CHAPTER XVI

"THE CATTLE CAR FOR YOURS"

It was Dave Darrin who kicked the goal. This ran the score up to six to nothing in Gridley's favor.

It was the first scoring in a game that had begun by looking all bad for Gridley.

The Tottenville High School boys were bigger than the visitors and fully as speedy.

In fact, even now, to impartial observers, it looked as though these six points on the score had been won by what was little better than a fluke.

"Gridley can't keep this up," remarked the Tottenville boosters confidently. "They'll lose their wind and nerve against our fine line before the game is much older."

The first half went out with score unchanged. But Captain Wadleigh did heave a sigh of relief when the time keeper cut in on that first half.

"Fellows, look out for the fine points," he warned his fellows, after they had trotted into quarters. "It'll be craft, not strong rush, that wins for us today, if anything does."

"Prescott's here. He and Darrin can put anything over in the line of craft," laughed Fred Ripley.

Ripley was in togs, but was not playing. He was on the sub line, today, awaiting a call in case any player of his team became disabled.

"Darrin and Prescott are all right," nodded Wadleigh gruffly. "But they have endurance limits, like other human beings. Don't rely too much upon any two or three men, fellows. Now, in the second half"—-here Wadleigh lowered his voice—-"I'm going to spare Prescott and Darrin all I can. So you other fellows look out for hard work."

Dick's eyes were still flashing. This was not from the fever of the game, but from the recollection of how narrowly he had escaped being tricked out of this chance to play today.

On his arrival, and while dressing before the game, Prescott had related to the team the mean trick that had been played upon him. He had also told how the case came out in court.

"Dodge and Bayliss are traitors to the school!" cried Purcell indignantly. "We'll have to give 'em the silence!"

"Hear! Hear!" cried several of the fellows.

This, in other words, meant that Dodge and Bayliss would be "sent to Coventry"—-shut out from all social contact with the school body during the remainder of the school year.

"I think I'm with you, fellows," nodded Captain Wadleigh. "However, remember that the football team can't settle all school questions. We'll take this up when we get back to Gridley."

In the second half it was not long before Gridley did go stale and tired. But so, too, to the disgust of home boosters, did the Tottenville High School boys.

The game became a sheer test of endurance. Gridley, under Wadleigh, played with a doggedness that made Tottenville put forth all its strength.

"Brace up, you lobsters," growled Captain Grant of the home team, after the whistle had sounded on Tottenville's "down" with the ball. "Buck the simple Gridley youths. Wade through their line as if you fellows were going to dinner half an hour late. Don't let them wind you, or stop you!"

Tottenville threw all its force into the following plays. Surely, doggedly, the home boys forced the ball down the gridiron. At last Gridley was forced to make a safety, thus scoring two points for their opponents.

"Don't let that happen again, fellows," urged Wadleigh anxiously. "Fight for time, but don't throw any two-spots away."

"Rally, men! Brace! Crush 'em!" ordered Captain Grant. "Seven minutes left! We've got to score."

These muttered orders caused a grim smile among the Tottenville High School boys, for the only way to tie the score would be to force Gridley to make two more safeties—-a hard thing to do against a crack eleven in seven minutes!

Dick and Dave Darrin were called into play as soon as the visitors had the ball in their own hands once more.

The "trick" signal sounded from quarter-back's lips.

"One—-three—-seven—-eleven!"

There was instant, seemingly sly activity on the part of Gridley's right wing. Those from Gridley who stood on the grand stand thought that the coming play looked bad in advance.

"Why don't they use Prescott again?" asked some one anxiously. "He has been having a vacation."

Then followed the snap-back. Quarter-back started with the ball, and it looked as though he would dash for the right.

The quarter took one step, then wheeled like lightning, and rushed after Darrin, who already was in swift motion.

Gridley's whole line switched for the left.

Tottenville found out the trick after the heaviest fellows in its line had started for Gridley's right.

"Oh, Darrin—-sprint! Oh, you Prescott!"

Truly the boosters were howling themselves hoarse.

There was frenzy on in an instant.

To the knowing among the watchers there was no chance for Gridley to rush down on the enemy's goal line, but every yard—-every foot, now—-carried the pigskin just so much further from Gridley's goal line.

Gridley's interference rushed in solidly about Dave Darrin, as though to boost him through.

Dick seemed bent on beating down some of the formation surging against the visitors.

Just as the bunch "clumped" Dave Darrin went down. There was a surge over him, and then Dick Prescott was seen racing as though for life.

There was no opposition left—-only Tottenville's quarter-back and the fullback.

Tottenville's quarter got after fleeting Dick too late, for the whole movement had been one of startling trickery.

One Tottenville halfback was too far away to make an obstructing dash in time.

In dodging the other halfback Dick dashed on as though not seeing the fellow. This, however, was all trick. Just in the nick of time Prescott, still holding the ball, ducked and dodged far to the left, getting around his man.

Tottenville's fullback was now the sole hope of the home team.

Prescott, however, dodged that heavy fellow, also.

From the Gridley boosters on the grand stand went up a medley of yells that dinned in the young left end's ears. Panting, all but fainting, Dick was over the enemy's goal line and he had the ball down.

When Dave had emerged from that fruitless clumping he had a broad grin on his face. He saw that while Dick was not yet over the goal line, only the fullback was in the way and the fullback was no match for Dick in the matter of speed.

Then the yells told the rest. Back came the ball. Captain Wadleigh nodded to Dave to kick the goal.

Captain Grant looked utterly wild. He had assured everyone in Tottenville who had asked him that the Gridley "come ons" would be eaten alive. And here——-!

Dave made the kick. After going down in that bunch Darrin was not at his best. Body and nerves were tired. He failed to kick the goal.

Hardly, however, had the two teams been started in a new line-up when the time keeper did his trick. The game was over.

That last kick had failed, but who cared? The score was eleven to two!

Ere the players could escape from the field the Gridley boosters were over on the gridiron.

Dick and Dave were bodily carried to dressing quarters. Wadleigh, who had shown fine generalship in this stiff game was cheered until the boosters went hoarse.

"Gentlemen," cried Coach Morton, raising his voice to its fullest carrying power as the dressing quarters filled, "it's probably too early to brag, but I feel that we've got an old-fashioned Gridley eleven this year."

"Ask Grant!"

"Ask anybody in Tottenville!"

The first yell was sent up by Ripley, the second by another substitute.

All the Gridley members of the team were excited at the close of this game. Not even their weariness kept down their spirits.

Herr Schimmelpodt didn't attempt to enter quarters. He was now too much of a "sport" to attempt that. But he stood just outside the door, vigorously mopping his shining, wet face.

There were two extra places in the German's hired car. Dave, of course, was asked to fill one of these, and Captain Wadleigh was invited to take the fifth seat.

More dejected than ever were Bert Dodge and his chum, Bayliss, as they slouched away from the grounds. They did not attempt to invade the gridiron and join in the triumphal procession to quarters.

"You can't seem to down that fellow Prescott," muttered Bayliss, in disgust. "Just as you think you've got him by the throat you find out that he's sitting on your chest and pulling your hair."

"Oh, I don't know," growled Dodge sulkily. "He may have his weak spot, and it may be a very weak spot at that."

The pair moped along until they reached the garage in which they had left the runabout.

Bayliss was standing near the doorway, while Bert inspected the machinery of the car.

"Pest! Look out there," muttered Bayliss, stepping back from the open doorway.

"What is it?" demanded Bert. "Oh, I see! Old Schimmelpodt brought the beggar Prescott over here in an auto. That's how the fellow managed to get into the game, after all. Well, what of it all, anyway?"

"That car is running along slowly, and it has a full-sized crowd in it," muttered Bayliss, going closer to his crony. "Wadleigh, Prescott and Darrin—-and maybe the chauffeur is a thick friend of theirs."

"What on earth are you driving at?" demanded Dodge, glancing up.

"Bert, I don't believe I'm wholly stuck on the scheme of us driving back to Gridley. There are too many lonely spots along the road.

"Do you think they'd assassinate us?" jeered Bert.

"I—-I think Wadleigh may have formed the notion of stopping us and giving us a thrashing," responded Bayliss.

"Bosh!" snapped Dodge quickly.

Yet, none the less, he paused and looked thoughtful.

"There's more than one road to Gridley, old fellow," muttered Bert uneasily. "You see Schimmelpodt and that mocker didn't pass us on the way here."

"But I think they're likely to have guessed our road," persisted Bayliss. "There was an ugly look on Wadleigh's face, too, as that car drove past here."

"But old Schimmelpodt wouldn't stand for anything disorderly and—-unlawful," urged Bert.

"I don't know about that," retorted Bayliss significantly. "That old German has gone crazy over High School sports. He might stand in for 'most anything. You know, he offered your Dad to give you a spanking this afternoon."

The thought of Herr Schimmelpodt's big and capable-looking hands caused Bert to shiver a bit uneasily. Yet he didn't want to admit that he was scared. He glanced at his watch.

"We've time to catch the regular train back, I suppose, Bayliss."

"Let's do it, then," begged the other.

"Will you pay a chauffeur to take this car home, then?"

"I'll pay half," volunteered Bayliss eagerly.

"All right, then; if you're pretty near broke, we'll divide the cost," agreed Dodge.

An arrangement was easily made with the owner of the garage. Then, the charges paid, this pair of cronies, who considered themselves much better than the usual run of High School boys, hurried over to the railway station.

The train was waiting by the time that the pair arrived. Bert and Bayliss hastily purchased tickets, then boarded the handiest car. The train proved to contain few people except the Gridley student body and boosters from that town.

"Here, what are you fellows doing in here?" angrily demanded Purcell, as the cronies entered one of the cars.

"We're going to ride to Gridley, if you've no objections," replied Bert, with sulky defiance.

"No, sir; not in this car!" declared Purcell promptly. "Too many decent people here. The cattle car for yours!"

"Oh, shut up!" retorted Dodge, trying to shove into a vacant seat.

But Purcell gripped him and pushed him back.

"No, siree! Not in here! The cattle car is your number."

"You——-"

"We'll pitch you off the train if you have the cheek to try to ride in this ear," insisted Purcell.

High School boys, when off on a junket of this kind, are likely to be as wild as college boys. A score of the Gridley youths now jumped up. It looked as though there were going to be a riot.

"Oh, come on," snarled Bayliss, plucking his crony's sleeve. "We don't want to ride with this truck, anyway."

Into the next car stamped the two young men, their faces red with anger and shame.

"Sneaks!" piped up some one.



CHAPTER XVII

FACING THE "SCHOOL CUT"

At the instant of their entrance into the car the air had been full of merry chatter.

There were many High School girls in this car, and not many vacant seats.

As the word "sneaks" sounded through the car everyone turned around.

Bert and Bayliss found themselves uncomfortably conspicuous.

At once all the talk and laughter ceased. Stony silence followed.

One of the girls was sitting alone in a seat.

Bayliss, unable to endure the situation any longer, glided forward, dropping into the vacant place.

"That seat is engaged," the girl coolly informed him.

So Bayliss, redder than ever, hurriedly rose.

Bert had already started for the next car. Bayliss slunk along after him.

"Sneaks!" cried some one, as they showed their faces in still the next car forward.

Here, too, all the chatter stormed at once.

Bert, pulling his hat down over his eyes, went hurriedly past the boys and girls of Gridley, and into the next car.

Bayliss followed with the fidelity and closeness of a little dog.

Now, the next car ahead proved to be the smoking car. Here, at any rate, the despised pair could find safe harborage.

But one of the men of Gridley, who had followed the football team this day, and who had got an inkling of the story of the arrest, removed a cigar from between his lips and pointed an accusing finger at the boys.

"See here, you fellows!" he shouted. "This car is exclusively for men. Can you take a hint?"

"But we've got to sit somewhere," flashed Bert defiantly.

"I don't know as that's necessary, either," retorted the Gridley man. "At least, I don't care if it is. After your dirty little trick, today, we don't want you in here among men. Do we, neighbors?"

There were many mutterings, some cat-calls and at least a score of men rose.

"You let me alone, you fellows!" yelled Bert Dodge, as he made a break for the front end of the car. "Don't any of you dare to get fresh with me!"

By the time he had reached the front end of the car Bert was almost sobbing with anger and shame.

Bayliss had followed, white and silent.

In the baggage car, to their relief, the sole railway employee there did not object to their presence.

Bert and his crony found seats on two trunks side by side.

"Dodge," whispered Bayliss unsteadily, after the train had pulled out from Tottenville, "I'm afraid we're in bad with the school push."

"Afraid?" sneered Bert. "Man, don't you know it?"

"Well, it's all your fault—-this whole confounded row!"

"Oh, you're going to play welsher, are you?" sneered Bert. "Humph! By morning you'll be a full-fledged mucker!"

"Don't you worry about that," argued Bayliss, though rather stiffly. "I know my family—-and my caste."

"I should hope so," rejoined Dodge, with just a shade more cordiality.

Rather than alight at Gridley, and face the whole High School crowd—-for scores who had not been able to meet the expense of the trip to Tottenville would be sure to be at the station to meet the victorious team—-Bert and Bayliss rode on to the next station, then got off and walked two miles back to town.

By Monday morning the punishment of the pair was made complete.

Bert and Bayliss walked to school together. As they drew near the grounds both young men felt their hearts beating faster.

"I wonder if there's anything in for us?" whispered Dodge.

"Sure to be," responded Bayliss.

"Well, the fellows had better not try anything too frisky. If they do, they'll give us a chance to make trouble for 'em!"

It seemed as though the full count of the student body, boys and girls, had assembled in the yard this morning.

All was gay noise until the pair of cronies appeared at the gate.

Then, swiftly, all the noise died out.

One could hardly hear even a breath being drawn.

The silence was complete as Bert and Bayliss, now very white, stepped into the yard.

Though not a voice sounded, every eye was turned on the white-faced pair.

Bert Dodge's lips moved. He tried to summon us control enough of his tongue to utter some indifferent remark to his companion.

But the sound simply wouldn't come.

After a walk that was only a few yards in distance, yet seemed only less than a mile in length, the humiliated pair rushed up the steps, opened the great door and let themselves in.

At recess neither Bayliss nor Dodge had the courage to appear outside. As they left school that afternoon they were treated to the same dose of "silence."

Tuesday morning neither Dodge nor Bayliss showed up at all at school.

On Thursday morning High School readers of "The Blade" were greatly interested in the following personal paragraph:

"Bayliss and Dodge, both of the senior class, High School, have severed their connection with that institution. It is understood that the young men are going elsewhere in search of better educational facilities."

That was all, but it told the boys and girls at Gridley High School all that they needed to know.

"That is the very last gasp of the 'sorehead' movement," grinned Tom Reade, in talking it over with Dan Dalzell.

"Well, they did the whole trick for themselves," rejoined Dan. "No one else touched them, or pushed them. They took all the rope they wanted—-and hanged themselves. Now, that pair will probably feel cheap every time they have to come back to Gridley and walk the streets."

"All they had to do was to be decent fellows," mused Tom. "But the strain of decency proved to be too severe for them."

In the High School yard that Thursday morning there was one unending strain of rejoicing.

Some of the other late "soreheads," who had escaped the full meed of humiliation—-Davis, Cassleigh, Fremont, Porter and others—-actually sighed with relief when they found what they had escaped in the way of ridicule and contempt.

"The whole thing teaches us one principle," muttered Fremont to Porter.

"What is that?"

"Never tackle the popular idol in any mob. If you can't get along with him, avoid him—-but don't try to buck him!"

"Humph!" retorted Porter. "If you mean Prescott and his gang—-Dick & Co., as the fellows call them—-I can follow one part of your advice by avoiding them. I never did and never could like that mucker Prescott!"

The fact of interest to Dick would have been that he appeared to enjoy the respect of at least ninety-five per cent. of the student body of the High School.

Surely that percentage of popularity is enough for anyone. The fellow can get along without the approbation of a few "soreheads"!



CHAPTER XVIII

"PRIN." GETS IN THE PRACTICE

If Dodge and Bayliss devoted any time to farewells among their late fellow-students before quitting Gridley the fact did not seem to leak out.

Yet despite the absence of two young men who considered themselves of such great importance the Gridley High School appeared to go on about the same as ever.

It was the season of football, and nearly of the school's interest and enthusiasm seemed to spend itself in that direction. Coach Morton did all in his power to push the team on to perfection; the other teachers worked harder than ever to keep the interest of the students sufficiently on their studies. The girls, as well as the boys, suffered from the infection of the gridiron microbe.

Five more games with other High School teams were fought out, and now Gridley had an unbroken record of victories so far for the season.

Such a history can often be built up in the athletics of a High School, but it has to be a school attended by the cream of young manhood and having an abundance of public interest and enthusiasm behind it all.

Not at any time in the season did Coach Morton allow the training work to slacken. Regularly the entire squad turned out for field work. If the afternoon proved to be stormy, then four blasts on the city fire alarm, at either two o'clock or two-thirty, notified the young men that they were to report at the gym. instead. There, the work, though different, was just as severe. The result was that every youngster in the squad "reeked" with good condition all through the season.

It is in just this respect that many a High School eleven fails to "make really good." In a team where discipline is lax some of the fellows are sure to rebel at spending "all their time training." Where the coach exercises too limited authority, or when he is too "easy," the team's record is sure to suffer in consequence. Many a High School eleven comes out a tail-ender just because the coach is not strict enough, or cannot be. Many a team composed of naturally husky and ambitious boys fails on account of a light-weight coach. On the other hand, the best coach in the country can't make a winning eleven out of fellows who won't work or be disciplined.

Coach Morton's authority was unbounded. After the team had been organized for the season it took action by the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association to drop a man from the team. But coach and captain could drop the offender back to the "sub" seats and keep him there. Moreover, it was well known that Mr. Morton's recommendation that a certain young man be dropped was all the hint that the Athletics Committee needed.

Under failing health, or when duties prevented full attention to football training, a member of the team was allowed to resign. But an offending member couldn't resign. He was dropped, and in the eyes of the whole student body being dropped signified deep disgrace.

In five out of the won games Dick Prescott had played left end, and without accident. Yet, as it was wholly possible that he might be laid up at any instant, the coach was assiduously training Dan Dalzell and Tom Reade to play at either end of the line. Other subs were rigorously trained for other positions, but Dan and Tom were regarded as the very cream of the sub players in the light-weight positions.

Dan had played left end in one of the lesser gables, and had shown himself a swift, brilliant gridironist, though he was not quite as crafty as Prescott.

Tom Reade had less of strategy than Dan but relied more upon great bursts of speed and in the sheer ability to run away from impending tackle.

Now the boys were training for the team's eighth game, the one to be played against the Hepburn Falls High School, a strong organization.

"Remember that a tie saves the record, but that it doesn't look as well as a winning," Coach Morton coaxed the squad dryly, as they started in for afternoon practice.

"We miss the mascot that the earlier High School teams used to have," remarked Hudson.

"Yes? What was it?" inquired coach.

"Why, bully old Dr. Thornton used to drop in for a few minutes, 'most every practice afternoon?" replied Hudson. "I can remember just how his full, kindly old face, with the twinkling eyes, used to encourage the fellows up to the prettiest work that was in then. Oh, he was a mascot—-Dr. Thornton was!"

Coach Morton was of the same mind, but he didn't say so, as it would sound like a rejection on the present unpopular principal, Abner Cantwell.

This afternoon there was no real team practice Mr. Morton wanted certain individual play features brought out more strongly. One of these was the kicking of the ball.

After several had worked with the pigskin Morton called out:

"Now, Prescott, you take the ball, and drop back to the twenty-five-yard line. When you get there name your shot—-that is, tell us where you intend to put the ball. Where doesn't matter as long as it is a long kick and a true one. After you name your shot, then run swiftly to the center of the field. From there, without a long pause, kick and see how straight you can drive for the point you have named."

"All right, sir," nodded Dick. Tucking the pigskin under his arm, he jogged back to the twenty-five-yard line.

"Right over there!" called Dick, pointing. "I'll try to drop the ball in the front row of seats, second section past the entrance."

"Very good, Prescott!"

No one was sitting in the section named by Prescott, but a few onlookers who had been squatting in a section near by hastily moved.

"The duffers! They needn't think I am going to hit them with the ball," muttered Dick. Then he started on a hard run.

Just at center he stopped abruptly, swung back his right foot and dropped the ball.

It was a hard, fast drive. The ball arched upward, somewhat, though it did not travel high.

But to Dick, standing still to watch the effect of his kick there came a sudden jolt. A man had just appeared, walking through the entrance passage. His head, well up above the sloping sides of the passage at this point, was not right in line with the ball.

And that man was Principal Cantwell!

Several members of the squad saw what might happen, but every one of them was too eagerly expectant to make a sound to prevent the threatened catastrophe.

Dick saw and half shivered. Yet in his desire to say something in the fewest words of warning, all he could think of was:

"Low bridge!"

Nor did Coach Morton succeed in thinking of anything more helpful, for he shouted only:

"Mr. Cantwell!"

"Eh?" asked the principal, turning toward the coach and therefore not seeing the ball that was now nearly upon him.

Mr. Cantwell, on this afternoon, having a few calls in mind, had arrayed himself in his best. He wore a long black frock coat which, he imagined, made him look at least as distinguished as a diplomat. In the matter of silk hats, being decidedly economical, Mr. Cantwell allowed himself a new one only once in two years. But new one had been due; he had just bought one, and now wore this glossy thing in the latest style.

There was no time for more warning.

The descending ball was in straight line with that elegant hat.

Bump! The pigskin struck the hat full and fair, carrying it from the principal's head.

On sailed hat and football for some three feet, the hat managing to run upside down.

R-r-r-rip! The force with which the football was traveling impaled the hat on a picket at the side of the stand. Then, as if satisfied with fits work, the football struck and bounded back, landing at the principal's feet.

For one moment Mr. Cantwell was dumb with amazement.

Then he saw his impaled hat and realized the extent and tragedy of his loss. The angered man went white with wrath.

"What ruffian did that!" he roared.

But the boys, unable to hold in any longer, had let out a concerted though half-suppressed "whoop!" and now came running to the spot.

"Who kicked my hat off?" demanded the principal, pointing tragically to the piece of headgear, through the crown and past the rim of which the picket now stood up as though in triumph.

"You—-you got in the way of—-the ball, sir," explained Drayne, trying hard to keep from roaring out with laughter.

"But some one kicked the ball my way," insisted the principal, with utter sternness. "Don't tell me that no one did! That football could not By through the air without some one propelling it. Now, young gentlemen, who kicked that ball?"

"I did, Mr. Cantwell," admitted Dick, pushing his way through the throng. "And I'm very sorry that anything like this has happened, sir."

"On, you did it, oh?" demanded the principal, eyeing the young man witheringly. "And you actually expect an apology to restore my new and expensive hat to its former pristine condition of splendor?"

"I didn't know you were there, sir," Dick explained. "You didn't appear until just after I had kicked the ball."

"Prescott is quite right, Mr. Cantwell," put in Coach Morton. "None of us knew you were here in the passage until the ball had been kicked—-not, in fact, until the ball was almost upon you."

"Then, when you saw me, why didn't you call out to warn me?" demanded the principal, still fearfully angry, though trying to keep back unparliamentary language.

"I did call out, sir," replied Dick. "There was mighty little time to think, but I called out the two quickest words I could think of."

"What did you call?" demanded the principal.

"I yelled 'low bridge!'"

"A most idiotic expression," snorted the principal. "What on earth does it mean, anyway?"

"It means to duck, sir," Prescott answered.

"Duck?" retorted Mr. Cantwell, glaring suspiciously at the sober-faced young left end. "Now, what on earth does 'duck' mean, unless you refer to a web-footed species of poultry?"

"Prescott was rattled, beyond a doubt, Mr. Cantwell," interposed Coach Morton. "So was I—-the time was so short. All I could think of as to call out to you by name."

"With the result that I looked your way—- and lost my row hat," snapped the principal. He now turmoil to take the spoiled article off the paling. He looked at it almost in anguish, for he had been very proud of that glossy article.

"It's a shame," muttered Drayne, with mock sympathy.

"That's what it is," agreed Dave Darrin innocently. "But—-Mr. Morton—-I think the matter can be fixed satisfactorily. If you call this to the attention of the Athletics Committee won't they vote to appropriate the price of a new hat out of the High School athletics fund? You know, the fund is almost overburdened with money this year."

"That might not be a bad idea," broke in the principal eagerly. "Will you call this to the attention of the Committee, Mr. Morton, For it was in coming here to watch the young men that I lost my fine, new hat."

"Now, I'm heartily sorry," replied Mr. Morton, "but I am certain the members of the committee will feel that money contributed by the citizens of the town can hardly be expended in purchasing hats for anyone."

"But——-" Mr. Cantwell began to expostulate. Then he stopped, very suddenly. Just as plainly as anyone else present the principal now saw the absurdity of expecting a new hat out of the athletics fund. Mr. Cantwell shot a very savage look at innocent-appearing Dave Darrin.

"My afternoon is spoiled, as well as my hat," remarked the principal, turning to leave with as much dignity as could be expected from man who bore such a battered hat in his hands.

"The hatter might be able to block your hat out and repair it," suggested Hudson, though without any real intention of offering aid. "Our coachman had that sort of trick done to played-out old silk hat that Dad gave him."

"Mr. Hudson," returned the principal, turning and glaring at this latest polite tormentor, "will you be good enough to remember that I am not extremely interested in your family history.

"Back to your practice, men!" called the coach sharply, after the last had been seen of the back of the principal's black coat.

"It was too bad!" muttered Dick, in a tone of genuine regret.

"Say that again, and I'll make an effort to thrash you, Prescott!" challenged Hudson, with a grin.

"Well, I am sorry it happened," Dick insisted. "And mighty sorry, too."

"You couldn't help it."

"I know it, but that hardly lessens my regret. I don't enjoy the thought of having destroyed anyone else's property, even if I couldn't help it and can't be blamed.

"Prescott said he didn't know I was there!" exclaimed Mr. Cantwell angrily to himself. "Bosh! That boy has been a thorn in my side ever since I became principal of the school. Of course he saw me—-and he kicked wonderfully straight! Oh, how I wish I could make him wear this hat every day during the balance of the school year! Such a handsome hat—-eight dollars!"

"It's a shame to tell you," confided Dave Darrin, as he and Dick headed the sextette of chums on the homeward tramp, "but you're certainly looking in great condition, old fellow."

"I feel simply perfect, physically," Dick replied. "I have, in fact, ever since I first began to train in the baseball squad last season. It's wonderful what training does for a fellow! I know there's a heap of bad condition in the world, but I often wonder why there is. Why, Dave, I ought to knock wood, of course, but I feel so fine that it seems as though nothing could put me out of form."

At that moment young Prescott had no idea how easily a few minutes could bring one from the best possible condition to the brink of physical despair.



CHAPTER XIX

LAURA AND BELLE HAVE A SECRET

"Only a team of fools would hope to stop Gridley High School this year."

Thus stated the Elliston "Tribune" after Gridley had walked through Elliston High School, one of the strongest school teams of the state, by a score of eight to nothing.

That copy of "The Tribune" found its way over to Gridley, and fell into the hands of some of the High School boys.

"Be careful, young men," warned Mr. Morton. "Don't get it too seriously into your heads that you can't be beaten, or your downfall will date from that hour. The true idea is not that on can't be beaten, but that you won't. Stick to the latter idea as well as you do to your training, and it will be a good eleven, indeed, that can get a game away from you."

"Only two more to play this year, anyway," replied Hudson. "We can't lose much."

"The team might lose two, and that would a worse record than any Gridley eleven has made in five years," retorted Mr. Morton dryly.

"We won't lose 'em, though," rejoined Tom Reade. "Every fellow in the squad is in a conspiracy to pull the eleven through the next two games—-by its hair, if necessary."

"That line of thought is better than conceit," smiled the coach.

The game with Paunceboro High School came off, one of the most stubbornly fought battles that Gridley had ever entered. It seemed impossible to score against this enemy.

Again and again Dick broke around the left end in a spirited dash, or Dan Dalzell made one of his swift sorties at right end. Then, by the time that Paunceboro had grown used to end dashes, Gridley would make a smashing charge at center.

All these styles of attack, however, Paunceboro met smilingly. In the first half there was no score.

Yet Paunceboro did not succeed any better in getting through or around Gridley's line of flexible human steel. Until within ten minutes before the close of the second half, it looked like a tie between giants of the school gridiron.

Then, by a series of feints in which Prescott, Darrin, Drayne and Hudson bore off the most brilliant honors, although all under Wadleigh's planning, Paunceboro was sorely pressed down against its own goal line.

Just in the nick of time Paunceboro made a safety, and thus sent the ball back up the field. But it cost Paunceboro two reluctantly-given points, and that was the score—-two to nothing.

Gridley was still victor in every game so far played in the season. November was now far along, and there remained only the great Thanksgiving Day game. This contest, against Filmore High School, was to be fought out on the Gridley field.

"Your football season will soon be over, Dick," remarked Laura Bentley, one afternoon when Prescott and Darrin, on their way back from coach's gridiron grilling, met Laura and Belle on Main Street.

"This season will soon be over," replied Dick "but I hope for another next year."

"And then, perhaps, at college?" hinted Belle.

"If we go to college," replied Dick slowly.

"Why? Don't you expect to?" asked Laura, in some surprise.

"We are not sure," murmured Dick, "that we want to go to college."

"Why, I thought both of you were ambitious for higher education," cried Belle.

"So we are," nodded Dave.

"Oh! Then, if not to college, you are going to some scientific school?" guessed Laura.

"I wonder if you two could keep a secret?" laughed Dick teasingly.

"Try us!" challenged Belle Meade.

Dick glanced at Dave, who gave a barely perceptible nod.

"No; we won't try you," retorted Dick "We'll trust you, without any promise on your part."

"Good!" cried Laura, in a gratified tone.

"Well?" inquired Belle, as neither boy spoke.

"It's just here, then," Prescott went on, in a low tone, after glancing around to make sure that no one else was within hearing. "The Congressman from this district, in a year or so more, will have the filling of a vacancy at West Point. That means a cadetship from this district. Now, a Congressman can appoint a cadet as a matter of favoritism, or to pay a political debt to some relative of the boy he so appoints. But the custom, in this district, has always been for the Congressman to appoint the boy who comes out best in a competitive examination. The examination is thrown open to all boys, of proper age, who can first pass a good physical examination."

"So you're both going to try for it?" asked Belle quickly.

"No," retorted Dave very quickly. "That would make us rivals. Dick and I don't want to be rivals."

"Then where do you come in?" asked Belle, glancing curiously at Darrin.

"Whisper!" replied Dave, looking mischievously mysterious. After a pause he continued, almost in a whisper:

"At just about the same time there will be a vacancy at Annapolis. So while Dick is trying to get a job carrying the banner for the Army, it will be little David trying for a chance to be a second Farragut in the Navy."

Dick winced at his chum's rather slighting allusion to an Army career, but on this one point of preference in the way of the service, the two chums were willing to disagree. Darrin wouldn't have gone to West Point if he could. Dick admitted the greatness of the American Navy, but all his heart was set on the Army.

"Both of you boys, then, are planning to give up your lives to the Flag?" exclaimed Laura.

"Yes," nodded Dick; "do you think it's foolish?"

"I think it's glorious!" breathed Laura.

"So do I," agreed Belle heartily; "though, like Dave, I should think the Navy would be the more attractive."

"Oh, the Navy is all right," gibed Dick. "It would never suit me, though. You see, a fellow in the Navy has nothing to do but ride into a fight on board a first-class ship. It's too much like being a Cook's tourist war time. Now, any Army officer, or a private soldier, for that matter, has to depend upon his own physical exertions to get him into the fight."

"And an Army fellow," twitted Dave, "if he finds the fight too hard for him, can always dig a hole and hide in it. But where can a naval officer hide?"

"Oh, he has it easy enough, anyway, hiding behind armor plate," scoffed Dick.

"Of one thing I feel certain, anyway," said Laura thoughtfully. "You are both of you cut out for the military life. Under the most fearful conditions I don't believe either one of you would ever show the white feather."

"I don't know," replied Dick gravely. "Neither one of us has ever been tested sufficiently. But I hope you're right, Laura. I'd sooner be dead, at this instant, than to feel that my cowardice would ever throw the slightest stain on the grand old Flag. I try to be generous in my opinions of others. I think I can stand almost any man except—-the coward!"

"I'm not a bit afraid of either one of you, on that score," broke in Belle warmly.

"That's very kind of you," nodded Dave. "But of course you don't know any more about our bravery than we do ourselves. It has never been proven."

"How many young men have been killed in football this year?" asked Laura quietly.

"I think the paper stated, the other day, that it was something more than forty," replied Dick.

"Well, don't you two play football," demanded Laura. "Don't you both jump into the crush as fearlessly as anyone, Doesn't it take about as much nerve to play fast and furious football as it does to fight on the battlefields Isn't football, in its hardest form, a great training for the soldiers"

"Oh, perhaps," laughed Dick. "For that matter, Laura, I believe you could soon talk me into believing that I'm braver than good old Phil Sheridan!"

"Hullo," muttered Dave suddenly. "What——-"

"Where's the crowd rushing!" demanded Belle, in the same breath.

"There's some trouble down the street!" cried Darrin. "And smoke, too."

"It's a fire!" cried Dick, wheeling about. "Come along—-all!"

As the girls started to scurry down the street Dick caught Laura's nearer arm to aid her. Dave did as much for Belle.

These four young people were among the first hundred and fifty to gather on the sidewalk before a store and office building that was on fire.

It was a five story building. Fire had started in back on the second floor. Originating in offices empty at the time, the blaze had gained good headway ere it was discovered. It had eaten up to the third and fourth floors, and was now sweeping frontward. On the third floor the heat had cracked the window glass, and the air, rushing in, had fanned up a brisk blaze. Flames were beginning to shoot out their fiery tongues through these third story windows.

"Is everyone out of that building?" demanded the policeman on the beat, rushing up. He had just learned that a citizen had gone to ring in the fire alarm, so now the policeman's next thought was directed toward life saving.

There was a quick count of those who had been in the offices on the upper floors.

On the fourth floor one suite of offices had been occupied as a china painting school. Miss Trent, the teacher, who had reached the sidewalk safely, now looked about her anxiously.

"I had only one pupil up there, Miss Grace Dodge," replied Miss Trent, hurriedly. "I called to her and then ran. Miss Dodge started after me, then rushed back to get her purse, palette and color case."

"Has anyone seen Miss Dodge?" demanded the policeman.

No one had.

"Then I'll get up there, if I can," muttered the officer.

Dropping belt and club to the sidewalk, and pulling his helmet down tight on his head, the policeman darted into the building and up the stairs.

At that moment, above the smoke and flames pouring out of the third story windows, Grace Dodge appeared at one of the windows on the fourth floor. She was hatless, and a streak of blood appeared over her left temple.

"Don't jump!" shouted several men loudly. "A policeman has just started up to get you."

Miss Dodge appeared somewhat dazed; it was a question whether she understood. But her face disappeared from the window way. To many of the horrified ones below, it appeared as though the imperiled girl had swayed dizzily away from the window, as though overcome by the heat and fumes from the windows below her.

"Where is the fire department? Is it never coming?" wailed one woman in the throng, wringing her hands.

No one here knew that the citizen who had rushed to send in the alarm had found the first box out of order. He was now rushing to another alarm box.

Out of the hallway came the policeman, white-faced and tottering weakly.

"I—-I couldn't get up much above the second floor," he gasped, in a voice out of which the strength was gone. "I—-I guess the—-heat and smoke got me! But—-some one—-must try!"

Where was that fire department?

Dick, staring over the crowd, found that all of his chums had arrived.

"Come on, fellows!" he yelled. "We've got to do something. Follow me!"

Prescott, after one swift glance at the buildings, made a dash for the door of the one just to the right of the blazing pile. Into the stairway entrance he dashed, followed by Dave Darrin, by Tom Reade, Greg Holmes, Dan Dalzell and Harry Hazelton.

"Hurrah!" yelled some one, in infectious enthusiasm. "Dick & Co. to the rescue!"



CHAPTER XX

IN THE LINE OF DARING

That became instantly the cry:

"Dick & Co. to the rescue!"

Yet none of the sextette heard it.

They were all inside, at the first step of their projected deed of bravery.

"All of you but Dave run through the offices!" yelled Dick. "Some of the tenants must have fire-rope coils. Grab the first rope you can find and bring it to me on the roof. Hustle! Dave, you follow me!"

Even to boys daily grilled on the football gridiron it was no mere matter of sport to dart up five flights of stairs at fast speed.

Dick Prescott was panting as he reached the roof and threw open the skylight door.

But he got out on the roof, hurrying across it, doing his best, at the same time, to gulp in chestfuls of fresh air.

Then he came to the edge of the roof next to the burning building.

The roof of that other building was about fifteen feet below the Roof on which Dick Prescott stood.

After an instant of swift calculation young Prescott jumped.

He landed, below, on the balls of his feet, though the next instant the momentum of the fall carried him forward onto his hands.

In another twinkling Prescott was up, running toward the front edge of the building.

He stopped at the skylight door, but discovered that the flames and smoke below shut off hope there. So he continued to the front of the roof.

Here Dick glanced back, for a second, to make sure that Dave had followed safely.

Darrin was on his feet, and waved his hand reassuringly.

Then Dick Prescott leaned out, peering down at the front of the burning building.

"There's Prescott!" shouted some of the most enthusiastic watchers.

"Hurrah. Old Gridley High School!"

But Dick paid no heed to the crowd. He was trying to locate the window at which Grace Dodge had appeared, and was trying to contrive how he would use a rope when one came.

In the meantime Darrin, having jumped to the lower roof, remained where he had dropped, awaiting the arrival of the other fellows with a rope.

After a few moments they came. Reade had a coil of inch rope, which he waved enthusiastically.

"Wait until we get the rope uncoiled," called Greg. "Then we'll lower some of us down to join you"

"Lower—-nothing! Jump!" yelled Dave, in a stentorian quarter-deck voice.

Greg obeyed, instanter. Tom flung the coil of rope below, then followed it. Hazelton and Dalzell, an instant later, were with their comrades.

"Come on, now," ordered Darrin, who had snatched up the coil of rope and was darting over the roof. "Dick's waiting for us."

Prescott, still looking below, heard the swish of ropes on the roof as Dave uncoiled and threw the lengths out.

"Good!" yelled Dick, looking back. "Tom, you take a turn or two of the rope around that chimney, for anchor. Dave, you stand here at the roof edge to pay out the rope. Greg, you and Dan get in behind Dave to help on the hoist. See, Dave! That third window from the end—- there's where the rope wants to go."

"You going down the rope?" queried Darrin dryly.

"Yes."

"Wait, then, and I'll tie some knots in it."

"No time for that," vetoed Dick sharply.

"I'll have to take my chances. Miss Dodge may be smothering, or burning. Pay it out—-fast!"

Dick watched until he saw that the rope had gone low enough, and that it hung before the right window.

"Now, brace yourselves, fellows!" he called, between his hands, for the roar of the flames and the crackling of timbers made some sort of trumpet necessary, even at short range.

On his knees, his back to the street, at the edge of the roof, Dick Prescott seized the rope.

Then, with a fervent inward prayer, he started over the edge, and hung in the air, eighty feet from the ground.

Down below, the ever-increasing crowd let out a cyclonic, roaring cheer. It was a foolish thing to do, for it might have rattled the young football player. But Prescott paid no attention to the racket, and kept on lowering himself, coolly.

Here was where his gym. training and all his football practice came in splendidly. Every muscle was strong, every nerve true to its duty!

Not once did Prescott fear that he would lose his grip and fall to the street below.

Up above, at the roof's edge, stood Darrin, directing as though from quarter-deck or military-top. Dave had to lean rather far out, at that great height, but it did not make him dizzy.

"There! The grand old chap has landed on the window-sill! He has gone inside!" cried Dave, turning to his comrades. "Now we can wait until we feel a signal-pull on the rope."

As he turned away from the smoke that was coming up through the air Darrin realized how much smoke he had inhaled. He thumped his chest lightly, taking deep breaths.

Dick was in the studio now.

Close to the window, where the draught was strongest, Prescott found the smoke so thick that he had to grope his way through it; but bending low, he quickly came to where Grace Dodge lay unconscious on the floor.

She looked lifeless, as she lay there.

"Whew! I'm afraid she's a goner, already!" thought Dick, with a great surge of compassion.

However, seizing the unconscious girl by the shoulders he dragged her swiftly over the floor to the window through which he had come.

The rope still dangled there.

Seizing it, Dick gave it a gentle pull—-not too hard, for fear the jerk might catch good old Dave of his guard and yank him over the roof's edge.

In another instant Darrin was "back on the job," peering down.

Dick made a signal that Dave understood perfectly.

Prescott's next care was to knot his end of the rope swiftly around Grace's body, above the waist, adjusting the coils so that considerable of the strain would come under the shoulders, where it could best be borne.

Once more Dick leaned out of the window, making motions. Dave Darrin nodded. The fascinated crowd in the street looked up, breathless. Few now even thought to wonder why the fire department did not appear.

At Dave's command the others on the roof with him began to hoist. Slowly, Dick aided Grace's body through the window. Then the girl, motionless, so far as she herself was concerned, swung in the air, slowly ascending.

Now groans of horror went up from the street. It seemed to the onlookers below as though a dead body were being hoisted.

Dick had made a loose hitch of the end of the rope so that it bound the girl's skirt about her ankles.

As he watched, he saw the swinging body steady at the roof edge. Then Grace disappeared from his sight as Dave and the others hauled her to momentary safety.

"Ugh!" gasped young Prescott. The smoke and the hot air, filling his lungs, drove him back from the open window to a spot where the draught was less intense.

After a few moments he heard something clattering against the window frame.

"What is it?" wondered Dick, dreamily, for his senses were leaving him.

Rousing himself, by a supreme effort of the will, the young football player staggered toward the window. It was the rope, which Dave had lowered for him. And thoughtful Darrin had swiftly knotted a strong slip-noose at the end.

Dick had just strength and consciousness enough left to slip this noose over his head and down under his armpits, drawing the noose tight. Then—-so fast was the hot air and smoke overcoming him that he had to fight for it!—-Dick forced his way to the sill and gave a hard tug at the rope. Then he reeled, falling back senseless upon the floor.

In that same instant, not far behind him, the flames burst through the flooring.

There must be some quick work, now, or Dick Prescott would meet a hero's death at seventeen!



CHAPTER XXI

THE PRICE OF BRAVERY

Dave Darrin did not falter in his duty for an instant.

He had been waiting for that tug on the rope.

Now he leaned out, and as far over as was possible without pitching himself headlong into the street below.

"Dick! Oh, Dick!" he roared.

There was, of course, no answer, for young Prescott day senseless on the floor, smoke and hot air filling his lungs, the creeping flames threatening to pounce upon and devour him.

Wondering, Dave gave a slight signal tug himself at the rope.

From below there was no answer.

"Something uncanny has happened, down there!" muttered Darrin.

"What's wrong?" called Reade.

"I wish I knew," muttered Dave. "There is no further signaling."

"Then——-"

That was as far as Tom got with his hint at an explanation.

"Cut it," retorted Darrin briskly. "Keep the rope steady. I'm going down there."

"Can you——-"

"Yes!" blazed Dave recklessly. "Watch me. Here goes nothing!"

As the last three words left his lips Darrin swung free over the roof edge.

He was going down the straining, smooth rope now, hand under hand.

The dense crowd in the street below was quick to realize that something new and tragic was on the cards.

A gasp of suspense went up as Dave slowly went down.

Many in the street uttered a silent prayer—-for heroes are ever dear to the multitude.

Dave's task now was more dangerous than Dick's original undertaking had been.

The smoke was rolling up with ever increasing density.

"I'll close one eye, and save that to see Dick with," Darrin muttered grimly to himself.

So, with one eye closed tightly, Dave yet knew when the instant came to swing in and stand on the sill.

Opening the closed eye, Darrin sought to peer into the studio.

Such a gust of smoke came out at him that Darrin very nearly lost his balance from dizziness.

"I can't see a blessed thing in there," Dave muttered. So he sprang inside.

Now, quickly enough Dave stumbled over the prostrate figure of his unconscious comrade.

Fairly pouncing upon Prescott, Dave half raised that body, then dragged it to the window.

"Pull!" Darrin yelled up to Tom Reade, peering over the roof's edge.

Over the roar of the fire Dave's voice did not carry well, but his gesture was seen.

Reade gave the command, and the hoisting commenced, while Dave, standing at his post, though choking, and his brain reeling, swung Dick's feet clear of the sill.

Then the body began to go up quickly, while the crowd watched in greater awe than ever.

Dave Darrin leaped out upon the sill, holding a handkerchief over his mouth and nostrils in order to protect his lungs as much as possible.

With the other hand Dave clutched at the window frame, for he had a fearful dread, now that he would lose his hold, his footing and plunge headlong into the street.

Dick's body disappeared over the roof edge.

After what seemed like a short age, but what was only a few moments, Reade again showed his face, dangling the noose in his hand.

Then he let it fall until it hung close to Darrin.

Reade and the crowd alike watched breathlessly, while Dave Darrin, fumbling, almost blindly, tried to slip the noose over his head and adjust it under his shoulders.

Once he let go of the rope, half swaying out into the street.

A cry of terror went up from the spectators below.

Tom Reade carefully swung the rope back again. Dave caught it. After it had seemed as though he must fail Dave at last adjusted the noose under his armpits.

"All right!" bellowed Tom Reade, making a trumpet of his hands.

Darrin answered only by a tug on the rope. Then he hung in mid air as the hoisting began.

At that moment a new sound cane on the air. The fire department, with a short circuit somewhere in its wires, had at last been notified by telephone, and the box number was pealing out on two church bells.

Barely were Dave's feet clear of the top of the window casing when a draught drove the flames out.

His shoes were almost licked by the red tongues.

"Hurry, you hoisters!" bellowed a man in the street.

His voice did not carry, but Tom Reade and his wearied helpers were doing all that could be done by strong, willing hands.

Another and longer tongue of flame leaped out through the shattered window, and again Dave's swinging feet were all but bathed in fire.

"Thank heaven we've got you up here, old fellow!" panted Tom Reade fervently, as Dave was hauled over the roof's edge, helping himself a little.

Dave, as soon as the noose had been slipped over his head, got up on his feet, though he staggered a bit dizzily.

"We must all get back up to that roof," ordered Dave, pointing to the roof down from which they had leaped a while before.

"We can't," retorted Reade. "We'll have to wait for the firemen and their ladders."

"Ladders—-nothing!" retorted Dave, though his voice was weak and husky. "We'll make our own ladders. You, Holmes, get over against that wall. Hazelton, you beside hind Reade you climb up onto their shoulders. Now, Dan you climb up on Reade's shoulders, and you'll reach that roof up there!"

Darrin's orders were quickly carried out. This trick of wall scaling was really not difficult for football men in daily practice. Dan's head was quickly above the gutter of the next roof. He pulled himself over the edge.

"Stand by to catch the rope, Dan," shouted Dave. "Throw it to him, Tom."

Whizz-zz! whirr-rr! That rope was over the edge and in Dan's hands. Dalzell raced to a chimney, taking two or three turns around and making fast.

"Come on!" he called down.

Harry Hazelton ascended the rope hand over hand, Reade following. Then Greg Holmes went up.

Dave, in the meantime, was preparing the apparently lifeless Grace Dodge for the ascent. As he gave the signal those on the roof above hauled away.

Grace was soon in a position of safety.

Then Dick, who had not, as yet, revived, was hoisted.

"Now, we'll haul you up," called down Reade.

"Forget it," mocked Darrin. "Toss down the rope and I'll use my own muscles."

So Dave joined them and stood beside them on the roof.

"Now, we'd better make the street as soon as we can," Darrin advised. "The one who's strongest pick up Miss Dodge, and another stand by for relief. Two of you will have to tote Dick. I wish I could help, but I'm afraid my strength is 'most all out."

Dave, however, led the way. By the time that the little party had descended two flights they were met by firemen rushing up. After that the task of reaching the street was easy.

As the rescuers and rescued came out upon the street the crowd, now driven back beyond police lines, started to cheer.

But Dave's hand, held up, acted as a silencer. Dick and Miss Dodge were carried to a neighboring drug store for attention.

Now the firemen tried to run up ladders to the studio floor, with a view to fighting the flames by turning the stream on through the windows. Flames drove them back. The on-lookers were quick to grasp the fact that had no one acted before the arrival of the firemen, Grace Dodge would have been lost indeed. As it was, the fire fighters were obliged to fight the fire from the roof of the next building.

The office building in which the flames had started was almost gutted before the blaze was subdued.

An hour later Grace Dodge was placed in an automobile and carried to her home, a physician accompanying her.

She had revived for a brief period, but had again sunk into unconsciousness. Whether her life could be saved was a matter of the gravest doubt.

And Dick?

Young Prescott was revived soon enough, after expert assistance had been secured.

Yet he had swallowed more of the overheated air than had the girl.

In the minds of the medical men there was a grave doubt as to whether his lungs could be fully restored—-or whether he would be doomed to a spell of severe lung trouble, ending, most likely, in death at a later day!

Scores of people turned back from that fire with tears in their eyes.

They had seen this day something that they would remember all their lives.

"Dick and Dave were wondering whether they had courage enough for the military service," sobbed Laura Bentley, in the privacy of Belles room. "They have courage enough for anything!"

Dick was up and about the next day, though he did not go to school.

Moreover, later reports placed him out of serious danger. The football squad was gloomy enough, however. Their star left end man would not be in shape for the big Thanksgiving Day game.



CHAPTER XXII

THE THANKSGIVING DAY GAME

Say, you're a great one, Prescott, to throw us down in this way," chaffed Drayne, as Dick strolled into dressing quarters.

"Oh, come, now!" broke in Darrin impatiently. "It's bad enough, Drayne, to have to play side partner to you in the biggest game in the year, without having to listen to your fat-headed criticism of better men."

Drayne flushed, and might have retorted, had not Wadleigh broken in, in measured tones, yet with much significance in his voice:

"Yes, Drayne; cut out all remarks until you've made good. Of course you are going to make good, but talk will sound better after deeds."

Most of the fellows who were togging were uneasy.

They wanted, with all their hearts, to win this day's game. First of all, the game was needed in order to preserve their record for unbroken victories. Then again, Filmore High School was a team worth beating at any time and Filmore boosters had been making free remarks about a Gridley Waterloo.

So there was a feeling of general depression in dressing quarters.

Dick Prescott, with his dashing, crafty, splendid, score-making work at left end, had become a necessity to the Gridley eleven.

"It's the toughest luck that ever happened," grumbled Hazelton, right guard, to Holmes, right tackle. "And I don't believe Drayne is in anything like condition, either."

"Now, see here, you two," broke in Captain Wadleigh behind them, as he gripped an arm of either boy, "no croaking. We can't afford it."

"We can't afford anything," grinned Hazelton uneasily.

"Oh, of course, we're going to win today—-Gridley simply has to win," added Holmes hastily.

"Yes; you two look as though you had the winning streak on," growled Wadleigh, in a low voice. "For goodness' sake come out of your daze!"

"Do you think yourself that Drayne is fit?" demanded Hazelton.

"He's the fittest man we have that can play left end," retorted Wadleigh.

"Knocking, are you?" demanded Drayne, coming up behind them. "Nice fellows you are!"

"Oh, now, see here, Drayne, no bad blood," urged Wadleigh. He spoke authoritatively, yet coaxingly, too. "Remember, we've got to keep all our energies for one thing today."

"Well, I'm mighty glad you two don't play on my end of the line," sneered Drayne, looking at Hazelton and Holmes with undisguised hostility.

"Cut it, Drayne. And don't you two talk back, either," warned Wadleigh sternly.

"Oh, acknowledge the corn, Drayne," broke in Hudson, with what he meant for good humor. "Just say you're no good and let it go at that."

There was a dead silence, for an instant, broken by one unidentified fellow, muttering in a voice that sounded like a roar in the silence:

"Drayne? Humph!"

"There you go! That's what all of you are saying to yourselves!" cried Drayne angrily. "For some reason you idiots seem to think I'm in no shape today. Hang it, I'm sorry I agreed to play. For two cents I wouldn't play."

"Drayne can be bought off cheaply, can't he?" remarked one of the fellows.

The last speaker did not intend that his voice should reach Drayne, but it did.

"Say, you fellows all have a grouch on, just because I'm playing today!" quivered the victim of the remarks. "Oh, well, never mind I'll cure your grouch, then!"

Seating himself on a locker box, Drayne began to unfasten the lacings of his shoes.

"Here, man! What are you doing?" demanded Captain Wadleigh, bounding forward angrily.

"Curing the grouch of this bunch," retorted Drayne sulkily.

"Man alive, there's no time to fool with your shoes now!" warned the team captain.

"I'm not going to need this pair," Drayne rejoined. "Street shoes will do for me today."

"Not on the gridiron!"

"I'm not going on the field. I've heard enough knocking," grumbled Drayne.

A dozen of the fellows crowded about, consternation written in their faces.

Prescott was known not to be fit to play. Only the day before Dr. Bentley had refused to pass him for the game. Hence Drayne, even if a trifle out of condition, was still the best available man for left end.

"Quit your fooling, Drayne!" cried two or three at once.

"Quit your talking," retorted Drayne, kicking off his other field shoe. "I've done all my talking."

Truth to tell, Drayne still intended to play, but he wanted to teach these fellows a lesson. He intended to make them beg, from Wadleigh down, before he would go on to the finish of his togging. Drayne knew when he had the advantage of them.

"Don't be a fool, Drayne," broke in Hudson hotly.

"Or a traitor to your school," added another.

"Be a man!"

In Drayne's present frame of mind all these appeals served to fan his inward fury.

"Shut up, all of you!" he snapped. "I've listened to all the roasting I intend to stand. I'm out of the game!"

Several looked blankly at "Hen" Wadleigh.

"Whom have you to put in his place?" Grayson demanded hoarsely.

Drayne heard and it was balm to his soul. He started to pull off his football trousers.

Outside, the band started upon a lively gallop. The crowd began to cheer. It started in as a Gridley cheer. Then, above everything else, rang the Filmore yell of defiance.

Just at this moment Coach Morton strode into the room. Almost in a twinkling he learned of the new complication that had arisen.

"Captain Wadleigh, who is to play in Drayne's stead" demanded the coach rather briskly.

"Under certain conditions," broke in Wayne, "I'll agree to play."

"We wouldn't have you under all the conditions in the world!" retorted Mr. Morton. "A football eleven must be an organization of the finest discipline!"

Drayne reddened, then went deathly white. He hadn't intended to let the matter go this far.

"Who is your best man for left end, captain?" insisted Mr. Morton. "You've got to decide like a flash. Your men ought to be out in the air now."

There was a blank pause, while "Hen" Wadleigh looked around over his subs.

"Will you let me play?"

There was a start. Every fellow in the room turned around to stare at the speaker.

It was Dick Prescott, who started eagerly forward, his face aglow with eagerness.

"You, Prescott?" cried Mr. Morton. "But only yesterday Dr. Bentley reported that your lungs had not sufficiently recovered."

"I know, sir," Dick laughed coolly; "but that was yesterday.

"It would be foolhardy, my boy. If you went out on the field, and any exceptional strain came up, you might do an injury to your lungs."

"Mr. Morton," replied the team's left end, very quietly, "I'm willing to go out on the field—-and do all that's in me, for old Gridley—-if it's the last act of my life."

"Your hand, Prescott!" cried Mr. Morton, gripping the boy's palm. "That's the right spirit of grit and loyalty. But it wouldn't be right to let you do it. It isn't necessary, or human, to pay a life for a game."

"Will you let me go on the field if Dr. Bentley passes me today?" queried Prescott.

"But he won't."

"Try him."

Mr. Morton nodded, and some one ran out and passed the word for Dr. Bentley, who acted as medical director in the School's athletics.

Within two minutes the physician entered dressing quarters.

Coach Morton stated Prescott's request.

"Absurd," declared Dr. Bentley.

"Will you examine me, sirs" insisted Prescott.

With a sigh the old physician opened his satchel, taking out a stethoscope and some other instruments.

"Strip to the waist," he ordered tersely.

Many eager hands stretched out to aid Dick in his task.

In a few moments the young athlete, the upper half of his body bared, stood before the medical examiner. For his height, weight and age Prescott was surely a fine picture of physical strength.

But Dr. Bentley, with the air and the preformed bias of a professional skeptic, went all over the boy's torso, starting with a prolonged examination of the heart action and its sounds.

"You find the arterial pressure steady and sound, don't you," asked Dick Prescott?

"Hm!" muttered Dr. Bentley. "Now, take a full breath and hold it."

Thump! thump! thump! went the doctor's forefinger against the back of his other hand, as he explored all the regions of Dick's chest.

A dozen more tests followed.

"What do you think, Doctor?" asked Mr. Morton.

"Hm! The young man recovers with great rapidity. If he goes into a mild game he'll stand it all right. If it turns out to be a rough game——-"

"Then I'll fare as badly as the rest, won't I, Doctor?" laughed Dick. "Thank you for passing me, sir. I'll get into my togs at once."

"But I haven't said that I passed you."

Dick, however, feigned not to hear this. He was rushing to his locker, from which he began to haul the various parts of his rig.

"Is it a crime to let young Prescott go on the field?" asked Coach Morton anxiously.

"No," replied Dr. Bentley hesitatingly. "It might be a greater crime to keep him off the gridiron today. Men have been known to die of grief."

Probably a football player never had more assistance in togging up for a game. Those who couldn't get in close enough to help Dick dress growled at the others for keeping them out.

"You seem uneasy, Coach," murmured Captain Wadleigh, aside.

"I am."

"I can't believe, sir, that a careful man like Dr. Bentley would let Prescott go on at left end today, if there was good reason why Prescott shouldn't. As we know, from the past, Dick Prescott has wonderful powers of recuperation."

"If Prescott should go to pieces, Captain, whom will you put forward in his places"

"Dalzell, sir. He's speedy, even if not as clever as Prescott or Drayne."

"I'm glad you've been looking ahead, Captain. Out I hope Prescott will hold out, and suffer no injury whatever from this day's work."

Was Dick anxious? Not the least in the world. He was care free—-jubilant. The Gridley spirit possessed him. He was going to hold out, and the eleven was going to win its game. That was all there was to it, or all there could be.

In the first two or three days after his injury at the fire Dick had traveled briefly in the dark valley of physical despair.

To be crippled or ill, to be physically useless—-the thought filled him with horror.

Then young Prescott had taken a good grip on himself. Out of despair proceeded determination not to allow his lungs to go down before the assault of smoke and furnace-like air.

Grace Dodge was not, as yet, well on the way to recovery, but Dick Prescott, with his strong will power, and the grit that came of Gridley athletics, was now togging hastily to play in the great game—-though he had not, as yet, returned to school after his disaster.

Out near the grandstand the band crashed forth for the tenth time. Gridley High School bannerets waved by the hundreds. Yet Filmore, too, had her hosts of boosters here today, and their yells all but drowned out the spirited music.

"Here come our boys! Gridley! Gridley! Gridley! Wow-ow-ow!"

"Hurrah!"

Then the home boosters, who had read Drayne's name on the score card took another look at their cards—-next rubbed their eyes.

"Prescott at left end!" yelled one frenzied booster. "Whoop!"

Then the Gridley bannerets waved like a surging sea of color. The band, finishing its strain, started in again, not waiting for breath.

"Prescott, after all, on left end!"

Home boosters were still cheering wildly by the time that Captain Pike, of Filmore High School, had won the toss and the teams were lining, up.

Silence did not fall until just the instant before the ball was put in play.

Drayne, with his headgear pulled down over his eyes, and skulking out beside the grand stand, soon began to feel a savage satisfaction.

Something must be ailing the left end man after all, for Dick did not seem able to get through the Filmore line with his usual brilliant tactics.

Instead, after ten minutes of furious play, Filmore forced Gridley to make a safety. Then again the ball was forced down toward Gridley's goal line, and at last pushed over.

Gridley hearts, over on the grand stand and bleacher seats, were beating with painful rapidity. What ailed the home boys? Or were the Filmore youths, as they themselves fondly imagined, the gridiron stars of the school world! Filmore, like Gridley, had a record of no defeats so far this season.

It was a hard pill for Captain Wadleigh and his men to swallow.

In the interval between the halves the local band played, but the former dash was now noticeably absent from its music.

The Gridley colors drooped.



CHAPTER XXIII

SULKER AND REAL MAN

Dave Darrin glanced covertly, though anxiously, at his chum.

Was Dick really unfit to play? Dave wondered.

It was not that Prescott had actually failed in any quick bit of individual or team play that he had been signaled to perform. But Darrin wondered if Dick could really be anything like up to the mark.

During the interval Captain Wadleigh went quietly among his men, murmuring a word of counsel here and there.

Nothing in Wadleigh's face or tone betrayed worry; intense earnestness alone was stamped on his bearing.

"Now, remember, fellows, don't get a spirit of defense grafted on you," were Wadleigh's last words before the second half began. "Remember, its to be a general assault all the time. If you get on the defensive nothing can save us from losing."

No sooner was the ball in motion than Gridley's line bore down upon the enemy. So determined was the assault that Filmore found itself obliged to give ground, stubbornly, for a while. Yet Captain Pike's men were not made of stuff that is easily whipped. After the first five minutes Pike's men got the ball and began to drive it a few yards, and then a few yards more, over into Gridley's territory.

As the minutes slipped by the ball went nearer and nearer to Gridley's goal line. Another touchdown must soon result.

Twice Pike tried to throw the ball around the left end. Wadleigh, Hudson, Darrin and Prescott, backed by quarter and left half, presented such a stubborn block that the ball did not get another yard clown the field in two plays. But Pike, who was a hammerer, made a third attempt around that left end. This time he gained but two feet, and the ball passed to Gridley.

Of course, after having had its left wing so badly haltered Gridley was bound to try to work the ball through Filmore's right. As Wadleigh's signals crisped out, the Gridley players threw themselves out for a play to right.

Quarter received the ball, starting fiercely to the right. Left half dashed past quarter, receiving the ball and carrying it straight to Dick Prescott. For a moment this blind succeeded so admirably, that even those on the grand stand did not see the ball given to Prescott, but believed that quarter was rushing the ball over to the right.

Then, like a flash, the trick dawned.

Dick Prescott had the oval, and was running with it like a whirlwind, with Darrin and Hudson as his interference, and with quarter dashing close behind them.

Dick sprinted around the first Filmore man, leaving his interference to sweep the fellows over.

At Filmore's second attempt to tackle, Dick ducked low and escaped. In the next instant the would-be tackler was bowled over by Darrin and Hudson, and Dick swept on with the ball.

By this time all the home boosters were on their feet, yelling like so many Comanches.

Filmore's half and full contrived a trap that caught young Prescott, and carried him down with the ball—-but this happened at Filmore's forty-five-yard line!

In the next play, Dave had the ball, on a short pass, but with Dick dashing along close to his side, and Hudson on the other flank. Before Darrin went down on the ball it had been carried to Filmore's thirty-yard line. Then it went beyond the twenty-five-yard line, and Gridley still carried the pigskin.

"Dick's coming up, all right," proudly muttered Darrin to Hudson, while the next snapback was forming.

"It's putting nerve into all of us," rejoined Hudson.

The pigskin was only fourteen yards from the Filmore goal line when Captain Wadleigh's men had to see the ball go to Filmore. Pike's men, however, failed to make good on downs, so the oval came back into Wadleigh's possession.

Now, the play was swift and brilliant. Dick got the ball around the left end once, and afterwards assisted Dave to put it through the hostile line. With the third play Dick carried the pigskin barely across Filmore's goal line and scored a touchdown. Darrin immediately after made a kick for goal.

The score now stood eight to six for Filmore but only ten minutes of playing time remained.

"Our fellows have saved a whitewash, and that's all," reflected Drayne. "They'd have done better with me, and I guess Wadleigh knows it by this time."

"Slug's the word," Pike passed around, swiftly. "No fouling, but use your weight, dash and speed. Slam these Gridley rubes. Hammer em!"

"Come on, now Gridley!" rang the imploring request from the home boosters, who were now too restless to keep to their seats.

"Remember your record so far this season!"

"Forceful playing, but keep cool. Use your Judgment to the last, and put a lot of speed and doggedness behind your science," was Wadleigh's adjuration.

Those who followed form most close, now had their eyes on young Prescott.

If he went to pieces that would leave Gridley weak at what had usually been its strongest point, especially in attack.

And Gridley had the ball again. But what ailed Captain Wadleigh, the boosters wondered? For he was now sending the ball to the right wing, as if admitting that Prescott must not be worked too hard.

"Use Prescott!" shouted one man hoarsely.

"Prescott! Prescott!"

"Yah! Dot's all right. Vot you t'ink Wadleigh has ein head for' Leafe him und Bresgott alone, and dey hand you der game a minute in!" bawled the deep bass voice of Herr Schimmelpodt who, nearly alone of the Gridley boosters, believed that the home team needed no grand stand coaching.

"But they've only eight minutes left," grumbled the man sitting to the left of Herr Schimmelpodt.

"Yah! Dot's all right, too," retorted the German. "Battles haf been won in less than eight minutes. Read history!"

In two plays Captain Wadleigh had succeeded in advancing the pigskin less than two yards down the Filmore territory.

But now hats were thrown up in the air, and frantic yells resounded when it was discovered that Dick had the ball again, and that Darrin, Hudson, Wadleigh, quarter and left half were fighting valiantly to push him through the stubborn, panting line of Filmore High School.

It was a splendid fight, but a losing one. Filmore was massing all its weight, wind and brawn, and Gridley lost the ball on downs.

An involuntary groan went up from the Gridley spectators.

Five and a half minutes left, and the ball in the enemy's hands! That settled the game.

The musicians looked at their leader, before taking the music from their instrument racks.

"Keep your music on," called the leader. "We of Gridley are sportsmen enough to play the victors off the field."

The play was quicker and snappier than ever. All the young men on both sides were using their last reserves of strength and wind. Pike was making a ferocious effort to get the ball back and over Gridley's goal line.

But Pike lost, after three plays, and Wadleigh's men again grabbed the pigskin.

"Barely two minutes!" groaned the Gridley spectators, watches in hand.

Dick was seen glancing at Wadleigh and shaking his head almost imperceptibly. But a hundred people on the grand stand saw that tiny shake, and, most of all, Pike took it in.

Wadleigh, before bending low over the ball held up thumb and forefinger of his right hand, formed in a circle, for a brief instant. That sign meant:

"Emergency signal code!"

Then he bent over to snap the ball back, and the figures that shot from quarter-back's chest carried different values from those that any enemy could guess.

"Eight—-eleven—-four—-ten!"

Then the ball went back to quarter, who started from a crouch without straightening up.

Gridley's whole attack seemed to swing to the right. Wadleigh, himself, from half-facing to right, took a long step toward right wing; then wheeled like a flash, and went plowing, onward, to the left.

Quarter, after the start, and ere Filmore could break through, had passed the ball to half, who, on a wild sprint, had passed it to Dick Prescott.

And now Dick was racing out around Filmore's right end, backed by a crushing interference of which Wadleigh was the center. Darrin, with head high, was watching for every chance at legitimate interference. Behind them all, quarter and left half pounded and pushed.

An instant and Dick was free and around Filmore's end. Now, he dashed into the race of his life!

Wadleigh sent a man sprawling. Dave's elbow did something to Filmore's right tackle. Just what it was none of the spectators could see. But none of the field officials interfered so it must have been legitimate.

After a fight and a short, brilliant run, Dick was tackled by Filmore's fullback.

One quivering instant—-then Wadleigh and Hudson bumped that fullback so hard that he went down, Dick wriggling safely away and bounding toward Filmore's goal.

With fire in their eyes, Gridley's center and left wing swept on.

Dick Prescott was over the goal line, bending and holding the ball down! Then, indeed, the crowd broke loose all except the few hundreds from Filmore.

Was it a touchdown? That was the question that all asked themselves. It was so close to the line that many onlookers were in doubt, and stood staring with all their eyes.

But the ball went back for the kick, and that settled all doubts.

Dave made the kick, and lost it—-but who cared?

A moment later and the whistle blew—-the second half was over—-the game finished.

Filmore had bitten the dust to the song of eleven to eight.

Dick's tiny head shake had been a piece of strategy prearranged with Wadleigh. It was a legitimate ruse, as honest as any other piece of football strategy intended to throw the enemy "off".

Now the band was indeed thundering out, playing in its best strain.

All restraint thrown aside, the spectators surged over the lines and out on the gridiron, making a rush for the heated but happy home players.

The record had been kept—-a season without a game lost. Filmore swallowed its chagrin and went home.

Dick? He had helped nobly to save the game and the record, but now he was exhausted.

Over in dressing quarters two of the subs were rubbing him down, while Dr. Bentley and Coach Morton stood anxiously by.



CHAPTER XXIV

CONCLUSION

After a few days Prescott was back at school. It was noted, however, that he did not take any part in gym. work, and that he spoke even more quietly than usual, but he kept up in his recitations.

Youth is the period of quick recovery. That the Thanksgiving Day game had strained the young left end there was no doubt. Within a fortnight, however, Prescott was himself again, taking his gym. work, and a cross-country run three times a week.

"We ought to give Drayne the school cut," hinted Grayson. "He behaved in an abominable way right at the beginning of the critical game. He's a traitor."

"Give Drayne the cut?" repeated Wadleigh, slowly, before a group of the fellows. "Perhaps, in one way, he deserved it, but——-"

"Well, what can you find to say for a fellow who acted like that?" demanded Hudson, impatiently.

"Drayne helped to win the game for us," replied Wadleigh moderately. "Had he played Filmore would have downed us—-of that I'm sure, as I look back. Drayne's conduct put Prescott on the gridiron, didn't it? That was what saved the score for us."

At the time of Grace Dodge's great peril, her banker father had been away on a business trip. It was two days later when word was finally gotten to the startled parent. Then, by wire, Theodore Dodge learned that Grace's condition was all right, needing only care and time. So he did not hasten back on that account.

When he did return to Gridley, Mr. Dodge hunted up Lawyer Ripley.

"I must reward those boys, and handsomely," he explained to the lawyer. "Their splendid conduct demands it."

"I am sorry, Dodge, that you have been so long in coming to such a conclusion," replied the lawyer, almost coldly.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you still owe Prescott and Darrin that thousand dollars offered by your family as a reward for finding you when your misfortune happened."

"But my son, Bert———"

"Is the bitter enemy of young Prescott, who is one of the manliest young fellows ever reared in Gridley."

"But my wife has also opposed my paying the reward," argued Mr. Dodge. "She declares that the two boys were out on a jaunt and just stumbled upon me."

"Your wife, like all good mothers, is much inclined to take the part of her own son," rejoined Lawyer Ripley. "However, at the time Prescott and Darrin found you, they were not out on a jaunt. They were serving 'The Blade,' and I happen to know that the young men did some remarkably good detective work in trailing and rescuing you. They started fair and even with the police, but they beat the police at the latter's own game. Dodge, by every consideration of right and justice, you owe that reward to Prescott and Darrin! If they had not found and rescued you, you might not be here today. There is no telling what might have happened to you had you been left helpless less in the custody of the pair of scoundrels who had you in that shack. I repeat that you owe that thousand dollars as fairly as you ever owed a penny in your life"

"Well, then, I'll pay it," assented Theodore Dodge reluctantly, after some hesitation. "I am afraid my wife will oppose it, however."

"You can tell Mrs. Dodge just what I've said, or I'll tell her, if you prefer."

"Will you attend, Ripley, to rewarding all the boys for their gallant conduct in rescuing my daughter."

"Yes; if you'll leave the matter wholly in my hands, and agree not to interfere"

Theodore Dodge agreed to this, and Lawyer Ripley went ahead. The legal gentleman, however had a more difficult time than he had expected. It took a lot of argument, and more than one meeting, to make Dick & Co. agree to accept anything whatever.

It was at last settled, however, Mr. Ripley urging upon the young men that they had no right to slight their own future prospects or education by refusing to "lay by" money to which they were honestly entitled, when it cane in the form of an earned reward from a citizen amply able to pay the reward.

So Dick and Dave received that thousand dollars, which, of course, they divided evenly.

In addition, each member of Dick & Co. received one hundred dollars for his prompt and gallant work in rescuing Grace Dodge from death.

Of course Bert, away at private school with Bayliss, heard all about the rescue. It is not a matter of record, however, that Bert ever wrote a letter thanking any member of Dick & Co. for saving his sister.



CHAPTER XXV

POSTSCRIPT

When the next commencement swung around Fred Ripley, who had managed to "go straight" all through his senior year, was among those graduated. What became of him will yet be learned by our readers in another volume.

There are a host of other Gridley fellows also to be accounted for.

Their part in the subsequent history of Gridley, and of the world in general, will also yet be told, all in the proper place.

"Prin.," too, may yet come in for some attention.

Dick & Co. did not take part in basket ball nor any of the organized winter athletics though they kept constantly in training. But these young men realized that the High School is, first of all, a place for academic training; so, after the football season had ended so gloriously, they went back to their books with renewed vigor.

Laura and Belle, as they neared the end of their junior year, went almost from girlhood into womanhood, as is the way with girls.

Yet neither Miss Meade nor Miss Bentley found Dick or Dave "too young" for their frank, girlish admiration.

"You see, Dick, that we were quite right about you and Dave having all the grit that goes with the highest needs of the military profession," Laura remarked. "Your conduct at the fire shows the stuff that would be displayed by Dick & Co. in leading a charge in battle, if need be."

"I guess a reasonable amount of courage, under stress, is the possession of nearly all members of the human race," laughed young Prescott.

Here we shall leave our Gridley friends for a short time. We shall meet them all again, however, in the forthcoming and final volume of this series, which will be published under the title:

"The High School Captain of the Team; Or, Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard."

In this new volume we shall see more of the boys' qualities in leadership.

Before we meet our popular boys in high school again the reader will find the long succession of wonderful events of their summer vacation following their junior year in the last two volumes of the "High School Boys' Vacation Series", which are published under the titles, "The High School Boys' Fishing Trip; Or, Dick & Co. in the Wilderness," and "The High School Boys Training Hike; Or, Making Themselves 'Hard as Nails.'"

These two narratives of a real vacation of real American boys are bound to please the many friends of Dick & Co. Be sure to read them.

THE END