"Zowie! Who'd a thunk it?"

"Better just dump 'em all in and start over."

"Don't reckon those nails are soaking the water up; eh?"

"If it were molasses you could fill it half full of brads before it would slop over."

"Say, look, he's up to sixty! Would you believe that?"

"Hey there, Fatty, you guessed one nail; didn't you——"

"Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy; looks to me like a spill pretty soon."

"When the freshet starts——"

"It'll drown a lot of people."

Mr. Davidson stopped dropping the nails into the tumbler and held up his hand.

"There it goes, boys—the first drop over! Eighty-two brads. You can see who guessed best. The cohesion of the liquid explains it, as our young friend here has said. I'm glad you have one thinker among you. Now I want to tell you something about the installation of machinery by individual motors driven by a central generator, as compared to the drive from a mill long countershaft and pulleys." And he proceeded with his talk.

Yes, the lightning had struck. From this moment the respect shown to Bill, and to Gus also, by those who had no desire to do otherwise was really almost overdone, his classmates being generally proud of him, and the teachers and seniors pleased to have him a member of the school. But the sophs mostly grew more inclined to consider both boys a menace to their peace of mind.



CHAPTER XIII

QUICK WORK

"I must have to report to you the utter spoil of your shop and your work; also my own complete!" Such was the breath-taking remark of Tony Sabaste, as he stuck his head into the room of Bill and Gus and regarded the boys at their studies soon after daylight.

With no more than a word of surprise or doubt the young mechanics followed their Italian friend into the basement and were not long in finding his words true.

The crown plate of the drill had been broken in two with a hammer and probably the same means had been used to crack the lathe pulley and smash some of the tools. Materials were not harmed, but the work just begun on two new radio sets of the better value, along with Tony's efforts, was reduced to splinters.

The door of the shop had never been locked; the miscreant had entered in the night and engaged in the work of destruction.

"Well, who——?" began Bill.

"Ah, say not that question," said Tony. "Do not you know? Is there a doubt; even one? I have no enemy in the school but one, and who else——"

"Oh, sure, anyone but friendly, innocent Bill would know. Malatesta, of course."

Gus was ready with short cuts to names as well as to problems, his genius for detection having been proved in a like instance, before this. He went over and picked up a hammer, holding it by the head and scanning the handle.

"Here, I suppose, are some thumb prints," he said; "it only remains for us to get hold of——"

Gus was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a member of the senior class, Jim Lambert, who had but a few days before completed a crystal radio set in the shop. He gazed about him.

"About as I thought. This is rotten, fellows, and if I know anything, it is going to be paid for."

"Who will—?" began Bill.

"Let me tell you. I room right above here, as you know. Late last night, very late, probably toward morning, I was wakened by a noise. I listened and heard the sound of a blow that was surely down here. Then I heard some more noises, muffled, though,—the floor, you know, is fire-proofed and thick. I didn't wake Smith, but I got up and went to the door and looked out. I hadn't been there two minutes before I was aware that someone came up out of the basement and was standing in the hall. I think he must have suspected something, for he came along toward my door and I got inside and closed it, with my hand on the knob so as not to click the latch. Then I felt a pressure on the door—the fellow had the nerve to try it. He wanted to see if it was open, probably thinking it was left ajar and he may have seen the light from the window, pulled it open then and there he was—pretty much through the door before I closed it. Well, I just surprised, I guess."

"Who, who?" from Bill.

"Why, Malatesta, of course," said Gus, with positive finality.

"Say, young fellow, you've got it. Good guesser. He must have some grudge against——"

"What said he? How explain?" demanded Tony, visibly excited, his dark eyes glittering with wrath.

"Not a word. Just grinned and turned away as cool as a glacier and mosied off. Said I: 'Well, what are you after?' But he made no reply and beat it."

"If this isn't the limit!" Bill exclaimed.

"It'll be his limit! Come on! The Doctor is an early riser and we'll see him at once," Lambert urged.

"But we aren't going to squeal on a—" Bill's loyalty to school practices was extreme.

"Oh, yes you are in this case! This is no prank. It's a crime, and it would be another to keep it to myself. Loyalty to the school demands that we squeal. To be sure we have only circumstantial evidence——"

"No, actual," said Gus, holding up the hammer. "Let's get the man and we'll do the rest with some ink, a piece of paper and a magnifying glass."

"Glory! That's the cheese! I never thought of that," Lambert said, leading the way out of the building and to the office, discussing the case further on the way. The boys met the Doctor returning from an early morning walk, which was a habit with him, and within the office he heard Lambert's report calmly.

"We cannot call in any of the teachers, or the janitor, as hardly anyone is up yet. We shall have to handle the case without gloves and depend on you boys. You will understand my position, so I will ask you, Lambert, to bring Malatesta here at once, saying I wish to see him. Wake him, if need be."

"But if he refuses at this hour?" asked the senior.

"But will he, if it is at my request?"

"Very likely. I know him. Rage, scare, ugly, even knife; no telling!" Tony declared.

"Then we had better wait for the janitor. Go call him."

"No, Doctor, please," urged Gus. "I'll go with Lambert and we'll fetch him here. And he won't hurt anybody."

"But can you be sure of this? We always try to avoid publicity in matters of this kind. It would be best to have Malatesta here this early, before most of the boys are up and about, but there must be no trouble."

"You may be sure there will be no trouble," Gus insisted. "Bill can tell you why. It's really quite simple."

"Well, at least call on Malatesta and tell him. I will call the janitor."

Gus and Lambert hastened away. Bill, also eager to have the Sicilian apprehended at once, and knowing Gus would put it over, sought to detain the Doctor. Tony, like-minded, aided in this. In a few minutes Lambert was knocking on Malatesta's door, Gus having gone to his own room.

There was no response at first; then, a sleepy grunt. The time was yet an hour or more before the first rising bell, so this early summons might properly be resented. But when Lambert called in a low voice: "I have a message from Doctor Field," the Italian's roommate, Johnston, a morose, dull-witted chap whose whole mind was bent on keeping up with his classes, made reply:

"Who do you want?"

"Both of you," said Lambert, which was true, for he knew he could not enter without seeing Johnston also.

At that Johnston got up, opened the door and Lambert entered, in his hand a paper which he made a pretense of consulting, as though it were a memorandum of his errand, his real purpose being to hold off until Gus appeared. Somehow the senior had faith in this quiet, smiling, precise freshman.

Then Gus came swiftly along the hall and through the room door, advancing near the bed still occupied by the Italian. Lambert, rather inclined to dodge trouble, stepped back a little. Said Gus:

"Malatesta, Doctor Field wants to see you at once. He wants no fuss, Johnston, he said, so please let on to know nothing about it. Come on!"—this to the Sicilian.

"What to see me about?" demanded the Italian, angrily. "Well, I will presently see him—go tell him that! It is not yet the time for school. I am yet wishing to sleep a little. Good day to you."

"You get up and into your duds! This is no joke." Gus advanced a step.

"And who are you to so order of me? Get out of this room!"

"Come on, you! If you don't slide out of there in about three shakes we'll drag you out and take you up as you are."

Malatesta got out, but not in the spirit of obedience demanded of him. He tossed the bed clothes aside and, to the astonishment of all three beholders, proved to be fully dressed, excepting his coat and shoes. With his feet on the floor, he quickly reached behind him and drew forth a long-bladed clasp-knife, flinging it open with the dexterity of long practice. But Gus was quicker. In two seconds the fellow was staring into the muzzle of a revolver.

"Put it up if you don't want to look like a sieve. Now, then, shoes. Coat. And put down that knife. That's right. Now move!"

Malatesta was not equal to any further braggadocio. Intuition goes far at such times, and there seemed to be something about this holder of the more powerful weapon that demanded respect. The fellow hardly gave a second glance at the gun, but stepped into his shoes. Without stopping to lace them, he grabbed his coat and got into it as he headed for the door. The march to the school office, single file, Luigi, Gus and Lambert in the order named, was as silent as it was hasty, Gus thrusting the pistol, a real one this time and loaded, into his pocket as they went. Nor did he need to draw it again.

"Luigi Malatesta, I am sorry to have been compelled to bring you here at this hour," said the president, "but you are suspected of——"

"Oh, I know! But me it was not! Yet I know who, though to tell I shall never do."

"How do you know? Were you present, then, when the injury was done?"

"No, not present, but I know."

"You must tell us——"

"Never!"

"Why not?"

"It is not the way of the school to blow——"

"Pardon me, please, Doctor, but we won't get anywhere this way," interposed Bill when Gus nudged him. "If I may suggest——"

The president had come to regard this boy as possessing ideas and he hesitated. Bill turned to Gus who stood with the hammer and a magnifying glass held behind him.

"Please have this man," said Bill, indicating the Italian, "make a print of his thumb—this way." Bill smeared some ink on a blotter and took up a bit of white paper. Malatesta frowned, then smirked, then laughed.

"And why not may I?" he questioned. "This will make of these villains fools!"

The animal-like snarl that the Sicilian put into this last sentence did not gain him any sympathy, but there was only confidence in his quick motions and ready compliance. He stepped to the desk, pressed his thumb on the wet ink spot, then on the white paper, fell back a few steps and glared defiantly. Gus brought forth the hammer and the expression on Malatesta's face changed somewhat.

Silence followed as the Doctor took up the hammer handle and went over it with the magnifying-glass, paused at a spot where the handle would be most commonly held and examined the surface long and carefully. He turned to the thumb-print on the paper, then back again to the handle, comparing the two impressions. Presently he glanced at Bill and then at Gus, nodding; he turned to Malatesta.

"We do not wish to let such an unfortunate circumstance as this become hurtful to the school by making it public. The janitor will be here in a moment. He will accompany you to your room and you will obtain your property and leave at once. When you return this way I shall give you the sum paid us for your tuition. The school will make good the damage you caused. Ah, here is Royce now." The president proceeded to instruct the janitor.

Lambert, followed by Bill and Gus, returned at once to the dormitory, after a word of caution from Doctor Field, and, aside from the fact that Malatesta left before the school was fully awake, the students knew nothing.

The injury to the shop was kept as secret as possible. In a few days the work went on as before, only one other fellow besides Lambert knowing there had been a smash-up. So that incident was closed, but out of it, or as a part of it, more serious circumstances showed that Malatesta, wherever he may have gone, had by no means forgotten the feud that now included Bill and Gus as well as Tony.

Gus was never questioned as to his possession of a revolver which made his wild west method of intimidating Malatesta possible. Probably the Doctor believed the cigar case had been used again.



CHAPTER XIV

FISTICUFFS

Siebold, a keen-witted fellow and an athlete, was the leading spirit among the sophomores of Marshallton Tech. He was class president, stood easily at the head of his classes, if head there was, and in most things he admittedly surpassed his fellows. His people being well-to-do, he indulged in all the little "side kicks," as the boys termed sports, social diversions and the like.

A really fine chap was Siebold, though he possessed one unfortunate failing—he persisted in holding to a grudge; and he had never forgiven Bill and Gus for that hazing fiasco, nor for bringing down the scorn of the school on what had been considered a harmless kind of fun.

Of course, the school had a debating society, of which the membership was from all classes. Bill joined it; Gus did not, and it was the only thing in which they acted separately, with the exception of the gymnasium. Bill was sorry he had joined the society, for upon being chosen one of the three speakers on one side of a subject so decidedly in their favor that the question should never have been selected as offering a negative, Bill had so completely overcome the opposition led by Siebold, who especially prided himself as a debater, that his opponent and his mates were held up to much ridicule. Whereupon the breach widened, and Siebold took many occasions to show a paltry spite against Bill and even toward Gus because he was Bill's chum.

In the gym, Siebold also shone as a good boxer, fencer and wrestler. This rarely brought him into contact with Gus who, during his short exercise, avoided others. Tony, however, was willing to become a victim. The young Italian liked to put on the gloves, as he was quick, strong and good-natured; but the instructor had, for some reason known only to himself, passed him by.

Late one afternoon Gus stopped pulling weights to watch Siebold box with a big soph who was a mark for quick, scientific work and whose heavy punches and swings often fell short of their aim. Tony also was an interested spectator and came forward with the request that Siebold show him some of the points he had mastered. Whereupon Siebold had the Italian lad put on the gloves with Sadler and the big fellow promptly hit Tony and knocked him off his feet.

The Italian's dark eyes flashed fire, but he smiled and came back. The instructor refused to let the bout continue, saying that Tony must gain more experience. Gus called Tony over.

"I don't want to butt in," he said, "but I didn't like that. You could learn that game. Would you mind if——" he hesitated modestly.

"Could you show me? Everything you do so verra good."

Tony was so eager that Gus consented. They agreed to come to the gym at a time when no one, not even the instructor, was there. Then, in addition, Tony bought a set of gloves so that the two could practice in the shop now and then. A month went by. Cold weather came; then the Christmas holidays. Bill and Gus went home for the one big day, and came back to study and to continue their shop work; but Tony was away for ten days, during which he took a few lessons from one of the best teachers of the fistic art that could be found.

"He said I am now there," gleefully announced Tony when the three got together again; "and that I can learn one poco, for I did puncha him times several and he no hit me sempra. I think you," his dark eyes appraised Gus, "are quite—no, I not throw bouquets—are gooda as he."

"Oh, not so good as Ben Duffy? I know all about him. I went once with my city uncle to see him fight. He's a crackerjack, sure."

"But he not poka me more as you do," argued Tony.

"Well, I've been studying your defense longer—it's mine too, you know. That's the reason." The generous Gus smiled. "Anyway, let's go to the gym to-morrow. I want to see how you mix it up now with Sadler."

Tony did "mix it up" much to Sadler's discomfort. Siebold stepped up:

"Say, Italy, where did you get it?" And Tony, proud, ever eager to give credit to a friend, nodded toward Gus.

"To him I do owe it. He one granda master with the feest."

"So? Expert electrician, mechanic, sport spoiler and bruiser, eh? Some combination." And Siebold turned away with something too much like a sneer on his fine face. Gus was hurt, but smiled, as usual. Tony resented the slur.

"For all which," he said, "the cervel—the brain, is required, eh? Maybe, Soph, if you brain ancora had you could beata heem—but no so now."

"No? I'll bet a sardine that you could put it all over him," Siebold said, desiring to mollify an upper classman. Tony laughed.

"No; not coulda you ancora, nor any other one in this school."

Siebold turned away, as he added: "You won't have a chance to prove that. I pick my company. But you will get another go at Sadler after I give him some more pointers." It was evident that the leader among the sophomores was something of a snob. A little later his prediction came true regarding Sadler and Tony.

Gus was again a witness to the bout. It had become noised around and the gym held a goodly crowd of students. At such times the instructor, though interested and often a witness, dodged participation because of the slugging tendency and its possible effect on the school if he encouraged such a thing.

Tony went into the game with a smile. Sadler, though generally good-natured, was serious and determined from the start. He got a number of stinging cracks on his ribs and in the stomach, Tony hardly being able to reach his head. Beaten again at points, landed on five times as often as he landed, he began to resort to a waiting game, for there was no doubt he could stand punishment. Stand it he did until Tony got enough confidence for infighting, though he should never have attempted to swap punches with such a big fellow.

Suddenly Sadler caught the smaller man starting a short arm upper cut for the jaw and he took it open, delivering at the same instant a hook that no man when giving a blow could hope to block. He caught Tony coming in and that lent additional momentum to the blow which got Tony on the side of the neck, over the artery, and it was as clean a knock-out as could be given. They carried the Italian to a wrestling mat, fanned and bathed his face, and when he came to and sat up, Siebold was there with his ready tongue.

"He's too heavy for you. No fellow could hope to stand up to Sadler at his own game. I told you so."

Gus saw Tony's real hurt and was incensed. "Oh, don't you believe that," he said to Tony. "Another time——"

"Huh, fellow! Maybe you think you could stand up to Sadler. I'd like to see you, or anyone here, even the instructor." He glanced around. "Could they, Mr. Gay?"

"Well, perhaps not. Sadler has the punch and you can't hurt him," said the instructor, coming up. "Feel all right now, Sabaste?"

Nothing more was said about another bout, but the subject stirred the crowd so that it could not die out entirely. Three or four days later the instructor and Siebold entered the gym together, and stopped to watch Gus punching the bag. Siebold had never seen anything quite so snappy as that. Mr. Gay made some remarks.

"That fellow must have had some instructions under a strong teacher— there's good material there! Say, look at the way he plays a tattoo and swings, too, and gets away from it. Foot work, my boy—foot work! You're good, Siebold, but we haven't anything like that in the school. I had no idea of it."

"Shucks! All the same I'd like to see him swap cracks with Sadler," said Siebold doggedly. Just at that instant Sadler came lumbering in with a dozen other fellows at his heels.

"Better not start anything rough," cautioned Mr. Gay.

But Siebold paid no heed. He walked over to Gus and addressed him roughly:

"Say, would you have the nerve to fight Sadler?"

"Fight? Fight? Why, man, I have no reason to. I haven't anything against him." Gus was indignant. "And as to boxing bouts, I'm not in this game. Too busy!"

"Shucks! One way to whitewash a little streak of yellow." This with a sneer.

Suddenly the kindly smile on Gus's manly face faded out. He stepped quickly in front of Siebold.

"You can't say that to me! I'll fight you here and now; bare knuckles if you like."

Mr. Gay overheard the conversation and came back to the boys.

"None of that here," he said. "If you want to have a friendly bout with the gloves, all right—even to a finish—but no bad blood."

Gus turned away. So did Siebold. Sadler, who was tired of being punched at Siebold's request, would prefer to do a little looking on. With satisfaction he saw Mr. Gay take his hat and leave the building. The instructor may have seen a scrap on the way and wished to evade responsibility. He was anxious to be popular with the boys.

Sadler offered a few suggestions. Immediately several boys surrounded good-natured Gus and shoved him into the open center of the room. Then they did the same to Siebold, but with more verbal persuasiveness and in a moment the two were facing each other, and a pair of boxing-gloves was handed to each.



CHAPTER XV

LOYALTY

The freshman's smile had returned, and he stood with the gloves swinging by the strings from his hand. Siebold, who really was no piker, was slipping on his gloves and having them laced up. Gus wished Bill to talk for him—and Tony too—not that he needed moral support, but it was pleasanter to have good friends along than to be entirely surrounded by opponents. However, he felt quite equal to the physical task, and as ready to stand his ground morally.

"See here, you sophs," he said. "I'll box and gladly, but not in the way Siebold wants to."

"Aw, what do you care how the other fellow feels? It's a bout just the same; isn't it?"

"But Mr. Gay doesn't want us to show any hard feelings," Gus urged, "and he's decent to us. I don't believe Siebold really thinks I'm yellow—do you?"—this last to his intended opponent.

"Looks like it," growled Siebold, showing more indignation than he really felt. Had he permitted himself to use his reason, he would only have admired Gus and would not have quarreled with him. Probably it was nothing more than an uneasy conscience that now asserted itself and made him add, in self-defense: "I guess you're yellow enough."

Gus had but one reply to make to that—and his answer was not verbal. He did not again take his eyes from Siebold, but he pulled on the gloves, laced the right one with the clumsy stuffed thumb and his teeth. Then he stepped forward. Siebold made a feint of extending his hand for the customary shake; but Gus ignored it and the next moment the two were at it in a way that showed clearly the desire to hurt each other and to disregard the mere matter of points. It was a slugging match from the first.

Siebold was no mean antagonist, and he had some tricks worthy of the prize ring. Moreover, he was a little taller, a little heavier and had a longer reach than Grier. Immediately it became apparent that he was trying for a knock-out—he meant to put Gus away and to do it as quickly as possible.

But Gus did not mean to be put out, and it became as quickly evident that he was quite capable of making Siebold work hard even to hit him. Siebold would bore in, drive for the jaw or stomach, and either miss or land lightly; but he would nearly always get a stinging crack in return—delivered at the same instant that his own blow was blocked, or in the fraction of a second after he had only struck the empty air. Still, these blows of Gus's were not paralyzers—they were just weakeners. They made Siebold angry enough to spend his strength in getting back at the chap who could land in just when and where he wished.

Siebold's nose ached and bled; his eyes smarted, and one was closing. His stomach, too, was sore, and somehow he could not help but feel that his blows were growing futile. At the end of the fifth round, as he sat back on a bench, letting some of his would-be handlers fan and sponge him, he looked across at Gus, standing there, refusing all half-hearted offers of attention and gazing at him with a smile on his unmarked face, the sophomore champion began to wish he had not got into this fuss. Then he grew furious at the thought that he was not making good.

A few minutes later, near the end of the sixth round, he began to try for clinches in order to save himself, but somehow his wary opponent, as quick on his feet and as strong with his hands as he was at the start, was still adept at hitting and getting away. Just then Sadler, who, with watch in hand, always made a little step forward as he called the end of each round, put out his foot when Siebold was facing him and the sophomore, tired and eager for a minute's respite, started to get back and lowered his guard. And upon the instant of shouting the word Gus, with his back to Sadler, let go with his right.

Siebold crumpled up like a rag. Sadler, slow to begin counting, stood over him a moment. Gus drew back and with the first excitement he had shown jerked his gloves off and tossed them wide. The boys crowded in, gazing at Siebold who lay with white face and sprawled out like one dead. Gus heard Sadler's count reach eight; then stop. Someone said: "What's the matter with him, boys?" They had not seen a fellow lie so still and show not even the flicker of an eyelid. One boy stooped down and lifted Siebold's arm, calling to him: "Wake up! Are you hurt?" A doctor's son got down and put his ear to Siebold's heart. "Gosh, fellows! It's stopped! He's—he's dead!"

Gus pushed the boys aside. He had hit Siebold over the heart harder than he had intended. What if the blow had proved fatal? Most unlikely; more than once he himself had been struck that way. It had hurt him, and once it brought him to his knees, but it had never made him unconscious. He, in turn, got down and put his ear to Siebold's side. In the excitement both the doctor's son and Gus had listened at the right side and no one had observed the mistake. They were all looking on with horrified faces. Gus could hear nothing; he touched the prostrate youth's cheek; it was cold. He rose with something like a sob.

"Fellows, I didn't mean to do it. I didn't know he couldn't stand it. But he can't really be much hurt, can he? Why, I—he——"

Again Gus knelt and listened for heart beats. He slumped down, feeling as though his own heart would stop, too. In his daze he heard someone talking on the telephone at the far end of the gym and dimly distinguished the word "doctor." He got to his feet then. No one opposed him. He must get Bill, good old Bill, to speak for him and tell them that he had not meant to hurt Siebold. They must know he was not murderously inclined, and that he hated to hurt anyone, anything, an animal, a bug even; also that he would not run away if they wanted to arrest him.

In a sort of trance he reached his room, where he found Bill and Tony. Gus fell into a chair, almost sobbing.

"Bill, old fellow,—we boxed,—Siebold! And I—I've—I guess I've killed him! I didn't mean to, Bill, you know that. Tell them I didn't; that I'll be here and go to prison without a word. And write home, Bill, and tell them——"

"Oh, stuff!" said Bill. "I don't believe it! Tony will go see about it. At the gym, Gus? Yes, at the gym," nodding to the Italian.

Tony was gone. Bill stood by Gus, his hand on his chum's head. Seldom was there any real show at tenderness between these lads, but there was a loyalty there that made such a demonstration unnecessary.

"It isn't so, Gus—and even if it should be—anybody knows it was an accident, and you won't be arrested. At least not in a criminal way—only in the matter of form. The president will understand. And, Gus, we can get together money enough to defend you—legally—even though we have to quit school."

"You sha'n't quit school!" said Gus. "Not if I have to do time! No, sir! It doesn't matter much about me, but you—you're not to be in this at all, except I don't want us ever to be not chums, Bill."

Rapid footsteps were coming along the hall then; the door opened and Tony and Sadler burst into the room.

"He's all right, Grier. He's come to."

"Yes, mio amico; Siebold, this Sadler say, is again recover. You no need longer to fear. But, ah! They tell it to me that he a sight presents. He will go to his classes the observed. And it serves him all the right; is it not so? And the most to do is to explain the Doctor for you—which we all do."



CHAPTER XVI

ONE WINTER SATURDAY

Marshallton is a village with nothing more than two general stores sufficient to cater to the needs of the near neighborhood and the Tech students. Guilford, nine miles away, is the railroad town and, now and then, for extra supplies the Tech boys may spend a dull half hour each way on the trolley to visit the quiet place which holds no other attraction than the stores.

Bill, Gus and Tony, eager to get some radio supplies that might as well have been ordered from the city, obtained leave to run over to Guilford and back. To show his appreciation of their friendship, Tony decided to treat Bill and Gus to a taxi ride; so he 'phoned to the town for one. It came and the three piled in, much elated over the prospect of a pleasant shopping trip, though the weather was a little stormy.

The purchasing took all that was left of the morning. The boys gathered their things into bundles and, at Tony's command, made straightway for a restaurant. Being a senior, he claimed entire charge of these freshmen.

"You not respon—no; it is that you are irresponsible," he said as he demanded the privilege of paying all expenses. "We will get," he laughed, "some spaghetti and I show you to eat. You like eet?"

They did. The clean tables and pleasant interior were attractive. The boys stamped the newly fallen snow from their feet, and opened their coats to the genial warmth. Then they turned to meet the waiter and glanced up with something of a shock. Luigi Malatesta stood before them and addressed them collectively:

"I am proprietor of this. We serve only gentlemen. You will go to—to—to—elsewhere."

Gus leaped up, forgetting the fright after his last fisticuffs. He wanted to punch this villain again.

"Listen, you confounded nuisance! This is a public place and we demand—" He got no further, for Tony's hand was on his arm.

"Attendate, mio amico—wait! Would you eat eats in a such place? We might all getta the poison here. Mucho better we go of our selves."

Malatesta beat a hasty retreat. The lads went out and along the street to another place equally attractive and there they ate unsparingly, the while discussing their latest experience, though Tony was silent on that. Finally Bill and Gus fell into his mood. They came out of the restaurant after an hour, to find that the storm had increased, a stiff, knife-edged wind driving the snow horizontally and making drifts. The taxi driver at the garage looked dubious, but agreed to try for Marshallton. The worst that could happen would be a night spent at some farmhouse.

The storm increased rapidly, the snow turning partly to sleet piled up in long windrows across all half-sheltered places, leaving open spots bare, so that the road resembled the storm waves of a white and foaming ocean. The car skidded along on icy ground one minute, and the next its wheels were buried in caked drifts.

The boys were peering out, watching the strange effects of the storm, but noting with greater concern the slowing up of the taxi. Then they stopped.

"Reckon we can't make it," said the jolly, round-faced taxi driver. They could not stay there in the road. It was imperative that they should find a shelter somewhere. Not half a mile ahead there was a farmhouse in which they might all be made welcome and comfortable.

Again the man had proved to be correct. The boys agreed that forecasting the weather and the social geography of that region were in his line. He tried to run on again, but the starter refused to boost the engine and the battery nearly gave out. Bill insisted that they crank up and not exhaust the battery, else they would come to a dead stop. Gus and Tony lent a hand in turning the engine over and soon they were again bucking the drifts, stalling the engine two or three times within the next three hundred yards. A drift faced them that was altogether beyond hope, and before they drove into it, Bill insisted that they back over the thinner snow to the side of the road so that they would not be hit by another car if one should pull through such roads.

"Now then, you fellows!" said Bill, as usual assuming command where anything important was at stake. "Go on to the farmhouse and bunk, if they'll have you. I'll wrap up in these robes and be as warm as toast here in the car." It was an enclosed tonneau, the window sashes fitted tightly and two big robes promised a little comfort.

"Yes, you will," said Gus sarcastically.

"Not!" declared Tony. "We can easy carry you. You say it—pig-on-back?"

The taxi driver joined in and helped the two boys in this, also.

"Did you say there's a farmhouse just on ahead, Mr.——?" asked Gus.

"Merritt is my name," answered the driver.

"And a roadside is your station. You're fast in the snow and you cannot go and you're mad at all creation," said Bill.

"You're right, son, about bein' stuck, but I ain't mad. Reckon I stand to lose on this trip, but——"

"No, my friend; you will not lose one cent," exclaimed Tony. "More, you shall make well. We are not the unappreciatives, ever. Show us this farmer estate and entitle us to be his guests and you shall want for nothing—eh, my friends Bill and Gus?"

"You've said it, Tony, and you are the cheese."

"Ah, no; I am but the macaroni. Do you think this farmer will cook the spaghetti?"

"Not likely, but Farrell sits down to a good table, I reckon," Merritt ventured. "Well, young fellers, let's mosey on. It'll be stiff goin', though 'tain't more'n a quarter of a mile now."

It was stiff going. Bill managed to get through the thin places and they helped him through fast increasing drifts, Gus at last getting him on his back for a "gain," as he expressed it, of fifty yards. Then Tony took a turn for a like distance, and Gus and Mr. Merritt crossed hands to "carry a lady to London"; so they would have got Bill along for a considerable distance had they not come opposite the end of a lane, with the dim outline of a house standing back.

Up the lane they went, hearing the muffled barking of a dog. The side door of the house opened, a big farmer with a huge voice greeted them cheerily. He was in his shirt sleeves, which argued for comfort inside the dwelling, and there was an air of comfort in the broad hallway that was gratifying. The three were received like young princes and ushered into a large sitting-room. From their chairs before a big stove, a pleasant woman and two young girls rose to welcome the wayfarers.

Merritt they knew by name, and he began an apologetic effort to account for their coming, but Bill took the matter in hand.

"Mr. Farrell, aren't you? And I suppose this is Mrs. Farrell. My name is Brown and these are my friends, Mr. Sabaste and Mr. Grier; we are all students at Marshallton. Went in to Guilford to the stores and couldn't make it going back, though Mr. Merritt put up a good fight with his little car. And now we are going to ask you if you can keep us for the night,—table and spare room? Anything that is handy, for we don't want to give you trouble and we'll pay——"

"Ah, the best. As if you are one fine hotel, because no such could give to us more of comfort." This from Tony, who was always most liberal and eager to please. So saying, he pulled out ten one-dollar bills and gallantly tendered it to the lady, with a nod and smile at the farmer.

"That's right. The wife has all the trouble. You boys are welcome; eh, Sarah?"

"But John, this is too much. I could not accept such a large amount for so little."

"Mother," said one of the girls, coming forward, "you should not accept anything at all."

"Well, now, Mary, I guess you're right. This is our daughter, young gentlemen, and she always has her way."

"But she has not consider the way to justice," said Tony, his black eyes flashing conviction. "We give that, or we not remain; even it is too little."

"Yes, considering the storm, our predicament and our coming in on you this way, unasked, we can't consent to less," Bill added.

"Mabel, come here, girl," said the housewife, laughing. "This is my niece. She's making her home with us. Now, all you young folks and Mr. Merritt enjoy yourselves while I get supper and father does the barn work."

The boys never forgot that long, yet all too short winter evening; the wholesome food; the dish of home-made candy; the fireside game of "twenty questions"; the music played by Mabel on the old-fashioned square piano, while Mary and Tony danced; the lively conversation and Bill's exhibition of so-called mind reading—really muscle reading, during which, with Mrs. Farrell and Mabel holding his wrists, he found, blindfolded, a hidden pocket knife.

Merritt had slipped out early to open the radiator of his car, which he had foolishly forgotten to do. He had come back and called Bill aside for a moment.

"There's another car down the road, just beyond mine; a big one and nobody about. I went along apiece to look at it and I think I know who it belongs to—that there new Eyetalian hash-house feller in Guilford. Only one car there like it and that's his'n. You was askin' about him bein' in Guilford."

"Yes. We know him and he knows us. He could have found out you were taking us home and then have seen your car here and waited."

"You mean follered you? What'd he want to do——?"

"Is he still in his car?" interrupted Bill.

"I reckon so; think I saw four fellers in it. They can keep warm there and every now and then run their engine a bit to keep her from freezin' up."

"They'll be drifted in, won't they?"

"Reckon not, with a big car like that; and the storm's goin' to quit."

"But that won't let us go on to-night. And what is that Italian up to?" Bill dismissed the subject with Merritt, but resolved to tell Gus, though not Tony, as it would put a damper on their friend's peace of mind. What harm could come of Malatesta's being here? He could not approach the house without alarming the Farrell dog and that was assurance enough. And Bill could not help being doubtful as to the Sicilian's being really dangerous. There might be such a thing as carrying this grudge business to extremes, but hardly here and in this storm.

Bill and Gus spent the night in the best spare room, under the heavy covers of an immense fourposter. They slept through the cold night like inanimate objects. Tony, alone, occupied a room which had evidently been that of an only son who had gone away to the Great War to remain away forever. There was crape hanging over the frame of a picture showing a sturdy, manly looking fellow in khaki. From the appearance of things, Tony, also, should have passed a comfortable night. Merritt was tucked away to his entire satisfaction.



CHAPTER XVII

KIDNAPED

In the morning Bill and Gus were up at daylight, as was their habit. The storm had ceased, and it was turning warm, the snow melting already. The boys went to the barn to help with the milking; they got in some wood and performed other chores. Mr. Farrell, coming in, declared with his hearty laugh that they could stay as long as they might wish to, for they had certainly more than earned their food and lodging. As they went in to the breakfast table he said.

"Mother, better give that other young fellow his money back. Where is he, anyway? Not down yet?"

"Not yet," said Mrs. Farrell, "though I called him twice."

"I'll get him up and down," said Gus, going toward the stairway.

"Father, have you seen Gyp?" asked Mary Farrell. "I've called him too, but he doesn't come for his breakfast."

The farmer shook his head and, stepping to the back door, whistled sharply and at length. Turning to come in he heard a low whine and a quick search found the dog, lying on his side and unable to rise, his eyes dull and bloodshot, his tongue protruding. Mr. Farrell had seen something of the sort before. He picked up the poor little beast and carried him to a warm bed by the kitchen stove.

"Sarah, he's been poisoned! Nothing else. Getting over it, though. What—?" And then they heard Gus calling from above.

"Bill! Bill! Come up here, quick! Tony's gone!"

It was true and the manner of his going was very apparent. The room had been entered from without, noiselessly and by experts. Taking advantage not only of the lad's sleeping soundly, the housebreakers had used some anaesthetic, for a wad of cotton that smelled like a drug store lay on the carpet. Tony had evidently been roughly dressed. His collar, necktie and cap lay on the bureau and his stockings on the floor. That he had been carried out of the window and to the ground was certain. The two ends of the ladder had left their imprint in the snow in the sill and on the ground. The ladder itself had been thrown among the bushes.

Kidnaped! There was no question about that; but how could such a thing have happened? A sturdy boy, able to put up a fight, and the thing done so silently as not to waken a soul in the house. Healthy, sound sleepers, depending on a dog—and that poor beast put down and out. Poor Tony! What would they do with him!

Bill and Gus hastily related their affair with the ugly Sicilian and that of which Tony had told them. They at once found that the big car had turned about and gone. Footprints in the snow proved that the occupants of the car had been the kidnapers.

The farmer and his family were duly excited over the case. Nothing so dramatic had ever before happened to them. Merritt was also wrought up to a pretty high pitch, for Tony had hired him very generously. The young Italian had shown himself to be a courteous, well-bred gentleman and had commanded respect. The manner of his disappearance, and the possible tragedy lurking behind it, had earned the sympathy of them all.

But the Farrells deferred everything to Bill and Gus who were both eager to act, and to investigate the too evident, yet mysterious crime, though they were rendered helpless by the snow-piled roads.

"We'll have to use your 'phone, Mr. Farrell," said Bill. "We will pay all the tolls. We've got to make this thing known and put Tony's people wise. His father's a wealthy Italian banker in the city, and he'll begin to move things when he hears about this." He turned to Gus: "If we could only get to the school and get a whack at the transmitter, couldn't we make things hum?"

"Why, my lads," said Mr. Farrell, "that is just the thing to do and I can get you there in a hurry. These automobiles have got it all over our horses for speed, but not for power. My bays will land you at the school in short order and through the biggest snow that you ever saw. Wait till I hitch them up to the Dearborn."

He was as good as his word. After promising to keep the Farrells and Merritt posted as to the progress of the hunt for Tony and its outcome, they were on the road behind a pair of splendid, steaming, plunging horses, and soon back at the Tech. The Doctor, about to depart for church, was startled by the news, and he at once turned the transmitting station over to the boys, going himself to the 'phone and keeping it busy. Mr. Farrell remained a short time. Then wishing the boys success, he departed.

The county detective, the mounted police force, the city force and a private detective agency were all informed of the circumstance, with a full description of Luigi Malatesta. The incident became a "nine-days' wonder" in the newspapers. Soon it was learned that the Sicilian had, on the very day before Tony's disappearance, sold his restaurant in Guilford for a song. He had disappeared with several others, questionable characters with whom he had been associated, and on whom he had evidently relied to do the kidnaping. It was discovered also, through the confession of a Sicilian suspect, that Tony had been shadowed for weeks as he went about the school.

But all knowledge of the boy's whereabouts was totally lacking. Clues were run down without success. The search had failed. Mr. Sabaste, with a famous detective, came to the school and talked with Bill and Gus. He went with them to see the Farrells, where he investigated every detail. The search went far and wide, with no trace of Tony.

The banker offered five thousand dollars for information that would insure his son's return, and smaller sums for any positive data, which might lead to the arrest of the kidnapers. Tony's mother was dead. An older brother who had been in business in the far west was once a victim of the Malatesta clan. In spite of every possible effort, the disappearance of the boy remained a mystery; nor could any of the Malatesta relatives, known by various names and suspected as accomplices, be found.

Bill and Gus were now in possession of one of the finest radio receiving sets that could be made, and several other students had purchased similar, or less perfect, sets from the boys. Whenever opportunity permitted they either had the loud speaker on, or sat with the 'phones clamped to their ears, listening in and having much amusement with the various broadcasters, public and private. It was a liberal education to hear a tenth of what was going on, besides the regular concert program each evening. But most in their thoughts was the hope, often expressed between them, of hearing something that might in some way reflect on the kidnaping mystery, for the boys missed their kind and courteous Italian friend.



CHAPTER XVIII

DIPLOMACY THAT FAILED

"Gus, I can't get it out of my head," said Bill one day, "that we're not, as they say in diplomatic language, entirely persona grata here. At least, not as we should want to be if we have the proper loyalty to the school. We have our friends, of course, among seniors, freshmen and even some of the sophs, but the sophs generally have very little use for us. Even some of our own class, in the sports, have a big leaning toward Siebold and his bunch, and they like to go along with the shouters."

"Well, I guess they'll have to go along, then," remarked Gus indifferently.

"But Gus, it's a reflection on us. We ought to be in as good fellowship as anybody. Now that we've made out so well in our radio work and are not nearly so busy, with the rest of the term all lectures and exams, you know, we might gee in a little with the social end of it. And sports, too, Gus. I can't do anything but look on and shout, but you——"

Bill's remarks were inspired by a glimpse across the greensward at a bunch of fellows on the ball field, evidently at town ball and practice. With the coming of spring and warm weather the Tech ball team had been newly organized and put at practice. The next month would see them crossing bats with Guilford Academy, Springdale School and other nearby institutions. There was great rivalry between the home team and Guilford Academy, which had a strong team, and was much the better of the two, except that the Tech School had acquired, through Siebold's efforts, a very good outside pitcher who kept the Academy lads guessing much of the time. The winning of games, therefore, during the preceding season had been pretty even, Guilford leading by one.

And then, at the behest of older and more judicial heads, representatives of the League of Schools had met and decided that each team must play only with members of its student body, hiring no semi-professional pitchers, or even coachers, thus making the contests entirely fair.

A result of this was that in the games of this season Guilford, with a pitcher from among its fellows who had previously given his services to other teams as well, simply ran away with Marshallton Tech, winning one game by the score of fifteen to two and the other was a shut-out.

"Gus, I've bought a ball and I've got Sam Kerry, who says he used to catch for his home team somewhere in the west, to agree to keep his mouth shut and pass a few with you, off somewhere where nobody will see."

"Righto, old Bill! Anything you say—but what's the idea?"

"Well, Gus, I don't like Guilford's swamping this team in the way it has, and I propose to try to stop it." Bill's lips were compressed and he had that look in his eyes that meant determination.

"But Siebold—" began Gus.

"Doesn't entirely run this school, nor its ball team, even if he is captain and general high muck-a-muck," declared Bill.

It was with extreme satisfaction that Bill sat on a log at one side of a path in the woods and watched little Kerry, who proved to be no mean hand at stopping all kinds of balls, nearly knocked off his feet by the machine-gun-like pitches of "that other fellow from Freeport," as Gus was sometimes called.

One early afternoon the gym instructor also sat by Bill and watched the performance. Mr. Gay had promised secrecy, but not to refrain from comment.

"I'll say he has not only got command of his ball and three good styles, but he also knows some tricks that ought to worry any man at the bat. Throw that waiting ball again, Grier!" the instructor called. "I want to watch that—oh, fine! It looks like a hard one and a fellow will strike over it nine times out of ten. Well, I've got this to say: If we expect to win any games we've got to have a fellow like Grier in the box, but Siebold will stick to Maxwell who is about a fifth rater—at his best."

"But has Siebold all the say?" Bill queried.

"A good deal of it. You see his father backs up the boy in everything, and he has put the club on its feet financially, in a bigger way than even the Guilford team. Moreover, the elder Siebold's money built our grandstand, the dressing-rooms and hired our pitchers for quite a while. So young Siebold can afford to play politics and insure a following, which nobody, even the professors, can stop. And the faculty and the Doctor don't bother over the matter. That chap is going to be a state senator, or a Congressman some day, I have no doubt."

"It won't work, though, Mr. Gay," declared Bill, "because it isn't justice. Others besides Siebold are interested in and loyal to the school. We want to see our team win, don't we?"

"Yes, of course. I'm going to shoot that at Siebold and, if you'll let me, I'm going to hint that we have a pitcher among us who outranks his choice in all the high points."

It was on the next afternoon, which was rainy, that Bill found the library pretty full of readers and among them were six or seven of the ball team. He took a seat beside Dixon and directly across the table from Siebold and Sadler. He turned to Dixon:

"When is the next ball game?" he asked.

"We play Springdale next Saturday, but they're easy. The last game with Guilford is Saturday week."

"It's too bad that we get licked so unmercifully when there's no need for it," Bill remarked.

"No need for it? No, there's no need for it, but——"

"I suppose we have needed it to put some sense into us, but no longer. It would be pretty easy to clean that bunch if we went at it right."

"How easy?" asked Dixon.

"Why, you know without asking that. Putting a good man in the box and another behind the bat, of course."

"Where'd you get your good man?"

"Here in the school."

"Who?"

"I guess you'll have to keep your eyes open. Anybody ought to——"

"Listen to this, Siebold." Dixon leaned over the table. "Brown says we've got pitching material——"

"Well, what of it? Don't I know it?"

"It's a blamed sure bet he doesn't know it, or if he does he ought to be jailed for conspiracy to beat the school team," laughed Bill, still addressing Dixon.

"How's that, Brown? What's your dope?" ventured Sadler, who alone really dared to question Siebold's authority. Bill went on, in forcible language, for he was aware that Siebold was listening, and repeated what he had said to Mr. Gay and to Dixon. The argument about every one in the school being interested in the success of the ball team seemed to strike home, and several boys gathering round began to make comments favorable to the sentiment. The librarian came over and objected to the talking.

"Let's go down to the gym and talk this thing over," said Sadler. "Brown will spring this man on us if we'll try him—eh, Brown?"

"Why, sure," said Bill, rising.

"Come on, Siebold."

"Too busy reading. Nothing to it, anyway." Siebold didn't even look up from his book.

"Is that so?" Sadler was angry. It was evident that he was willing to oppose the captain. Bill thought he saw an opportunity right here.

"He has only one vote," he said, "and I understand that all of us who care to may have a say. I know several fellows who——"

Bill got no further. Siebold began to see that it might be best to permit no defection from his ranks and no outside interference. He followed the others out and across the campus, no word being said all the way by the several boys who, in part, made up the executive committee on baseball. They filed into the gym and got Mr. Gay into their conference.

"Now, then, Brown, what have you got under your skin?" said Siebold testily.

"You heard me in the library," said Bill.

"Balderdash! There isn't a fellow in the school who can pitch like Maxwell."

"Oh, yes, there is, Siebold," said Mr. Gay. "There's no one who can play first base like Maxwell and your first baseman says he has a glass arm and is done. We have a pitcher who can pitch."

"That's the cheese!" said Maxwell. "I've told Siebold all along he ought to replace me."

"Who is this wonderful guy?" asked Siebold.

"I'll bet it's that other fellow from Freeport," put in one of the captain's staunch supporters.

"Call it off in that case," Siebold demanded.

"No, we won't call it off. We'll try him at practice," said Sadler.

"Who's captain of this team? We'll play in our present positions, all of us, or we won't play at all."

"That's right," echoed two or three followers. Bill laughed.

"Will you accept a challenge to play a school scrub team?"

"No, nor that. Waste of time——"

"That's nothing but silly stubbornness," said Sadler, with rising wrath. "Wouldn't it be just like practice? You're a fatheaded——"

"Oh, now, see here, Siebold," interposed the instructor. "You can't refuse that. It will only bring out the best players and strengthen the team."

"Well, then, if Mr. Gay says so," Siebold agreed, "we'll play you and we can shut out any bunch you can get together."



CHAPTER XIX

A SHUT-OUT

Bill turned to Sadler. "You're with us?"

"Sure, Siebold has a substitute for right field."

"I'm with you, too," said Dixon. "Put Longy in my place, Cap."

Siebold grew angry. "You fellows have been kickers all along, and now you think that will weaken us. Well, if Ritter can't take a fly better than you can, you big stiff, I'll assassinate him; and Long is as good a short stop as you are, Dixon."

"We have four other substitutes and I'll promise three of them for our scrub team, Brown," Sadler declared.

"All right; that's seven fellows and we can pick up two more, surely. Let's hunt them up right now," demanded Bill.

They did. As it was clearing, they went to the diamond and after a little practice all round at town ball, Bill watching closely, they got into the places best suited to each player and then elected Bill manager and Sadler captain. The big fellow and Dixon had discarded their suits for plain shirt and trousers, and a small collection was taken up for pants and some extra gloves. Mr. Gay gave them a catcher's mask and some bats.

The next afternoon, the challenge having been formally given, the match between the regulars and scrubs took place, Siebold winning the toss and taking the bases, Mr. Gay acted as umpire.

Maxwell seemed to be in better form than usual. Perhaps because he found a "ragged lot of players," as Bill put it. The scrubs had not fully got together and they went out, two on strikes, and Sadler's fly was caught. The regulars went to bat, laughing, Siebold straddling the plate.

Gus stood in the box, smiling. He nodded to little Kerry behind the bat and Kerry inclined his head to the left. Sadler and Dixon were watching closely. Could the new pitcher on whom Brown appeared to stake so much really do anything? If he could send them over the way he boxed, thought Sadler, "good night"! Brown was all the time springing something worth while. That was just why he and Dixon had been willing to make a final kick at Siebold's arbitrary rulings. And now here was Siebold himself, one of the surest batters in the team, facing the unknown quantity.

Gus put on no gimcracks nor did he make fancy swings. He merely made a step forward, raised his arm to throw and held it about two seconds—then there came across the plate something more like a streak than a ball—so it seemed to Siebold—and little Kerry, who had been squatting, nearly went over backward with the loud plop in his glove. Siebold stood, dazed.

"One strike!" called the umpire.

The ball went back to Gus who took it out of the air as if he were plucking at a snowflake. Again the step forward, the raised arm and the ball came along swiftly at first, then slower, much slower, but keeping up. Siebold's heart sang. He would take this thing on the end of his bat and lift it beyond any hopes of a fielder's reaching it—it meant a two-bagger sure. He struck; there was no contact of bat and ball; a fraction of a second later the sound of the ball in Kerry's glove told him he had "missed it by a mile," as Sadler bawled it out.

"Two strikes!"

Siebold looked mad now. He was being tricked—that was certain. He would show this fellow if he could do that again! The ball came along swiftly, but too high. It was "one ball," and he waited. The next was fairly swift, but it was going to bounce before it struck, yet it lifted and passed right over the plate almost a foot high and Siebold wondered why he had not swiped at it.

"Striker out!" called the umpire, and the captain of the regulars angrily threw down his bat.

Wilde came next. He was the regulars' catcher, and the best batter of the team. Siebold stood, watching closely, a scowl on his face. Almost the same tactics were played, without Wilde ever knowing where the ball was! Another chose three bats before he got one to suit him—this fellow was Kline, the bunter. More than once he had made his base and let fellows on bases in by bunting one at his own feet and in such a manner that it rolled slowly toward the pitcher.

Three balls were called against Gus. The regulars commenced to smile and Siebold's eyes sparkled. Then three streaks came, all over the plate, waist high and "striker out" sounded the third time. The regulars went to the field, the captain walking slowly and thoughtfully.

Gus went to bat and struck out. Little Kerry lifted a fly to left field that the fielder muffed and let roll, so that Kerry slid into second when the sphere was coming back again. Morton, a new man, struck out as though he were not sure whether he was fighting bears, or was merely in a debate, and Dixon hit a grounder to second and was caught out on first. Still no runs.

Gus always had the short step forward, always the uplifted arm that did not double forward at once. It was possibly confusing, instead of a notice to the batter to get ready, as one might have imagined. Quite a number of balls were called against Gus—fast, slow ones, up-shoots—but never four. Three batters went out in quick succession.

In the third inning Maxwell slowed up a little and the scrubs became wider awake. One of the new men who had, he declared, played ball very little and never shown a genius for hitting, sent a liner between pitcher and first that put him on his base. One of the regulars' former substitutes hit another grounder that let him on first and the new man on second. The third and fourth man, their second time at bat, struck out again and then came big Sadler to the plate. His very first crack sent a fly so high and wide that the center and left fielders fell all over themselves in their effort to get it, while the center man made a wild throw, so that Sadler rather easily accomplished a home run.

It was three runs for the scrubs, as Gus again struck out. The third at the bat for the regulars proved to be "ancient history," another expression of Sadler's, with this difference: Siebold took his base on four balls, but he didn't get any farther than first.

Little Kerry knocked another liner and this the man on second dropped, the short-stop getting it too late to first. Morton again went out. Dixon hit a liner for two bases that let Kerry in and again the new genius proved himself such by getting in a fly that on errors put him on third. Once more a substitute who after two fouls knocked a ball almost within reach over the first baseman's head, made another home run on errors. The fourth was caught out on a foul, the fifth struck out and Sadler knocked another fly that was caught. Six runs for the scrubs—the regulars nothing.

Smiling, Gus came again to the box. Three batters in quick succession, after only three balls were called for two of them, struck out. They seemed to have no idea where the balls were passing, and little Kerry staggered back with every one sent in, though he, too, was smiling. And then, before the regulars could again take their places, something else occurred.

Siebold merely said: "Hold on, fellows!" He walked straight up to Gus, caught him by the arm and pulled him over toward Bill and Mr. Gay.

"See here," said Siebold; "I'm no piker. I've been dead wrong and nobody has to tell me. So, Grier, honestly I never saw such pitching outside of the national leagues. And if you'll let me, I want to be friends, and I want you on the team. Mr. Gay, you're right: Maxwell on first and you, Grier, in the box. Are you with us?"

Siebold extended his hand and Gus shook it warmly. The captain turned to Bill. "You, too. We have to thank you for this business, the best stroke of luck we have ever had."

Bill shook Siebold's hand with as much gusto as he would have that of any downright hero. A fellow who could muzzle his pride and do the square thing in this manner, especially after he had been licked in a way that hurt, was a real man.

"And look here, Brown! I've generally messed up this captain business and the managing too; and you have got together a team in short order that I wouldn't have believed could have slammed us for six runs. Will you manage us? I'll see that you are elected. Grier can be cap——"

"No, sir," said Bill. "Gus doesn't want to be captain. You'll remain captain, Siebold, or we'll both take our doll clothes and go home. But I will try my hand at advising, if you wish. 'Two heads,' you know——"

"Hurrah!" shouted Siebold. "Brown is manager! And we've got a pitcher now! We're going to lick those Guilford fellows so bad they'll think they've got brain fever!"



CHAPTER XX

MARSHALLTON versus GUILFORD

Bill for once laid aside everything but his studies to give his attention to the game with Guilford Academy, the last athletic contest of the school year. It was played at Guilford, where the grounds were fenced in and tickets of invitation given. As manager of the visiting team, Bill had his quota to distribute in and outside of the Tech. With his characteristic thoroughness he saw that no one was slighted who was at all worthy, rich or poor. This was not so liberally managed at the Guilford end.

The grand stand was pretty well filled, but Bill had reserved some good seats and to these he conducted the Farrells and their niece, stopping to tell them that Gus was pitching and that they must root for Marshallton, which of course they did. After this, with some tickets left over, Bill went outside and skirted the grounds, finding a dozen youngsters hunting holes in the fence, and to these he gave his remaining tickets. Not so long ago, he had been just such a youngster himself, and he had an abounding sympathy for those who possessed the keenest capacity for enjoyment, but were excluded without just reason.

The game was typical of such contests between schools of the kind in all except the performance of Gus in the box. That youth, always smiling, never self-conscious enough even to acknowledge the plaudits meant for him, not only pitched with professional skill, but in his every movement showed a grace which demanded attention.

From the first inning the result was a foregone conclusion. The home team held the visitors to no runs and went to bat with the utmost confidence, only to be retired, one, two, three, on strikes. They shut the visitors out again, and two of them got on bases to remain there and die. They let Siebold come home on Wilde's fly and errors and were again fanned.

They repeated this, with little Kerry at bat and only one of them made a hit, the ball lodging in the pitcher's extended hand. They fought hard and retired the Techs for three more innings, meeting the same fate themselves. Then their pitcher weakened and the team went to pieces, with three men on bases, and Wilde let them all come home on a long grounder, but himself died on second, with two others out on strikes.

They went to pieces again when Sadler knocked a fly over the fence and made a home run, or rather a home walk, and they again were retired in rapid succession. Score, six to nothing, and the Marshallton crowd, including the dignified president of Tech, the instructors to a man, the Farrells and a lot of other sympathizers yelled their throats sore, a bunch of fans going for Gus, hoisting him on high and marching around with him, singing a school chantey:

"He's the stuff, He treats 'em rough, He gives 'em easily more than enough. He's awful tough He is no bluff, He made 'em look like a powder puff. He's fast and quick, They couldn't handle ball or stick. He's winning Dick, They got his kick, They think they're slaughtered with a brick!"

And so on for half a dozen or so silly verses of the kind, Gus, meanwhile, suffering both physically and mentally, for being thus tossed about is by no means comfortable, and his modesty was such as to make him want to run and hide.

And then the gang went for Bill, but Doctor Field protected him and they expended their enthusiasm on Captain Siebold, Sadler and little Kerry, the catcher. After which Guilford asked for a return match, but the term was nearly ended and that must go over until next year.

"I wish," said Bill to Doctor Field, as they journeyed homeward, "that Tony Sabaste could have been here to see this game."



CHAPTER XXI

A CLUE

Exams and exercises were over and the students mostly gone. A few remained to brush up on studies, or to complete work begun in the shop. Bill and Gus were among these. They had an order from one of the professors for a very fine radio receiver and it was not quite finished. The matron and cooks had vanished and the boys had to get their own meals. As one after another of the lingerers left, the dormitory became quieter, almost oppressively lonesome, to Bill at least, who was social by nature; but Gus, the hermit, rather enjoyed it.

Listening in over the radio was not neglected. It served to cheer the monotony. Not only were the boys alive to the advertised concerts and entertainments, but they caught a tangle of outside waves that was often quite amusing.

Only two more days were required for them to finish their job. They had decided to let their receiver remain, as they were to occupy the same room next term, and now two receivers at home would serve. The loud speaker had been removed, adjustments made, and now Bill sat at the little table with the 'phones clamped on his ears.

Suddenly he called to Gus: "Get 'em on! Get em' on, quick! Somebody is sending a message out to Marconi—only the end of it now, though."

"—be most honored, I assure you," came through the air. "Several whom I think you will be glad to meet will be there and we shall be glad to have a word from you." There was a pause.

"It's an invitation to a banquet, or something," Gus said.

"Sure. I wonder if he's going to accept." This from Bill.

"When did he come back? I thought he sailed away last fall."

"Been back a week; read it in the paper. He's on his boat again, the El—listen! He's talking."

"Marconi speaking. Gentlemen of the Society of Electrical Research, I shall accept with much pleasure, but please do not put me down for an extended speech. Only a few remarks—probably on my subject. But I shall make no reference to Mars; my interest in that is almost nil. That is a newspaper romance, and I am really getting very tired of being misunderstood. I would be very glad if, in the course of the evening, someone would jestingly refer to this and absolve me from holding such untenable ideas. I thank you. I shall be there."

"Gee-whiz, Gus, I wonder if the time will ever come when we'll get invitations like that, eh? And say, he doesn't take any stock in that message-from-Mars foolishness."

"Well, I guess it's silly, all right," Gus agreed.

"Why, sure. They can't even tell if Mars has any life on it, and if it has, it is mighty unlikely that any kind of creatures have developed brains enough to understand radio. Shucks! No real scientist will waste his time on any guesswork like that. We want to know more through the telescope first."

"But maybe the telescope can't tell us—then what? We want to get at it anyway we can, don't we?"

"Oh, I suppose, in any sensible, possible, likely way, but not on such a supposition. It would be like shooting at the moon: if a high-powered gun could get its projectile beyond our attraction of gravitation and if it were aimed right, why, then the shot might hit the mark. Too blamed many 'ifs.' And some of the greatest astronomers say Mars isn't inhab—what's this?"

A very distant, not easily understood voice came to them. There seemed to be some interference which not even their well-made loose coupler could filter out. Apparently there could be nothing very entertaining about this, except the desire to get the better of a difficult task.

"— Atlantic. Latitude 39 — — — chased her, but — lost —. The fog was — — —. On board, when start — — transferred, we think. Headed west. Got a radio from the Government tug Nev — —. Think it must have been the same. Putting in toward Point Gifford, they said —. Think they have landed by now. Better opportunity to demand ransom from the —. Italian all right; sure of that. — The banker will — — — — —. So you be — — — —."

The voice died away; a few clickings came and then silence. Bill turned to Gus. In matters of jumping at conclusions, he had long learned to depend most on his chum's undoubted talents, just as Gus, in most things mental, played second fiddle to Bill.

"Say, Gus, could it be—?" Bill whispered.

"Sure is! Nothing else. Ransom, banker, Italian."

Gus felt no uncertainty. "They're after them, sure. Mr. Sabaste has had the hunt kept up on land and sea—we know that. And this is just a clue—an attempt to get on the trail again. Point Gifford—Bill, I know that country. Went all along the coast there once with Uncle Bob. You remember when? He was cutting timber down in the coast swamps. I explored—great place for that! Sand dunes, pines, inlets; awfully wild. Some old cabins here and there."

"They're landing there. Gus, I'll bet they're going to bring—do you think it can be Tony, Gus?"

"Who else? They're trying to make Mr. Sabaste pay a ransom and they're going to be in a place where they can make sure of getting it. What Tony said about the Malatesta bunch being short of money must be true, and I guess that restaurant business made it worse. They're going to try to make a pretty sure thing——"

"But Gus, this radio was intended for somebody on shore who will watch them and maybe nab them."

"No, indeed. They're not likely to nab them. They have already landed, you see, and the detectives will watch the Upper Point, which is the only landing place. But if these chaps are foxy, they will come to the Lower Point, ten miles south, and cut across the inlet and the thoroughfare in a small boat. Then their yacht, or whatever she is, will sail up past the Upper Point, put to sea and the detectives will think she has given up the idea of landing. I rather think I'm on to what their scheme will be. An old oysterman showed me what some smugglers did, and got away with it for a long time. I guess the state police never have got on to this."

"Well, then, Gus, it's up to us to tell——"

"With several thousand dollars to save for Tony's dad? And who would believe a couple of kids, anyway?" demanded Gus.

"But how——?"

"Let them watch the Upper Point, and if they land there, all right. I'm going down to hunt over the Lower Point."

"You, Gus? But these fellows are a bunch of desperate scamps; gunmen, no doubt. There'll be a lot of them, maybe——"

"No; not more than two or three. Luigi Malatesta, his brother, I think from Merritt's description, and an accomplice or two."

"Four, Gus; maybe more. You wouldn't have a chance——"

"Well, not in a stand-up fight, I suppose. But they won't be suspecting a kid in old fisherman's duds, and I can do some bushwhacking, I guess."

"But if you get hurt, Gus?"

"Well, there's a lot more like me everywhere. Another brother at home, too. I'm going to try for it, Bill. I'm not going to tote a pistol, but take Dad's hammerless, double-barreled shotgun. He has quit hunting, and he said I could have it. They'll think I'm just a native."

"But where are you going to hang out? Your Uncle Bob isn't there any more."

"With old Dan, the oysterman. He'll be tickled, I think, and I'll pay my way."

"Don't get hurt, old fellow. I wish I could go with you."

"You bet I wish you could, Bill. But you pick up what you can and maybe you'll have a chance to get it to me in some way."

"Oh, Gus, I know a scheme: That portable set we made Tompkins—it's in his room. He would be tickled, for he liked Tony, and he has gone to Saranac Lake. They've got one up there, so he didn't take this. We'll get in his room and get it for you to take along. Then I'll stay here, glue my ear to the phones and radio you everything I know, for they are all away, and I can use their transmitter."

"Portable idea is fine, Bill, but all the rest is bunk. What, really, can you do here?"

"Well, then, I know: We'll swipe the keys, unhook the school transmitting set and I'll go with you and set it up at Oysterman Dan's. Then we can work together."

"Fine! But how about the license?"

"Got one. Merely change of locality, and my own license will let me operate anywhere. Let's get busy."



CHAPTER XXII

AT OYSTERMAN DAN'S

It was a good cause, yet the boys were up against a doubtful procedure. The janitor of the school was a good-natured, but stubborn chap. He liked Bill and Gus, but they knew he would never let them take anything from the buildings without special consent. And while there was no time to get this permission, Bill and Gus knew that all concerned would be in favor of their motive. If they injured anything they knew they would more than make it good; or that Mr. Sabaste would make it good. Even Mr. Hooper would, if called on.

So they wrote a note to Mr. Hooper, explaining fully what they intended doing and requesting that he reimburse the school for any loss or injury to the broadcasting instrument in case anything happened to both of them. Then they placed this letter where it would be found in their room, with a request to the finder to deliver it.

The janitor, they knew, was a bug on fishing. Bill coaxed him to take a day off while they watched the place. He did this, and while Mrs. Royce was strenuously engaged with her housework, the boys got the keys to the radio room. The rest was easy, even to fixing up camouflaged parts that would befool Mr. Royce, if he should enter the room. They got the apparatus in parts to their own room, where they packed it up, and Gus climbed into Tompkins' room through the transom, handed out the portable set and got out the way he got in.

The next day, again sending for Mr. Merritt and his taxi, they were on their way to the station at Guilford, and from there by train to the shore, Gus debouching at a convenient junction for a two-hour trip home, while Bill patiently waited. When Gus got back to the junction he had the shotgun and some old clothes for both, though Bill might have no need to disguise.

Reaching the terminus of the railroad, the boys hired a rather dilapidated team of mules drawing a farm wagon, with youthful driver to match, and made a long, slow journey, especially tiresome to these eager, expectant lads, that landed them by the most direct route at Oysterman Dan's little cottage.

The old fellow came out and was so delighted to see Gus that he gave him and Bill a real welcome. He was a bachelor who lived alone, but lived well. He kept to himself and yet was not averse to having a little company of his own choosing. Apparently he would not have wanted more entertaining fellows than Bill and Gus, or better listeners, for he liked to spin yarns. When he found the boys insisted upon paying him for board and lodging and certain privileges he was further pleased. Let them put up "one o' them thar wirelesses?" He sure would and welcome. It would be a "heap o' fun," and when they told him of the purpose of it he was elated.

Nothing could have been more characteristic of the imagination and optimism of youth than the making of all these extensive preparations on the merest guesswork, and after the boys had arrived on the scene, not half a mile from Lower Gifford's Point, doubts began to assail Bill with much force.

"By jingo, Gus! Here we are, at considerable expense and a deal of trouble, taking it for granted that we're going to do wonderful things, and we even don't know that the theory we are working on is worth a blamed thing."

"Oh, yes; we do," said the intuitive Gus, who, looking like a woebegone swamp dweller, had just come in from the dunes. "And soon we'll know a whole lot more. I just saw two gunners in the woods above the point, and if they aren't Italians I don't know one."

The boys were a long day putting up their transmitting instrument, with its extensive aerial stretched between tall pines near the cottage. They would depend on the portable receiver.

And then, leaving Bill listening, poring over books, or chatting with old Dan, when the latter was off the water, Gus got into his ragged togs again, took his gun and started out prowling. And he prowled wisely and well.



CHAPTER XXIII

GUS

"Hey, fellow! What you do?" The voice came from among the pines, and Gus turned to see a dark-skinned, black-eyed young man, of about twenty-five or more, coming toward him. Gus stopped.

"You shoot in these woods?" asked the man.

"I reckon I might an' I reckon I do if I kin find any durn thing fer t' shoot," said Gus, easily falling into the native vernacular.

The man approached and the boy quickly observed that the pocket of the loose coat, worn even this hot day, bulged perceptibly, and the man put his hand within it. He showed an interest in the shotgun and extended his hand.

"Where you get so fine gun, eh?" he questioned.

"Man give her t' me fer beatin' him at shootin'." This was literally true, the said man being Mr. Grier. "He's a sportin' feller, but he don't shoot no more. Hain't seen him round these here parts fer two year."

The fellow took the fowling-piece and looked it over. He said:

"I buy her, eh?"

"You couldn't buy her if you had her heft in gold," said the boy. "An' you couldn't shoot her, anyway—not to hit anything. Could you get a bird with her goin' like a bullet through these pine trees? Shucks! I kin."

"No! Yes? I get you shoot for me, eh?" handing back the gun.

"Shoot fer you? How?"

"You don't like law policemans, eh?"

"You wouldn't like 'em if they chased you fer shootin' when the game laws was on."

"I think of that. You come into woods along of me, now, eh? I show you what do and how make large lot money. Big! And maybe how shoot policemans to keep away. Big money you get."

"Lead me to it!" said Gus, his swift guess at what might be coming making him shove in a less backwoodsy phrase.

Without another word the man started along a tortuous and narrow path and Gus followed for more than half a mile. They were just off the thoroughfare when they started, but the youth could hear the distant booming of the ocean waves on the beach before they stopped.

To the right, with a roof seen above the low underbrush of young pines, holly and sweet gum, was a building of some kind toward which the path turned abruptly. A hundred yards ahead the woods ceased, and Gus knew that beyond were the ever-shifting sand dunes crowned with their short-lived scrub oaks or pines and tufts of beach grass which bordered a wild and lonely shore for many miles. Twelve miles to the south was a somewhat popular seaside resort.

Gus had not crossed the woods at this spot, though he had at some other very similar places. He had been all along the beach and had boated on the thoroughfare clear to the inlet. This was nowhere deep enough for even a large sloop. But he was thinking less of this than of a very possible opportunity that seemed to loom ahead.

"What your name?" asked the Italian.

"Sam is my name," said Gus.

"Now then, Sam, you stay here. If some man who no business has here come to look, you give order to go—see? You say this your father's ground and no—what you call?—trespass. All this day you stay. To-morrow you come, also. Two dollar you get each day, eh?"

"Thought it was big money. Mebbe I'll have t' shoot somebody an' I will, quick. But——"

"We give three dollar, Sam, and you stay with us. If not and somebody comes you get nothing but this." The man slapped his pocket. "But no, we friends, eh? And you will shoot?"

"You bet I will!" said Gus, and meant it. But whom would he shoot? He was not saying.

The man went toward the building and presently came back with a modern, high-powered rifle. He edged off through the woods to the left. After a while he came back with another fellow and they fell to talking in a language which Gus could not understand. They stopped for the new man to look Gus over and the boy turned his head to gaze at none other than his late schoolmate and bitter antagonist, Luigi Malatesta!

The general resemblance between the two men made Gus know that he had been talking to the older brother. Luigi, the younger, went off. At that distance he could not have recognized Gus, though for one moment the boy had a queer feeling, a real bit of fright, but not enough to rob him of the quick sense to be ready with his gun if his enemy had guessed his identity. On second thought Gus felt pretty sure that if he kept his ragged hat well pulled down Luigi would never know him.

And Gus was tremendously elated, so much so that he could hardly keep from prancing or slapping himself; but the danger of what he meant to do, and to do quickly, kept him from undue exuberance.

The elder Malatesta brought one other fellow, evidently an American, to take a squint at Gus. Gus called the Italian over:

"How many of you got here, hey? I don't want t' shoot one of——"

"Not any more; three of us; you four."

"What is all this fuss fer?" asked Gus.

The fellow seemed to ponder a moment. "I tell you," he said, as though with sudden conviction. "In the hut yonder is crazy man. Our brother, yes. We love heem, ver' much. But he malsano—insane—lika fury. And we disgrazia. But he not go to a silo—hospital and treat bad. Oh, no! We swear it! They want getta heem. We hid heem and give heem treatment—medicine, lika say great doctore. Doctore come two day—more tardo. We guard brother ver' fierce—fight—fight! No let go—no let policeaman come. See?"

Gus nodded slowly. It was a well-told yarn, a plausible lie. In a good cause could he not take a turn at that?

"By cracky, you're dead right t' make 'em mind their own bizness! It's your bizness, ain't it? I'd serve 'em that-away, too. I'll bluff 'em, an' shoot, too, if I got t'. Where's these other two standin'?"

The man indicated a spot to the left, another beyond the cabin, and his own position toward the beach. They probably stood on sentry duty most of the time. Gus was given the most dangerous place, the one most likely to be the way of approach. Well, he'd better act, and quickly, if he didn't want the officers of the law to step in ahead and spoil his own plans.

Gus waited until he felt sure the men had taken their places again. Then he contrived a neat bit of strategy that was almost too simple. He meant to get a peep in yonder building, or hut, as the elder Malatesta had called it, and he meant to do this at once. Rapidly and silently he sneaked through the woods until he stood close behind the American gunman who sat drowsily on a log, his gun across his knees.

"Say, bo, get next. They's a couple o' men sneakin' through the woods round beyon' you. They ain't comin' my way. Lay low an' watch 'em." The man crouched.

Gus crept back and then out toward the beach where, by sheer good luck, he came across both Malatesta brothers talking. When they were still at a little distance from him he told them the same story and instantly the elder was on his guard while the younger brother left, crouching as he progressed toward his station. Gus, also crouching, went back quickly.

The boy felt sure that these fellows were armed and that they would remain fixed for a very considerable time—all of them well out of sight of the building. Cautiously at first, then almost running, Gus followed the path right up to the door of what was really a stout log cabin, the one window barred with heavy oaken slats, recently nailed on, and the door padlocked. Gus went straight to the window, thrust aside a bit of bagging that served for a curtain and peered within. Speaking hardly above a whisper, he said:

"Hello, in here! Who are you? Is it Tony Sabaste?"



CHAPTER XXIV

THE PRISONER

"Well, what do you want? Who are you?"

Gus felt his heart almost leap in his bosom. The voice may have been a little huskier, with an accent of suffering and despair, but it was recognizable.

"Keep very quiet, Tony. I'm not supposed to be here, but out yonder, guarding the path. Paid to do it, you understand? But lie low until to-morrow. Then——"

"But tell me; I seem—I—who can you be? Oh, what——?"

"Oh, you don't know me, sure enough. I'm Gus, Tony—Gus Grier. Bill Brown and I are down here to get you. We—, but that must keep. Lie low, old chap. I've got to get away now and go awfully careful, but it'll be all right——"

"Oh, Gus! My friend Gus! You here and for me? I believed the world—but no matter now. Oh, my good friend Gus, you will not never give up? You will—oh, my friend——"

"Go slow, Tony, not so loud! Do you think we would come this far and then go back on you? I must get away now—right off. Lie low."

Gus felt an almost irresistible desire to break open the window or the door at once and get his friend out. Then, if need be, fight their way to safety, but common sense told him that the certain noise of doing such a thing would be heard and perhaps his effort defeated, with great danger to himself, and Tony, too. If there had been but one guard or even two—but three were too great odds.

Back he went to his position, and there he watched for the rest of the day, elated with his discovery of Tony, saddened by the delay, grinning at the thought of the Malatesta and their confederate compelled to watch, almost motionless, for the supposed prowlers.

At last darkness threatened. Those small banditti, the mosquitoes, as bloody-minded as the Malatesta, began to sing and to stab. The assassin owls made mournful cadences in keeping with the scene and its half-tragic human purposes, while the whippoorwills voiced the one element of brightness and hope.

The young fellow in the narrow, dark, log-walled cabin, with its barred window and padlocked oaken door, had been long disconsolate. But now, for the first time in many days, hope came to him as he walked back and forth, fighting pests, still tortured in mind, fearing failure, wondering, praying, yet proud and never beseeching, waiting for another and perhaps a brighter day.

For three months he had been a prisoner, waking from a fevered sleep after a long illness, his splendid constitution alone serving to doctor him, he had found himself mysteriously at sea, in the locked cabin of a tossing yacht that knew no harbor of rest. He had been denied even the chance to talk to, or to know his jailers. He had managed to keep alive on the rough, often unpalatable food poked under his door. There was no response to his callings, hammerings or threats. A less balanced, hopeful, kindly, gentle fellow would have gone insane.

Then, gagged and bound, he had been dumped about almost like a sack of wheat and landed in this horrible place alongside of which his prison room in the yacht was a palace. Now here for the first time had come a friendly voice, that of more than a friend, indeed, and he had again seized upon hope.

Yes, he would lie low, be patient, hope on and wait.



CHAPTER XXV

STRATEGY

"Bill, Bill, we've found Tony! Saw him a little in the dark and talked to him. We're going to get him out, Bill!" And Gus, after bursting in with this good news, told his chum and old Dan all about it. Then they held a council of war.

It was pretty certain that the Malatesta had no means of radio communication, as they could not have burdened themselves with the apparatus, nor could they have confined their communications to one person. That they were seeking ransom money was also pretty certain, and they were in a position to get it, too.

Bill, Gus and old Dan laid some plans, carefully considered from every angle, and with the impetus of youth to be acted upon at once. Having put their transmitting station in operation, Bill got busy on the wires, and on a wave length of 360 meters, began broadcasting notifications to Mr. Sabaste and to the police relative to Tony's whereabouts.

"Mr. Angelo Sabaste, do not send ransom money. Mr. Angelo Sabaste, do not send ransom money. Please convey this message to Mr. Angelo Sabaste, banker, of New York City, do not send ransom money. Police departments and coast patrol, send swift vessels all along the coast to Lower Point Gifford, and the lower inlet to head off any foray from the sea on the part of those who may have caught this; also to prevent escape of kidnapers from the inlet.

"Send men to surround the point and cut off escape by land along the peninsula north of the inlet; also to watch the lower thoroughfare. Some men meet the senders of this at Oysterman Dan's, in neck of woods above Lower Point Gifford, to raid kidnapers' roost from there, and effect rescue of young Anthony Sabaste.

"Station men and vessels to-night. Watch all landing places around Lower Point. Be prepared for trouble. Kidnapers armed and will shoot. Anthony Sabaste in small cabin in pine woods about one mile north of inlet. Hard place to find. Guarded by three men.

"This is William Brown speaking, at Oysterman Dan's cottage—for Augustus Grier, also. Have situation well in hand. Please radio reply at once."

Bill switched off his batteries and clamped the 'phones of the receiver to his ears. He had to listen in for but a few moments.

"Police Department, City. West Rural Section speaking. We are in direct communication with East State Mounted Force and contingents and will relay, acting in unison. Also in communication with coast patrol who also have your radio, no doubt, and will act independently. We are sending men and will make raid in morning, closing in north of Lower Point. Men sent to Oysterman Dan's house to-night. Coast patrol will also go out to-night. Will advise you personally in the morning. Have Dan send boat for men across thoroughfare to Stone Landing. If men not there by three A.M., go to Possum Beach and wait."

Bill still listened and the message was repeated, almost verbatim; then silence. He communicated the information to Gus and old Dan, and the oysterman went off to tidy up his boat for the trip. Bill and Gus decided to snatch a little sleep. Old Dan, who had napped in the afternoon as usual, agreed to wake them before he left at about two o'clock, which he did.

"Bill, I've got a hunch we are going at this thing a little too fast," said Gus.

"How too fast? We can't delay at all, can we?"

"But suppose, when the police make their raid, these Malatestas get desperate and mad enough to kill Tony? They're a bad lot. I've a notion we ought to get Tony out of there before——"

"The iron gets too hot, eh? I guess you are right, Gus."

"Look, Bill, here's a scheme. What if we work it this way?" Gus proceeded to outline a plan with every detail of which Bill agreed; and it called for action.

Taking the revolver and some extra cartridges, Bill hobbled along by Gus, who gave him a lift, now and then, piggy-back. The boys made their way south for more than a mile along the thoroughfare swamp edge. Then they turned sharply on a path across the wooded peninsula to the beach, and went another half mile among the dunes. A very tall pine tree against the sky-line gave Gus his bearings. A little below that they stopped, and Bill found a comfortable hiding-place among scrub pines, with the boom of the breakers in his ears and the sea breeze keeping off the mosquitoes.

Gus cast about silently for the path that led in to the kidnapers' cabin. Finding it with some difficulty in the darkness, he noted certain landmarks and went back to Bill. Agreeing on signals in whispers, Gus went back to the path and struck a match, whereupon Bill fired a shot, and immediately afterward, another. Then Gus swiftly made his way directly toward the cabin, and when near it, called softly:

"Hello, hello, you fellers! It's me, Sam."

There was a very profound silence for a few minutes. Gus called again:

"Hello! It's me, Sam. Don't shoot!"

And very much with his heart in his mouth, but still determined, he advanced, crouching low so that a bullet would most likely pass high over him. Suddenly a figure appeared directly in front of him and a flashlight was thrown in his face for an instant. Gus knew that he had been identified.

"Lay low," he whispered, not forgetting to keep up the dialect. "They're out there, somebody—sneakin' along in the open. I seen 'em an' let fly at 'em an' they shot back, but I run on down the woodses. Git yer gang an' come along so's we kin head 'em off if they start in here."