never start anything, Clint, you can't finish. Right wheel, march! Oh, dear, Penny is at it again! And I had hoped for a quiet evening!"

The middle of the week Mr. Boutelle arrived and the second team got down to business. The training-table was started, and including Coach Boutelle was made up of sixteen members. "Boots" presided at the head and Captain Turner at the foot, and Clint was sandwiched in between Kingston, who played guard, and Don Gilbert, a substitute guard. The team had its own signals now and practised on its own gridiron each afternoon until it was time to scrimmage with the 'varsity. Clint was first choice right tackle, with Robbins close behind and hard after him. Being at training-table was lots of fun, although Clint regretted leaving Amy. The latter's dire forebodings regarding the food at the second's table proved unjustified. They had plenty to eat and of the sort that was best for them. Steaks and chops and roasts formed the meat diet, eggs appeared at breakfast and supper, there was all the milk they could drink, and fresh vegetables and light desserts completed the menus. "Boots" was rather strict in the matter of diet and fresh bread agitated him as a red flag agitates a bull. Clint thought he had never seen so much toast in his life as appeared on and disappeared from the second team's table that Fall. Another thing that "Boots" would not tolerate was water with meals. It was, he declared, ruinous to the digestion. "All the milk you want, but no water" was "Boots'" rule, and in consequence the four big white pitchers that stood in a row down the middle of the board had to be refilled at every meal. The boys at the training-tables paid a dollar a week extra for board, but Clint still felt that he was cheating someone and feared it was the cow!

"Boots" worked them hard, but his own enthusiasm was so contagious that he soon had them as eager as he was, and the afternoon when they kept the 'varsity from scoring during two twelve-minute periods was a red-letter day, and supper that evening was almost like a banquet. Fortunately the 'varsity table and the second team table were separated by the width of the hall. Otherwise the 'varsity fellows might have taken exception to some of the remarks that passed between the elated second team members.

That scoreless tie did not take place just yet, however. Just now the second was only finding itself and the 'varsity romped through or around it almost at will. The final scrimmage before the Morgan's School contest was on Friday and the Varsity had no trouble scoring twice in twenty minutes of actual playing time. But even then the second was beginning to show possibilities and the first team fellows were forced to work hard for the two touchdowns they secured. Coach Robey was unusually grim that afternoon and so many changes were made in the line-up of the 'varsity that Assistant Manager Morton's brain reeled as he tried to keep track of the players. It was suspected that the head coach was far from satisfied with the first-string backs and it was predicted on the stand that afternoon that before the season was much older there would be considerable of a shake-up in their ranks. Freer was looked on as having a good chance to displace Kendall, and St. Clair, who although he had been playing but one year was developing rapidly into a clever half, had many partisans who considered him the equal of the veteran Still.

On Saturday "Boots" put the second through an hour's scrimmage and consequently the Varsity game with Morgan's School was nearly half over when Clint and the others pulled on sweaters and blankets and hustled across to the nearby gridiron and settled to watch. Morgan's presented a very husky lot of chaps, long-legged, narrow-hipped fellows who appeared to be trained to the minute.

"They look," confided Clint to Don Gilbert, "as if they were all the same height and size and style. They must buy 'em by the dozen."

Gilbert chuckled. "'Buy them' is good," he said. "They say half of them don't pay a cent of tuition. Same way with their baseball fellows. I know a chap who goes to Prentiss Hall, and Prentiss and Morgan's are rivals, you know. He says half the fellows who play football and baseball and things at Morgan's don't have to pay a cent."

"Maybe he's prejudiced," laughed Clint. "You hear a lot of that sort of stuff, Gilbert, and it's always about the other fellow!"

"Well, that's what Dave Larned says, anyway. Say, they are fast though, aren't they!" ejaculated Gilbert.

They certainly were, as Brimfield was discovering to her cost. With the second quarter almost over and no score by either side, the orange-and-blue-stockinged visitors were behaving very much as if they meant to put a touchdown over. Morgan's had secured the ball by fair catch on her own thirty-eight yards after a poor attempt at a punt by Harris, and now she was turning Brimfield's right flank nicely. Trow, tackle on that side, was boxed twice in succession; Roberts, right end, was bowled over and two rushes gained first down on the twenty-five-yard line. Coach Robey sped Holt in for Roberts and Holt managed to upset the next play for a yard gain. Then Morgan's swung her attack against left guard and Churchill was caught napping and the whole backfield swept over him for four yards. A fake-kick, with the ball going to a rangey Morgan's full-back, proved good for the rest of the distance; Edwards missing a tackle that would have spoiled the attempt far back of the line. The only thing that saved Brimfield from being scored on then and there was the decision of the Orange-and-Blue's quarter-back to pass up a field-goal in favour of a touchdown. From the thirteen yards a goal-from-field was more than a possibility, but the quarter was ambitious and wanted six points instead of three, and so plugged the ball across the field to a waiting end on a forward pass. Fortunately for the defenders of the west goal Edwards dived into the catcher at the last moment and the ball grounded. And then, before another play could be pulled off, the whistle blew.

When the third period began the head coach had made many substitutions. Blaisdell had taken Churchill's place at left guard, Gafferty had gone in for Hall in the other guard position, Freer was at right half instead of Kendall and Rollins had ousted Harris at full-back. Whatever may have been said to the Brimfield warriors during that fifteen minutes' breathing space, it brought results. Marvin speeded the team up and the men no longer allowed their opponents to get the jump on them each time. In the first five minutes Brimfield was twice penalised for off-side play. Marvin got away for a thrilling run along the side line soon after Morgan's kicked off, and placed the pigskin on the enemy's thirty-four yards after a gain of over forty. Then Rollins, who was a heavily-built, hard-plugging chap, smashed the line on the right and, keeping his feet cleverly, bored through for six. A forward failed and, on third down, Freer punted to the Morgan's twelve yards and both Edwards and Holt reached the catcher before he could start. A whirlwind double-pass back of the line sent a half around Edwards' end and gained three, and was followed by a skin-tackle play that secured three more past Trow. But Morgan's had to punt then, and a fine kick followed and was caught by Still on his forty-five. With good interference he secured five before he was thrown. Brimfield, still working fast, reached the opponent's thirty-five before a punt was again necessary. This time Innes passed low and Freer kicked into the melee and the pigskin danced and bobbed around for many doubtful moments before Marvin snuggled it under him on the Morgan's forty-three yards. From there a forward went to Still and gained seven, and, playing desperately, the Brimfield backs ploughed through for two firsts and placed the ball on the twenty-yard line. One attempt at the left side lost ground and a delayed pass followed by a plunge at centre secured but three yards. Rollins then dropped back to the twenty-five and, with the stand very quiet, dropped the ball over for three points and the first score of the game.

Brimfield applauded relievedly and Morgan's kicked off again. But the period ended a minute later and the teams changed goals. Morgan's put in three substitutes, one, a short, stocky guard, leading Clint to remark that the Orange-and-Blue's supply of regular goods had given out. But that new guard played real football and braced up his side of the line so that Brimfield soon left it respectfully alone and applied its efforts to the other. Injuries began to occur soon after the final ten minutes commenced and two Morgan's and two Brimfield players retired to the side lines. Brimfield lost Captain Innes and Trow. Innes' injury was slight, but Trow got a blow on the back of his head that prevented him from realising what was going on for several minutes.

Morgan's came back hard in that last quarter and soon had the Maroon-and-Grey on the defensive. A fumbled punt by Carmine, who had taken Marvin's place a minute before, was secured by a Morgan's end and the aspect of the game changed very suddenly. The Orange-and-Blue was now in possession of the ball on Brimfield's twenty-six yards, and it was first down. Coach Robey rushed Hall and Churchill back to the line-up, evidently well weighted down with instructions, and, after a conference with clustered heads, Brimfield faced the enemy again. Morgan's adopted old-style football with a vengeance and hurled her backs at the line between tackles. Twice she was stopped, but on a third attempt Brimfield broke squarely in two where Thursby was substituting Captain Innes and half the visiting team piled through. First down was secured on another attack at the same place and the ball was on the defender's sixteen yards. Two yards more came past right tackle and two through centre—Morgan's had discovered the weakness of Thursby's defence—and the ten-yard line was almost underfoot. A conference ensued. Evidently some of the enemy were favouring a field-goal, but the quarter still held out for all the law would allow and a line-shift was followed by a quick toss of the ball to one side of the field. Luckily for the home team, however, it was Steve Edwards' side that was chosen, and Edwards, while he was not quick enough to prevent the catch, stopped the runner for a yard gain. It was third down then, with the ball out of position for a field-goal and ten yards to a touchdown and the Brimfield supporters, urging their team to "Hold 'em!" breathed easier.

"Fourth down! Five to go!" announced the referee.

"Stop 'em!" panted Marvin.

Then the Morgan's drop-kicker moved back to the twenty-yard line and well to the left of centre, and centre stood sidewise as though to make an oblique pass. It hardly seemed possible that Morgan's would attempt a goal from such an angle, but still there was but one down left and the Brimfield line, though it had yielded short gains, was not likely to give way to the enemy for the five yards necessary for a first down. Captain Innes watched the Orange-and-Blue formation doubtfully, striving to guess what was to develop. In the end he scented a fake-kick and warned his line.

"Fake!" he shouted. "Fake! Watch that ball! Get that end, Steve! Hold 'em, hold 'em, Brimfield!"

And Brimfield held them. At least, Brimfield held all but one of them. It was unfortunate that that one should have been the one who had the ball! Just what really happened was a matter of discussion for many days. It occurred so suddenly, with such an intricate mingling of backs and forwards, that Brimfield was unable then or later to fathom the play. Even from the side line, where Coach Robey and a dozen or more substitutes looked on intently, that play was puzzling. All that seemed clear then or afterwards was that the ball did actually go to the drop-kicker, that that youth swung his leg in the approved fashion, that one of the backs—some said the quarter, while others said one of the halves—ran back and took the pigskin at a hand-pass, and that subsequently a tackle who had played on the end of the line was seen tearing across the goal line well toward the other side of the field. There had undoubtedly been a lateral pass, perhaps two, but the Morgan's players had so surrounded the play that the whole thing was as unfathomable as it was mysterious and as mysterious as it was unexpected. The one fact that stood out very, very clearly was that the enemy had scored a touchdown. And, although she afterwards failed to kick the goal, she had accomplished enough to humble Brimfield. In the two minutes remaining the home team played desperately, trying its hardest to secure the ball and get away for a run. But the visitors refused to yield possession and the whistle sounded a defeat for the Maroon-and-Grey.

"I think," said Manager Black to Quarter-back Marvin as they met at the entrance to the gymnasium, "I'll take a walnut sundae."

What Quarter-back Marvin replied to Manager Black was both impolite and forceful.



CHAPTER XII

PENNY LOSES HIS TEMPER

What annoyed Brimfield Academy most about that beating was the fact that Morgan's School was a stranger. Being defeated in early season was nothing to be sore about; it happened every year, sometimes several times; and the score of 6 to 3 was far from humiliating; but to be defeated by a team that no one had ever heard about was horribly annoying. Of course Tracey Black insisted to all who would listen that Morgan's, instead of being unknown to fame, was in reality a strong team with a fine record behind it and an enviable reputation in its own part of the world. But Tracey didn't convince anyone, I think, and the school continued to be disgruntled for the better part of a week, or possibly until the Varsity went away the following Saturday and won a clean-cut victory from Benton Military Academy. Last year the two schools had played a no-score tie game and consequently the Maroon-and-Grey's victory this year was more appreciated.

Meanwhile Marvin had settled his wager at the village soda fountain and had listened with commendable patience to Tracey's "I-told-you-so" remarks. All that Marvin said was, when Tracey had rubbed it in sufficiently: "There's just one thing you want to do, Tracey, and that is get a date with those guys for next year. I won't be here, but it'll do me a whole lot of good to hear that we have rammed that old touchdown down their throats with one or two more for good measure."

"Say, you're not sore or anything, are you?" laughed Tracey.

"Never you mind. I can take a licking as well as the next chap, but when a team works a sleight-of-hand gag on you, that's something different yet!"

"I'll bet anything!" said Steve Edwards, "that they had two balls that day! If they didn't, I'm blessed if I can see how they got that one across the field there."

"Maybe that chap who made the touchdown had a string tied to it," suggested Still. "That wouldn't be a bad scheme, eh?"

"I don't know how they did it," said Marvin soberly, setting down his empty glass with a last fond look, "but if you take my advice, Tracey, you'll have it understood next year that there's to be no miracles!"

Clint regretted that defeat, but it didn't affect his spirits any. As a matter of fact, Clint had reached a state of second team patriotism that precluded his being heart-broken about anything save a humiliating beating of the second. And most of the other members of Mr. Boutelle's constituency felt the same way. It was regrettable to have the school team worsted, but the main thing in life was the glory of the second. If Coach Robey had suggested that Clint should throw in his lot with the 'varsity just then Clint might have felt flattered but he would probably have gently and firmly declined the promotion. "Boots," in short, had in a bare fortnight endowed his charges with an enthusiasm and esprit de corps that was truly remarkable. "Anyone would think," said Amy one day when Clint had been singing the praises of the second team, "that you dubs were the only football players in school. Ever hear of the 'varsity team, Clint? Of course I may be mistaken, but I've been given to understand that they have one or two fairly good men on the 'varsity."

Clint grinned. "That's what they tell you, Amy!"

"Well, of all the swank!" exclaimed the other incredulously.

"What's that?"

"Side, swell-headedness, dog, intolerable conceit—er—"

"That'll do. You talk like a dictionary of synonyms."

"You talk like a blooming idiot! Why, don't you know that the second team is nothing on earth but the 'goat' for the 'varsity?"

"Yes, and the 'goat' butts pretty hard sometimes," chuckled Clint.

Amy threw up his hands in despair. "You fellows are so stuck on yourselves," he said finally, "that I suppose you'll be expecting Robey to discharge the 'varsity and let you play against Claflin!"

"He might do worse, I dare say," returned Clint carelessly.

"Might do—Here, I can't stand this! I'm going out! Where's my cap?" And Amy fled.

Clint didn't see a great deal of Amy those days except during study hour, for Amy was busy with the Fall Tennis Tournament. Besides playing in it he was managing it, and managing it entailed much visiting in the evenings, for the tournament insisted on getting horribly mixed up every afternoon owing to the failure of fellows to play when they were supposed to, and it was one of Amy's duties to hunt up the offenders and threaten them with all sorts of awful fates if they didn't arise at some unseemly hour the next morning and play off the postponed match before Chapel. Clint went over to the courts one afternoon before practice in the hope of seeing his room-mate perform. But Amy was dashing around with a score-sheet in hand and the matches in progress were not exciting.

"Who's going to win?" asked Clint when Amy had subsided long enough to be spoken to. "Or, rather, who's going to get second place?"

"Second place? Why second place?" asked Amy suspiciously.

"Just wondered. Of course, as you're running the thing you'll naturally get first place, Amy. I was curious to know who you'd decided on for second man."

Amy laughed. "Well, it will probably be Holt, if he can spare enough time from football practice to play. He's had a match with Lewis on for two days now. They've each won a set and Holt can't play in the afternoon and Lewis refuses to get up early enough in the morning. And there you are!"

"Why don't you award the match to yourself by default?" inquired Clint innocently.

"To myself? How the dickens—Oh, get out of here!"

Clint got out and as he made his way across to the second team gridiron he heard Amy's impassioned voice behind him.

"Say, Grindell, where under the Stars and Stripes have you been? Lee has been waiting here for you ever since two o'clock! You fellows certainly give me a pain! Now, look here—"

Clint chuckled. "Funny," he reflected, "to get so excited about a tennis tournament. Now, if it was football—"

Clint shook his head over the vagaries of his friend and very soon forgot them in the task of trying to keep the troublesome Robbins where he belonged, which, in Clint's judgment, was among the second team substitutes. That was a glorious afternoon for the second team, for they held the 'varsity scoreless in the first period and allowed them only the scant consolation of a field-goal in the second. "Boutelle's Babies," as some waggish first team man had labelled them, went off in high feather and fancied themselves more than ever.

Clint smiled at himself all the way to his room afterwards. He had played good football and had thrice won praise from "Boots" that afternoon. Even Jack Innes had gone out of his way to say a good word. He had clearly outplayed Saunders, the 'varsity left tackle, on attack and had held his own against the opposing end on defence. More than that, he had once nailed the redoubtable Kendall well behind the line, receiving an extremely hard look from the half-back, and had on two occasions got down the field under the punt in time to tackle the catcher. Yes, Clint was very well satisfied with himself today, so well pleased that the fact that he had bruised his left knee so that he had to limp a little as he went upstairs didn't trouble him a mite. He hoped Amy would be back from that silly tennis tournament so that he might tell him all about it. But Amy wasn't back, as he discovered presently. What met his eyes as he opened the door from the staircase well, however, put Amy quite out of his mind for awhile.

The door of his own room was closed, but the doors of 13 and 15 were open, and midway between them a rather startling drama was being enacted. The participants were Penny Durkin, Harmon Dreer and a smaller boy whose name afterwards transpired to be Melville. Melville was no longer an active participant, though, when Clint appeared unnoted on the scene and paused across the corridor in surprise. It was Penny and Harmon Dreer who held the centre of the stage.

"What are you butting in for?" demanded Dreer angrily. "I'll cuff the kid if I want to. You get out of here, Penny."

"You weren't cuffing him," replied Penny hotly. "You were twisting his arm and making him cry. Now you let the kid alone, Dreer. If you want to try that sort of thing you try it on me."

"All right!" Dreer stepped forward and shot his closed fist into Penny's face. The blow missed its full force, since Penny, seeing it coming, dodged so that it caught him on the side of the chin. But it was enough to send him staggering to the wall.

"You keep out of it, you skinny monkey!" shouted Dreer. "All you're good for is to make rotten noises on that beastly fiddle of yours! Want more, do you?"

Penny evidently did, for he came back with a funny sidelong shuffle, arms extended, and Dreer, perhaps surprised at the other's pluck, moved cautiously away.

"You've had what was coming to you, Durkin," he growled. "Now you keep away from me or you'll get worse. Keep away, I tell you!"

But Penny Durkin suddenly jumped and landed, beating down the other's guard. Dreer staggered back, ducking his head, and Penny shot a long arm around in a swinging blow that caught the other under his ear and Dreer's knees doubled up under him and he sprawled on the threshold of his room.

"Durkin!" cried Clint. "Stop it!"

Penny turned and observed Clint quite calmly, although Clint could see that he was trembling in every nerve and muscle.

"I'm not going to touch him again," replied Penny.

"I should think not!" Clint leaned over the motionless Dreer anxiously. "Here, take hold of him and get him inside. You help, too, kid, whatever your name is. Get him on the bed and shut the door. That was an awful punch you gave him, Durkin."

"Yes, he can't fight," replied Penny unemotionally, as he helped carry the burden to the bed. "He'll be all right in a minute. I jabbed him under the ear. It doesn't hurt you much; just gives you a sort of a headache. Wet a towel and dab it on his face."

"What the dickens was it all about, anyway?" asked Clint as he followed instructions.

"Well, he was twisting young Melville's arm and the kid was yelling and—"

"You'd have yelled yourself," muttered the boy, with a sniffle.

"I came out and told him to stop it and he didn't. So I pulled the kid away from him and he got mad and punched me in the cheek. So I went for him. He's a mean pup, anyway, Dreer is."

The subject of the compliment stirred and opened his eyes with a groan. Then he looked blankly at Clint. "Hello," he muttered. "What's the—" At that moment his gaze travelled on to Penny and he scowled.

"All right, Durkin," he said softly. "I'll get even with you, you—you—"

"Cut it out," advised Clint. "How do you feel?"

"All right. Tell him to get out of my room. And that kid, too."

Penny nodded and retired, herding Melville before him, followed by the scowling regard of Dreer.

Clint tossed the towel aside. "I'll beat it, too, I guess," he said. "You'll be all right if you lie still awhile. So long."

"Much obliged," muttered Dreer, not very graciously. "I'll get square with that ugly pup, though, Thayer. You hear what I tell you!"

"Oh, call it off," replied Clint cheerfully. "You each had a whack. What more do you want? So long, Dreer."

"Long," murmured the other, closing his eyes. "Tell him to—look out—Thayer."

Clint's first impulse was to seek Penny, but before he reached the door of Number 13 the strains of the fiddle began to be heard and Clint, with a shrug and a smile, sought his own room.

He spread his books on the table, resolved to do a half-hour's stuffing before supper. But his thoughts wandered far from lessons. The scrap in the corridor, Penny's unexpected ferocity, the afternoon's practice, the folks at home, all these subjects and many others engaged his mind. Beyond the wall on one side Penny was scraping busily on his violin. In the pauses between exercises Clint could hear Harmon Dreer moving about behind the locked door that separated Numbers 14 and 15. Then the door from the well swung open, footsteps crossed the hall and Amy appeared, racket in hand. After that there was no more chance of study, for Clint had to tell of the fracas between Penny and Dreer while Amy, stretched in the Morris chair, listened interestedly. When Clint ended Amy whistled softly and expressively.

"Think of old Penny Durkin scrapping like that!" he said. Then, with a smile, he added regretfully: "Wish I'd seen it! Handed him a regular knock-out, eh? What do you know about that? Guess I'll go in and shake hands with him!"

"Dreer?" asked Clint innocently.

"Dreer! Yah! Penny. Someone ought to thank him on behalf of the school. Who was the kid? Charlie Melville?"

"I didn't hear his first name," replied Clint, nodding.

"He's a young rotter. Dare say he deserved what Dreer was giving him, although I don't believe in arm-twisting. Dreer ought to have spanked him."

"Then you don't think Penny had any right to interfere?"

"Don't I? You bet I do! Anyone has a right to interfere with Harmon Dreer. Anyone who hands him a jolt is a public benefactor."

"I fear you're a trifle biased," laughed Clint.

"Whatever that is, I am," responded Amy cheerfully. "What was Melville doing to arouse the gentleman's wrath?"

"I didn't hear the details. Dreer assured me twice that he was going to get even with Penny, though."

"Piffle! He hasn't enough grit! Penny should worry! Say, what are you making faces about?"

"I—it's my knee. I got a whack on it and it sort of hurts when I bend it."

"Why didn't you get it rubbed, you silly chump. Let's see it."

"Oh, it's nothing. It'll be all right tomorrow."

"Let—me—see—it!" commanded Amy sternly. "Well, I'd say you did whack it! Stretch out there and I'll rub it. Oh, shut up! I've rubbed more knees than—than a centipede ever saw! Besides, it won't do to have you laid up, Clint, old scout. Think of what it would mean to the second team—and the school—and the nation! I shudder to contemplate it. That where it is? I thought so from your facial contortions. Lie still, can't you? How do you suppose I can—rub if—you—twist like—that?"

"Don't be so—so plaguey enthusiastic!" gasped Clint.

"Nonsense! Grin and bear it. Think what it would mean if you were lost to the team!"

"Oh, dry up," grumbled Clint. "How did you get on with your silly tennis today?"

"All right. We'll finish up tomorrow, I guess. I play Kennard in the morning. He's a snap."

"Why don't you pick out someone who can play? Don't win the tournament too easily, Amy. They'll get onto you."

"That's so, but I can't afford to take any chances. There you are! Now you're all right. Up, Guards, and at them!"

"I'm not a guard; I'm a tackle," corrected Clint as he experimentally bent his knee up and down. "It does feel better, Amy. Thanks."

"Of course it does. I'm a fine little massewer. Let's go and eat."

But the next morning that knee was stiff and painful and although Amy again administered to it, it was all Clint could do to hobble to Wendell for breakfast. "Boots" sternly demanded an immediate examination and an hour later Clint was bandaged about his knee like a mummy and told to keep away from practice for several days and not to use his leg more than he had to. He limped out of the Physical Director's room in the gymnasium with the aid of a cane which Mr. Conklin had donated and with a dark scowl on his face.

"Of all the mean luck!" he muttered disgustedly. "Just when I was going well, too! Now, I suppose, Robbins will get my place, hang him! Bet you this settles me for the rest of the season!"



CHAPTER XIII

AMY WINS A CUP

In the afternoon Clint hobbled down to the tennis courts to watch the final match in the tournament between Amy and Holt. They were hard at it when he arrived and half a hundred enthusiasts were looking on and applauding. Clint didn't play tennis and thought it something of a waste of time. But today he had his eyes opened somewhat. Amy was a brilliant player for his years, and Holt, who was a substitute end on the varsity football team, was scarcely less accomplished. In fact, Holt had secured the lead when Clint reached the court and the score of the first set was 5-2 in his favour.

"Byrd hasn't found himself yet," volunteered a boy next to Clint. "He lost two games on his service. Banged the balls into the net time after time. He'll get down to work presently, though, I guess."

Even as Clint's informant ended there came a burst of handclapping and Harry Westcott, who was umpiring, announced: "The games are 5—3. Holt leads."

Amy had the service and secured two aces at once, Holt returning twice into the net. Then a double fault put the score 30—15. Holt got the next service and lobbed. Amy ran up and smashed it safe into the further corner of the court. Again Holt tried lobbing, and this time he got away with it, for Amy drove the ball out. With the score 40—30, Amy served a sizzling ball that Holt failed to handle and the games were 5—4. The boy beside Clint chuckled.

"He's getting down to work now," he said.

But Amy's hope of making it five—all died quickly. Holt won on his first service and although Amy returned the next he missed the back line by an inch. Holt doubled and the score was 30—15. Amy tried to draw Holt to the net and pass him across court, but Holt secured applause by a difficult back-hand return that just trickled over the net and left Amy standing. The set ended a minute later when Amy drove the service squarely into the net.

"Holt wins the first set," proclaimed Westcott, "six games to four."

The adversaries changed courts and the second set started. Again Amy won on his service and again lost on Holt's. There were several good rallies and Amy secured a round of hearty applause by a long chase down the court and a high back-hand lob that Holt failed to get. Amy was playing more carefully now, using easier strokes and paying more attention to placing. But Holt was a hard man to fool, and time and again Amy's efforts to put the ball out of his reach failed. The set worked back and forth to 4-all, with little apparent favor to either side. Then Amy suddenly dropped his caution and let himself out with a vengeance. The ninth game went to forty-love before Holt succeeded in handling one of the sizzling serves that Amy put across. Then he returned to the back of the court and Amy banged the ball into the net. A double fault brought the score to 40-30, but on the next serve Amy again skimmed one over that Holt failed with and the games were 5-4.

"I hope he gets this," murmured Clint.

"Hope he doesn't," replied his neighbour. "I want to see a deuce set."

So, apparently, did Holt, but he was too anxious and his serves broke high and Amy killed two at the start. Then came a rally with both boys racing up and down the court like mad and the white ball dodging back and forth over the net from one side to the other. Holt finally secured the ace by dropping the ball just over the canvas. Amy, although he ran hard and reached the ball, failed to play it. Another serve was returned low and hard to the left of the court, came back in a high lob almost to the back line, sailed again across the canvas with barely an inch to spare and finally landed in the net. Holt looked worried then. If he lost the next ace he would have lost the set. So he tried to serve one that would settle the matter, but only banged it into the net. The next one Amy had no trouble with and sped it back along the side line to the corner. But Holt was there and got it nicely and again lobbed. Amy awaited with poised racket and Holt scurried to the rear of the court. Then down came Amy's racket and the ball sailed across almost to the back line and bounded high, and although Holt jumped for it, he missed it and it lodged hard and fast in the back net.

"Byrd wins the set, 6—4! The score is one set each!"

Amy, passing the end of the net to change court, stopped a moment in front of Clint. "How's the knee?" he asked.

"Rotten, thanks. Say, I thought you said you weren't taking chances, Amy."

Amy grinned and doubling up the towel with which he had been wiping his face and hands let it drive. Clint caught it and draped it over his knees. "Go on and take your beating," he taunted.

But it was quite a different Amy who started in on that third and deciding set. Holt never had a real chance after the first two games. Amy took them both, the first 50-0 on his service and the second 30-50 on Holt's. After that Amy found himself and played tennis that kept the gallery clapping and approving most of the time. It was only when he had run the set to 4-0 that he eased up a little and allowed Holt the consolation of one game. The next went to deuce and hung there some time, but Amy finally captured it. By that time Holt's spirit was pretty well broken and he put up scarcely any defence in the final game and Amy slammed his serves over almost unchallenged and won a love game.

"Game, set and match to Byrd!" announced Westcott above the applause. "Byrd wins the School Championship!"

Amy and Holt shook hands across the net and Clint, hobbling up, tossed Amy the towel. "Got a conundrum for you, Amy," he said. "Want to hear it?"

"Shoot!" replied Amy, from behind the towel.

"Why are you like a great English poet?"

"Give it up. Why, Mr. Johnsing, am I like a great English poet?"

"Because," replied Clint, edging away, "you surely can play tennis, son!"

"Play ten—Oh! Help! Officer, arrest this man!"

"Huh," said Clint, "that's a better joke than you ever sprung. Where are you going?"

"To get that nice pewter mug over there and then to the gym for a shower. Come along and then I'll go over with you and watch that wonderful team of yours bite holes in the turf."

Some of the fellows who remained demanded a speech when Amy accepted the trophy from Westcott.

"Fellow-citizens," responded Amy, "I can only say that this is the proudest moment of my young and blameless life. Thank you, one and all. Where's the flannel stocking that goes with this, Harry?"

The bag couldn't be found, however, and Amy bore away his prize without it. They paused at a neighbouring court to watch for a moment a white-clad quartette of boys who were battling for the doubles championship. "Semi-final round," explained Amy. "The winners meet Scannel and Boynton tomorrow. It'll be a good match. What's the score, Hal?"



"Brooks and Chase have won one set and they're three—love on this, Amy," replied the boy addressed.

"Thought so," said Amy. "I picked them to meet Scannel and Boynton. And I'll bet they beat 'em, too."

"Why didn't you enter the doubles?" asked Clint.

"Oh, I had enough to do looking after the thing," replied Amy, "and getting through the singles."

Clint smiled. "I reckon the real reason was that you didn't want to hog the show and take both prizes, eh?"

"No fear of that, I guess," answered the other evasively. "Aren't you coming over to the gym with me?"

"I'll wait for you over yonder," said Clint. "Conklin says I mustn't use this leg very much. Hurry up and come back. I'll be on the stand over there."

The second was still practising when Clint reached the seats, some of them tackling the dummy in the corner of the field and others, backs and ends these, catching punts. Over on their own gridiron the 'varsity was hard at it, the two squads trotting and charging about under the shrill commands of Marvin and Carmine. Presently the rattle and bump of the dummy ceased and the tackling squad returned to the gridiron and "Boots" cleared the field for signal work. The backs and ends came panting to the bench, and Captain Turner, spying Clint in solitary grandeur, walked over to the foot of the stand.