Wire-pulling extraordinary went on at Kentfield for the next two days. Each candidate had his particular friends, who worked hard to gain votes for him.
It was soon seen that Rutley had no chance, and though he would poll several votes, the main contest was between Dutton and Dick Hamilton.
"And you're going to win!" declared Paul with enthusiasm, as he clapped his chum on the back. "I've got nearly enough votes promised right now, and I know I can gain over more of the fellows."
"But say, old man, don't make such a fuss. You make me feel——"
"No matter how you feel, you're going to be captain! I'm sure of it!"
"Well, there's no use saying I don't care how the election goes, for I do," declared Dick honestly. "I'd rather it was some one else than Dutton though, who was against me."
"Why, you're not afraid of him; are you?"
"No, but you remember the old rivalry. I'm afraid it will make talk, but I want to say right here and now that if he is elected he won't have any better friend than I, and I'll play my head off to help his team win!"
"We all know that!" cried Paul, looking at his chum admiringly. "It goes without saying. Now I'm off to see some more of the first year fellows."
"Don't make too much of a fuss about it," begged Dick. "Don't make it look as though I'd give my head to be elected. I want it, of course, but——"
"I understand!" cried Paul lightly as he hurried off.
As the time for election drew nearer the excitement increased and there were all sorts of rumors floating around. Votes were openly bought and sold, but in a friendly, boyish fashion, the inducements being nothing more important than "treats" or some special favors. Some even traded the horses assigned to them in the cavalry drills, one cadet getting a handsome black he coveted in exchange for a rather poor roan, but Dick gained a vote thereby.
Paul Drew was a faithful lieutenant in his chum's cause, and he did valiant work. As for the young millionaire and Dutton, they kept discreetly out of it. They met several times during the course of the first day's electioneering, and gaily chaffed each other on the chances they stood.
"I hear you won't have one vote, 'Ham,'" laughingly declared Dick's former enemy.
"That's right," half-seriously assented our hero. "I told all my friends to vote for you."
"So I heard. Kind of you. Come on over and I'll buy you a soda."
"No. They're on the forbidden training menu now."
"That's so, I nearly forgot. Well, come on up to the Sacred Pig, and we'll have some toast and tea," for there was a lunch room in the society house. The two rivals went off arm in arm, watched by an admiring throng of cadets, for they were both great favorites with their schoolmates.
At the close of the first day it was generally admitted by the workers on both sides that the two candidates for captain had about the same number of votes. Rutley was "not in it," as Paul said, and the lad himself laughingly admitted this. Still Porter and his particular set were working in his interests, not so much because they really wanted him, as that they did not want Dick to win, and they took this means of deflecting votes from him. At the last minute, it was rumored, the Rutley votes would be swung to Dutton.
"But you've got heaps of chances yet, Dick," declared Paul, "and there's lots more time to canvass."
But not much electioneering could be done on the next day, for a competitive drill was ordered and after that was to come artillery practice. There was barely a chance for some football work, and it had to be cut short.
What little was done, however, demonstrated that the team was shaping up well, and the coaches were more than pleased.
"We'll have them play the Dunkirk Military Academy next Saturday," announced Mr. Spencer, "and we'll see what they can do in a real contest."
"I have great hopes of them," declared Mr. Martin. "Of course they ought to beat Dunkirk, for it's a smaller academy than this, but if they roll up a big score, bigger than Blue Hill did against the same team last year, Blue Hill can hardly refuse to play our boys, and I understand that their refusal to meet Kentfield is a sore point."
"It certainly is. Oh, we'll whip our lads into shape yet, and then Blue Hill can look to her laurels."
The two coaches walked over to the gymnasium, for they kept themselves in condition by hard physical work on the apparatus, as well as by out-door practice.
All through the academy that night went the buzz and hum of talk about the election. Several votes changed hands, so to speak, though it could not be said that Dick's chances were increased thereby. In fact Paul was a little downcast as he reckoned up the number he was sure of for his chum, and thought of the number needed.
"But I'll get them!" he told himself fiercely as he looked at the list in his hand. "There are some new fellows I haven't seen yet."
"Oh, go to bed," advised Dick, who was tired with the day's duties, but Paul would not.
The young millionaire was sleeping soundly when Paul came in a little later.
"Well?" asked Dick, half awake.
"Not very well," answered Paul dubiously, "but it may be in the morning. Dutton certainly has lots of friends."
"All right," announced Dick as cheerfully as he could.
It was after midnight when the two chums, as well as several other cadets, were awakened by an alarm wildly shouted.
"Fire! Fire! Fire!" came in startled tones from a voice they recognized as that of Toots. "Fire in the ammunition house!"
Paul and Dick were out of bed in the same instant, and rushed to the window. They saw a red glare, and the cry of Toots was echoed by other janitors.
"By Jove! The ammunition house is blazing!" cried Paul aghast. "If that goes up——"
"It's far enough removed from the main buildings," cried Dick, as he began hurriedly to dress, "but it may damage the Sacred Pig. Besides, there are some valuable guns in there—and Paul—I forgot—Grit is in there! Come on!" and Dick raced from the room, half attired as he was.
"What do you mean? Grit in there—in the ammunition house?" cried Paul, hurrying after his chum. He wondered whether he had understood Dick rightly.
"Yes, he's there," came the reply, and the young millionaire never turned around as he sped down the corridor that was rapidly filling with half-dressed cadets who had been aroused by the cries of the janitors. "They're repairing the stable where I keep him nights, and as it was unlocked I put Grit in the powder house so no one would steal him. Now it's on fire!"
"We'll get him!" cried Paul. "Come on, fellows, Dick's dog is in there!"
The flames were now more plainly visible, and they were gaining rapidly. Two of the janitors, one of whom was Toots, had pails of water and were dashing the fluid on the fire, while others were unreeling a hose.
The ammunition house was a large one, made in the main of concrete, but there was built on it a small, wooden shed under which some empty packing boxes and cases were stored, and where some garden tools were kept. It was this shed which had caught fire, and unless it was quickly put out the flames might communicate to the wooden door of the powder house proper. There could be but one result then—an explosion.
Everyone realized this as he rushed on to fight the fire. Some of the professors were now up and were issuing orders, but there was so much excitement that no one paid much attention to them.
"Is there a good water pressure?" panted Paul.
"I don't know," answered Dick, as he ran on. "There was the other day when we had fire drill, but maybe just when we want it there won't be any."
"Hurry! Hurry!" shouted Toots, as he and the others dashed pail after pail of water on the fire.
"Use the hose! Turn on the water!" cried Ray Dutton, who was just ahead of Dick. "Why don't you turn on the pressure?"
"Guess they don't know how to do it," answered the young millionaire. "One of those men is a new hand. Come on, boys, I can't see Grit burned to death!"
"He's howling now," cried Paul.
Indeed the frightened yelping of the imprisoned animal could be heard above the roar and crackle of the flames, and Dick increased his speed.
"I'm coming, Grit! I'm coming!" he shouted, but it is doubtful if the dog heard him.
The burning shed was in front of the only door to the ammunition house, and the fire must first be extinguished before the portal could be reached. To go through the flames now was out of the question.
"Keep back, boys! Keep back!" cried Major Webster. "There may be an explosion any moment. Keep back!"
"But my dog is in there!" shouted Dick. "I must get Grit out!"
"You can't. It's madness to go too close!"
"I'm going to!" replied Dick grimly. "We'll put out the fire."
"Then use the hose—don't go too close with the buckets. That wooden shed should never have been built where it is."
"Come on! Get the hose into action!" yelled Dutton, and taking the nozzle from the hands of puzzled and inexperienced men, the cadet directed it at the fire, while Dick and Paul, aided by some of their companions, turned on the water, the supply coming from a big storage tank, raised high on metal supports to give the necessary force.
A moment later the water spurted from the nozzle and sprayed on the fire with a hiss of steam.
"That's the stuff!" shouted Dick. "We'll soon have you out of there, Grit! Wait a minute, old boy!"
This time the dog heard his master's voice, and a joyful bark replaced his howls of fear.
It was high time that there be used some more effective means of putting out the fire than buckets of water, for the flames were burning fiercely.
"It's lucky that the door of the powder house is thick," murmured Major Webster. "It will take some time to burn through. But if it does——"
He did not finish his half-spoken thought, but shuddered as he looked at the cadets grouped around the burning structure. He wanted to order them away, but he knew the only safety lay in putting out the flames to prevent the explosion. And the cadets seemed to be the only ones capable of handling the situation, for the janitors had completely lost their heads and were so confused that they could not obey the simplest order.
"Get the other hose into action!" cried the major, for there were two small lines available for use at the powder house. "You'll never get it out with one."
"I'll attend to it!" answered Dick, and, leaving Dutton and Paul to manage the one line, he and John Stiver ran to the other and began unreeling that.
The flames were now at their height, and were blazing high, the loose and light wood of the packing boxes making excellent fuel.
"Hurry! Hurry!" nervously ordered the major, doing all he could. Colonel Masterly and some of the other instructors now arrived, but there was little they could do.
"If we can only keep the fire away from the door a little longer," murmured the colonel. "They are subduing it, don't you think, Major?"
"They are doing good work—plucky lads. It takes an emergency like this to show their mettle."
"Do you think the door will catch?"
"I hope not, but——"
It was a vain hope, as they could see a moment later.
A puff of wind blew the smoke and flames aside for a second, and the two men could look plainly at the thick door of the ammunition building. What they saw caused them to start back, for a tiny whisp of fire was eating away at the edge of the portal.
"Too late!" groaned the colonel. "We must get the boys back! We shall have to let it burn. Get back, boys! Get back!"
"We'll have it out in another minute!" yelled Dick, as he turned on the water from his line. "I'm going to save Grit!"
The fire died down for a few seconds, owing to the increased amount of water poured on it, but it was only for a moment, and then it flared up again. But the cadets fought on grimly. Some were even using pails, dipping water from a nearby cistern, and they would not obey the orders of the teachers to keep back. They did little good, however, as they could not get near enough to make much of the fluid effective.
The door of the powder house was now burning in a larger area, and it seemed that the explosion might come at any moment. All saw it, and while they knew that they themselves could get a safe distance away, and while they realized that even if the powder did blow up, none of the college buildings would be damaged, it was different in the case of their favorite club house—the Sacred Pig—for it was close to the blazing structure.
"It will be 'roast pig' in a few minutes," murmured Paul Drew ruefully.
"I should say yes," agreed Dutton. "But we won't let it happen. If only the water holds out!"
Once more came a howl from the imprisoned Grit.
"Poor dog!" cried Dick, stooping down to see if there was a chance to get in and save his pet. But there seemed to be none.
Almost at that instant the roof of the burning shed fell in, carrying with it part of the half consumed structure. This gave a better view of the powder house door, which was seen to be on fire in several places. Grit's howls of anguish became louder.
"I can't stand that—I'm going to save him!" cried Dutton to George Hall.
"But how can you? You can't get near the place."
"Yes, I can—there's a side window. I wonder some of us didn't think of it before. I can reach it by a short ladder, and break open the window with an axe. Here goes. You handle the hose in my place."
Before George could make any objection, Dutton had thrust the nozzle into his friend's hand and was running toward the powder house. On his way he caught up a light ladder and a fire axe that was on one of the hose reel carts.
"Where are you going, Dutton?" called Major Webster.
"To get Dick's dog—out through the window. I can do it all right."
"Come back!" cried the major, but the cadet did not heed.
Dick was having his hands full with the hose and for a moment he did not see what his former enemy had done. The fire was a little less fierce now, as the material on which it fed had been nearly all consumed, but the door was blazing in spots. They played water on it, but as fast as one area of fire was extinguished it would break out in another.
There came a crash of glass and a cry from Dutton.
"I'm in! Look out for Grit. Here he comes—through the window!"
"Grit! Through the window!" cried Dick in amazement. "Why—how——?"
"Ray went in after him!" called George Hall.
"There's the dog."
At that instant the cadet inside the powder house thrust Grit out of the window. The brute fell harmlessly in a heap on the grass, but sprang up a moment later and rushed toward the fire-fighting cadets.
"Here, old man!" cried Dick, and the dog went into a demonstration of joy, fawning all over his master, while the youth hugged the ugly but loving animal close in his arms, the hose being grasped by ready hands as he let go of it.
"Come out, Dutton, come out!" cried Major Webster. "Come out at once."
Hardly had he spoken than there sounded from within the powder house a dull explosion. It was not a hard one, and no evidences of it could be observed outside the structure. But the cadets and professors looked at each other in alarm, their faces lighted up by the dancing flames. They all knew what it meant.
"The beginning of the end!" remarked the colonel gravely. "Get back, everyone! I order it!"
"But Ray Dutton is in there!" cried Dick. "He may be injured and can't get out. I'm going to save him!"
The young millionaire sprang away. Grit started to follow.
"Come back at once!" ordered the colonel.
"Not until I save him!" answered Dick. "He risked his life to save my dog, and now I'll rescue him! Go back, Grit. Wait for me."
The dog whined but obeyed, and Dick ran on. As he passed by the second hose reel he grasped from it an axe. Straight for the door of the powder house he ran, the water from the two lines of hose falling in a spray around him.
The fire was now sufficiently out to permit of reaching the portal over the wet embers which still glowed faintly. The shed had fallen apart and what was left of it was burning on one side. Little tongues of flame spurted here and there on the main door.
Dick rushed up and with the axe began raining blows on the portal. His fellow cadets cheered lustily, and then devoted all their energies to keeping the water playing about their brave comrade. He was soaked through but in this lay his only safety, for the flames still were dangerously close.
There came another slight explosion inside the powder house. Evidently small cases of the gun cartridges were going off, but as they were all blanks there was no danger from bullets.
"Ray—are you alive—are you all right?" cried Dick, as he paused for a moment. There was no answer, and he rained the blows from the axe more madly than before.
With a crash the door gave way. Flinging his implement aside, Dick sprang into the powder house. There was an anxious moment, and the cadets and instructors waited in fear and trembling.
"He may be overcome by the powder fumes," said the colonel. "Poor lads—they may both be killed."
An instant after the colonel had spoken a form appeared in the blackened doorway. One form? No, two, for in his arms Dick Hamilton bore the limp body of Dutton.
"He's got him! He's got him!" yelled Paul Drew, and a great shout followed his words.
On staggered Dick with his burden. Grit saw his master in the now dimming light from the fire, and barked joyfully.
"Back! Get back everybody!" panted the young millionaire. "She's going up! There's a fire inside! Get back—quick!"
Dick was seen to stagger, and it was no wonder, for Ray Dutton was no light weight.
"Let me help you!" shouted Paul, as he ran toward his chum. He grasped the limp legs of the unconscious cadet, while Dick carried the shoulders, and together they hastened on.
"Back! Get back!" cried Dick again, as his schoolmates crowded up around him and Paul. "The explosion will come any minute! There's fire in there!"
"Back this instant, every one of you! You can't do anything more!" cried Colonel Masterly sternly, and the boys knew it was now time to obey. Those holding the hose lines dropped them, and the crowd of fire-fighters surged back.
"Is Dutton dead?" gasped Paul.
"Not dead—and not hurt much, I hope," answered Dick. "He was overcome by the powder fumes—there was a little explosion almost as soon as he got inside—some sparks must have blown in the window. But he saved Grit."
"And you saved him."
"Come on, we'd better get farther back!" cried the young millionaire as Paul hesitated, and was about to lay Dutton down. "The force of it will——"
His voice was drowned in a detonating report, and the darkness of the night was lighted by an intense glare. The powder house had blown up, and the wind of the concussion knocked down Paul and Dick in a heap with the unconscious Dutton. Other cadets who had not run far enough back were also bowled over.
Then came intense blackness, following the bright flash and this was succeeded by the patter of small missiles tossed into the air by the force of the powder.
"Jove, I hope none of the chunks of concrete come this way!" cried Paul as he got up. "Are you hurt, Dick?"
"Not a bit of it. Look at Dutton though."
"He doesn't seem to be," answered Paul, as he looked at the unconscious cadet as well as he could in the dim light that came from a few scattered and burning embers blown here and there by the explosion.
"Oh—I'm—I'm all right," gasped Dutton, as he slowly sat up. "What happened?"
"My it sounds good to hear you speak again!" cried Dick, as he put his arms around his friend and assisted him to arise. "You were overcome in there when you went in to get Grit, and I took you out. Now the whole thing has gone up, but it doesn't seem to have done much damage."
Scores of cadets now crowded around the three lads. The rain of missiles had ceased, and quick inquiries showed that beyond a few scratches or bruises no one was seriously hurt. The heavy concrete side of the walls of the powder house had merely toppled outward, almost in four solid pieces, and it was only the light wooden roof, purposely made so, that had been much shattered. It was the fragments of this that had rained down.
The fire was effectually scattered by the explosion and what little remained was quickly extinguished by the janitors with pails of water, and one hose line. The other had been blown apart and was useless.
Colonel Masterly and the other instructors went about among the lads, making sure that none needed hospital treatment. They came to where Dick, Paul and Ray stood.
"Hamilton, let me congratulate you on your pluck and daring in saving your comrade's life," said the colonel gravely, as he shook hands with Dick in the light of several lanterns that had been brought up. "It was a brave act."
"Well, he saved Grit, and it was the only way I could pay him back," replied our hero simply, as he fondled the dog that leaped up on him with demonstrative affection.
"I couldn't bear to hear Grit howl," explained Ray, who had now recovered from the powder fumes. "Let's go see if the Sacred Pig is much damaged," he added quickly, for neither he nor Dick liked to pose as heroes.
"I fancy the building is not much harmed," spoke the colonel. "Most of the force of the explosion was upward. You young gentlemen deserve a vote of thanks from the faculty for the manner in which you acquitted yourselves to-night, and I will see that you get it. Now we had better go back to the dormitories. The night is rather chilly." Indeed it was, lightly clad as everyone was.
Beyond a few shattered windows, and some broken glassware in the pantry, the society house of the Sacred Pig was not damaged, at which the cadets were very glad. The excitement quieted down, and after the doctor had looked over Dutton, and pronounced him safe and sound, the students went back to their beds, but hardly to sleep much.
An investigation was made the next day, to discover if possible the cause of the fire, but beyond the fact that it had started in some refuse of the shed nothing could be learned.
"It was careless on my part to allow the shed to be there," said the colonel. "When we rebuild the ammunition house I will have it placed farther off, and there will be no wooden structures attached to it. We must not risk another accident like this."
In view of the fire, lessons were suspended that day, and only a short drill ordered. When this was over the electioneering began again, for in the afternoon the selection of the football captain was to be made.
There was quite a change of sentiment, and Paul Drew found that he had to do very little pleading now to get the promise of votes for Dick.
"It was the pluckiest and nerviest thing I ever saw done," declared Harvey Nolan, one of the new cadets, who had hitherto resisted Paul's pleadings, being firm for Dutton. "I like Ray immensely, but I think I'll vote for Hamilton."
"If this keeps on it will be unanimous for him," said Paul in delight. He was hardly prepared for what followed.
The cadets were assembled in the gymnasium, and Mr. Martin, by request, was presiding over the important session.
"I understand you are now ready to proceed with the election for a captain and a manager," began the Yale coach.
"Sure," came the inelegant but hearty reply from several.
"There are three candidates," went on the coach. "Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Dutton and Mr. Rutley. How will you vote, by ballot or acclimation?"
"Ballot—ballot!" came the cry.
"Very well, then I will appoint the tellers, and you——"
"One moment, if you please," interrupted Dutton, as he arose. "There has been a slight mistake made. There are only two candidates in the field—Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Rutley. I wish to withdraw in favor of Mr. Hamilton. You—you all know what he did last night—for me," faltered Ray, and his voice was a trifle husky. "After that I could not stand against him in the election."
"Yes, you will—I insist!" cried Dick, jumping up. "I don't want you to withdraw."
"You can't help yourself, old man!" cried Ray heartily, playfully shaking his fist at Dick. "I want all you fellows who were going to vote for me to vote for Dick Hamilton—that is unless you are committed to Frank Rutley," and he bowed in the direction of that cadet.
"No one can vote for me—I'm out of it!" called out Frank. "I'm for Hamilton."
"Hurray!" cried Paul Drew.
"Three cheers for Dick Hamilton!" sung out someone, and how those cheers were given!
"Do I understand that both you young gentlemen withdraw?" asked Mr. Martin.
"I do," answered Ray.
"Same here!" called Frank.
"Then, as there is but one candidate in the field, perhaps it is unnecessary——"
"I move that Dick Hamilton be unanimously elected captain of the Kentfield football eleven, by acclimation, and long may he wave o'er the team of the strong and the team of the brave!" cried Dutton.
"Second it!" cried Frank.
"All those in favor of this motion will signify it by saying 'yes,'" called the coach.
"YES!" was the reverbrating shout that fairly made the walls ring.
"Then Dick Hamilton is the football captain, and I beg to extend him my congratulations," said Mr. Martin.
"And I, also," added his colleague, and the two coaches stepped from the platform, and advanced toward the blushing young millionaire, while his friends crowded around him to do him honor.
There was little else to do at the meeting in the way of business. Dan Hatfield was unanimously named for manager, and then the coaches announced that after a few more days of practice the team would be ready for the first game of the season, to be played on the grounds of the Dunkirk Military Academy, a school similar to that of Kentfield, and situated about twenty miles away.
"It is rather a disadvantage not to open on your own grounds," said Mr. Spencer, "but it cannot be helped. I hope you will play all the better for the slight handicap, and I am sure you can win if you try."
"Yes, Dunkirk is hardly in your class," put in Mr. Martin, "but it was the best arrangement we could make under the circumstances. You really need practice against other opponents than your own scrub eleven, and this will give it to you. If you roll up a good big score, then it will be time to talk of taking on Blue Hill, and some of the larger teams."
"Blue Hill beat Dunkirk twenty-six to nothing last year," remarked Dick.
"Then you want to take their measure about forty-six to nothing," remarked Mr. Martin, "and I trust you do it."
There was some hard practice in the next few days, harder practice than any the cadets had yet experienced, but the effects of it were noticeable. They had more confidence in themselves, they were better kickers, quicker in getting down the field, and in offensive work they played together like clockwork. On the defense there was still something to be desired, but that would come with practice the coaches knew.
"Well I guess I'd better go to the railroad station and arrange about getting the tickets for the team to go to Dunkirk to-morrow," remarked Manager Hatfield, the day before the game.
"You needn't get any tickets for the team and substitutes," spoke Dick.
"Why not?"
"Because I've hired some touring automobiles that will take us over and bring us back."
"You have! Say, Hamilton, there's class to you all right! You're a brick! This will be great, and we'll save the money in the treasury. We need it, too. I hope we get a good crowd to swell the gate receipts."
The team that was to open the season was the same that had been practicing against the scrub lately. Teddy Naylor could not make good, and so was not to play, but he was promised by the coaches that he would be the first substitute called on, and this was some consolation. Porter was warned that unless he trained and practiced better he would be dropped altogether, and his sullen answer was that he "didn't much care."
As many of the Kentfield cadets as could manage it went on the train to see the game. Four big cars, which Dick generously hired, transported the team and substitutes, and they started off amid cheers and songs, with the auto gaily decorated with flags.
"It's a good start all right," remarked Paul to Dick, as they flew down the road.
"Yes, and I hope the coming back will be even better."
"Why, you're not afraid of not beating them; are you?"
"Not exactly afraid, but I never was captain of a big football eleven before, and I guess I'm a bit nervous. Of course we'll beat Dunkirk, but I want it to be by a big score."
"Oh, don't worry. We'll make out all right."
There was a big crowd in the grandstands when the team and substitutes drove up, and they were received with cheers as they alighted from the autos. The Dunkirk team had not yet appeared, but their manager met Hatfield, was introduced to Dick, and then the lads were escorted to their dressing rooms.
"There come our fellows," remarked Dutton a little later when, as he was slipping into his jersey, a great cheer was heard, followed by the Kentfield cry.
"Yes, and they've got their voices with them," said Dick. "They're great shouters."
When the Kentfield team trotted out they were met with a rousing welcome of vocal sounds, not only from their own cohorts, but from the Dunkirk sympathizers.
"They're friendly all right," remarked Dick. "Come on, fellows, we'll line up and run through some signals."
He and his men were soon in practice, and the young captain was glad to note that no one had gone stale. Everyone seemed on the alert.
A little later the Dunkirk team trotted out, to be met with a salvo of cheers, and then they, too, lined up and began to work with the ball.
"They are a fast, snappy, little lot, but I think we have them for weight," remarked Paul, looking critically at their opponents.
Dunkirk won the toss, and elected to defend the north goal. Kentfield was to kick off, and on the whole Dick was rather glad, as he could thus early get the measure of the offensive tactics of their enemies.
Beeby sent the ball spinning well down the field as the echoes of the whistle died away. The pigskin was neatly caught, and one of the Dunkirk players began running back with it.
"Nail him, fellows," cried Dick. "Don't let him gain much!" George Hall broke through the interference and had the man down before he had covered ten yards. Then came the line up.
"Watch out now, boys," warned the captain, as the Dunkirk quarter-back began giving the signal.
At the line of Kentfield came a man, hurling himself toward a hole that had been partly opened between Paul Drew and George Hall. Into the opening the man went, but no further, for he was neatly stopped. Only a yard was gained.
"That's the way to do it!" cried Dick in delight. "Hold 'em, boys! Hold 'em!"
Once more Dunkirk made a gallant try, this time around left end, but again the man with the ball was nailed, and thrown for a loss.
"They'll have to kick," cried Dick. "Watch out!"
The backs retreated, and it was well they did for Dunkirk had a powerful ball-booster in the shape of their full-back, and the leather went well into the territory of our friends.
Hal Foster caught it, and protected by excellent interference he rushed it well back before he was downed.
"Now to see what we can do!" exclaimed Dick, as he knelt down back of Jim Watkins, to pass the ball. He signalled for Frank Rutley to take the ball through right tackle, and it was executed to perfection. In vain did the Dunkirk captain beg and plead with his men to hold. Dick's players pushed and shoved Frank through for a ten yard gain.
"That's going some!" panted the left tackle as he took his place again.
Dunkirk was saddened by the advance, thus easily made, though she was not discouraged. But when Ray Dutton went through the line for another substantial gain, and when, without the necessity for kicking in the next scrimmage, John Stiver got through between tackle and guard for eight yards, then there were anxious hearts.
"Walk up for a touchdown!" called several in the crowd of Kentfield supporters in the grand stand.
"We'll do it!" cried Dick.
The coveted touchdown came a few minutes later, the ball having been carried down the field in a series of whirlwind rushes. Paul Drew was shoved over the line, and then Jim Watkins kicked goal.
"Our first points!" cried Dick in delight. "Now the team is beginning to play."
And play they did. It was a foregone conclusion after that, and Dunkirk had no chance. They realized it, and when, after the first half, there were thirty points in favor of Kentfield, and none for their opponents, the captain of Dunkirk said to Dick:
"Our only hope now is to hold you down. You're better off now than Blue Hill was against us."
"That's what we're after," declared the young millionaire. "We're going to wallop Blue Hill when we get the chance, too."
The second half was a repetition of the first. Once on a fumble Dunkirk got the ball, and another time as a penalty for holding on the part of too eager George Hall. The home team tried desperately hard to score, and several of their men were knocked out, but it was not to be.
Once, when because of a miscalculation, the man with the ball got through Dick's line, the young captain had a momentary fear lest his team be scored against. But Hal Foster was on the alert and nailed the panting man with the ball.
There came some fierce scrimmages for Dunkirk was desperate, and Hal was knocked out. This gave Teddy Naylor a chance to get in the game, and he rushed in with eager impetuosity.
"I'm going to make a touchdown!" he declared. "Let me try, Dick."
He was given a chance, and made good, bursting through the line of Dunkirk players, shaking off a fierce tackle by the full-back, and making a score after a forty yard run amid frantic cheers.
After that the Kentfield lads took it a little easier, for which their opponents were duly grateful. Teddy Naylor kicked a beautiful field goal, and then time was called, with the score fifty to nothing in favor of "Dick Hamilton's team," as his chums insisted on calling it.
"Oh, but I feel good!" cried our hero as he ran to the dressing rooms.
"You look like a peach," said Paul. "One eye is half closed and your nose looks as if some one had hammered brass work on it."
"They did, I guess. But you're no picture either. Look at your left ear."
"Wish I could. But never mind. We beat 'em!"
"Well, what do you boys think of yourselves?" asked Coach Martin the day after the game with Dunkirk, when the football eleven and its supporters had gathered in the gymnasium preparatory to going out to practice.
"Why, did we do so rotten?" asked Innis.
"Had we ought to have piled up a bigger score?" inquired George Hall.
"We did make a few fumbles—at least I did, and once I didn't take care of my man," admitted Jim Watkins. "But——"
"No, I haven't a bit of fault to find," went on Mr. Martin. "I was just wondering whether you felt more confident of your playing ability than you did before we came. I want to get a sort of line on my ability."
"Yes," put in Mr. Spencer, "we are far from finding fault with you, for, on the contrary I think you did exceptionally well. We couldn't ask for any better results, but what Mr. Martin means is whether or not you yourselves feel satisfied."
There was a moment's hesitation. The boys did not know exactly how to take the questions.
"I wish we could beat Blue Hill to a standstill," murmured Captain Dick.
"And then wallop Mooretown," added Ray Dutton.
"Say, can't we challenge Blue Hill now?" asked John Stiver eagerly.
"Yes, let's do it!" came a chorus of voices.
"Better wait," advised Mr. Martin with a laugh and a quick look at his colleague. "If you sent Blue Hill another challenge so soon, they'd only laugh at you, and very likely they would say you arranged the whole coaching plan merely to beat them. If you will permit us to suggest something, we have another scheme."
"What is it?" sung out Innis with engaging frankness.
"We will play some other strong team before we again ask Blue Hill to let us have a chance at them," suggested Mr. Martin. "Then, if we win, as I hope we shall, we will be more in their class. Beating Dunkirk hardly put us there, even though we made a bigger score against them than Blue Hill did. And then, after you get your second wind, so to speak, we will consider getting into the Military League. Do you agree to that plan?"
"Sure!" came instantly from all present. The boys would have agreed to anything that would have paved the way to tackling Blue Hill.
"Then we'll go ahead on that understanding," proceeded the coach. "And now for the second part of the plan. You know it is of little benefit to play some team weaker than you are. What you want to do is to take on some eleven that you know is going to be hard to beat. That will bring out whatever good points we have not yet discovered. Is that clear?"
Once more the boys looked at each other in some astonishment. What was the coach leading to?
"Am I making myself clear?" he asked again.
"Yes. Sure. Go ahead," were some of the answers.
"Then the plan of Mr. Spencer and myself is this," went on Mr. Martin. "We will put you through some hard practice in the next week, and then we will challenge Haskell University."
For a moment there was a period of intense silence in the room. Then several half-astonished gasps could be heard. Once more the boys looked at one another, but this time, instead of with puzzled glances, it was more with looks of fear, or at least uncertainty.
"Haskell University," murmured Dick Hamilton.
"Champions of the Military League year before last," added Innis.
"And likely to be again this year," put in George Hall.
"And he wants us to tackle them—us the tail-enders," muttered Jim Watkins. "It can't be did! We'd all be in the hospital, fellows, and our team would be crippled."
Talk was flying thick and fast now, and almost every remark seemed to be against the daring plan of the coaches. Then Dick realized that he, as captain, ought to say something. It would not do to knuckle under in this craven fashion. A team to do anything must do or dare.
"If Haskell will take us on, we'll play them," he said simply, as he arose in his seat. "But will they, after Blue Hill turned us down?"
"I'm glad that at least your captain isn't afraid," spoke Mr. Spencer, for he and his colleague had heard the half-suppressed whispers of objection. "I know it sounds like a big thing to you, for I know what a strong team Haskell has. But I believe it will do you good to play that eleven. Of course if you don't feel that you could stand the pace, or——"
"Go on! Challenge 'em! We'll play 'em."
"Of course we will."
"And beat 'em, too!"
These expressions took the place of those heard a few minutes before. It argued a good change of heart.
"I'm glad to hear that," commented Mr. Martin. "Then if Manager Hatfield will confer with us after the meeting and practice, we will arrange to get a date with them."
"But will they play us?" asked Dick. "You know they always like to arrange big games, and they may not want to take us on."
"Oh, I fancy that can be arranged," spoke Mr. Martin easily. "Mr. Spencer and I know the coach there and he is a good friend of ours. I am acquainted with the captain, too, and I am almost sure they will give us a game. Now let me congratulate you once more on the showing you made yesterday, and suggest that we get out to practice. We can't get any too much if we are to play Haskell—and beat them." He concluded his remarks with a grim smile.
"Beat 'em! We'll be lucky if we hold 'em down to as much as the score by which we beat Dunkirk," remarked George Hall, as he stepped out beside Captain Dick.
"Here! None of that!" cried the young millionaire, half seriously.
"None of what?" asked George.
"That treason talk," replied Dick. "I want you all to feel that we're going to win, or there isn't much use playing."
"Oh, well, just as you say," agreed George with a laugh. "Do you think we'll win, Paul Drew?"
"Of course," was the answer, for Paul was always loyal to his chum.
As several of the cadets were lame and stiff from the unusual exertion in the Dunkirk game, only light practice was indulged in. Several minor faults were corrected, and then the coaches put their charges through some wing-shift plays, and gave them a chance to improve their work in the on-side kick and the forward pass, in both of which the Kentfield lads were a trifle uncertain.
"Oh, we'll have you in shape to tackle Haskell before you know it," said Mr. Martin encouragingly.
If any of the players were doubtful about this they did not say so, and they took heart from the confident air Dick Hamilton assumed.
In the days that followed the practice gradually became more and more rigorous, and, as a result, fast, snappy playing became the order of the day.
"Have you heard whether or not Haskell will play us?" asked Paul of Dick one night, as they sat in their room studying and waiting for "taps" to sound.
"No, I haven't. I meant to ask Hatfield to-day whether he had heard from their manager, but I was so busy drilling a squad of raw recruits that I didn't get a chance. Guess I'll go to his room now and ask him. I'll have time I think."
As Dick arose there sounded the mournful yet sweet notes of the bugle that was a signal for "lights" out.
"Too late!" exclaimed Paul.
"I'll chance it," ventured Dick. "I can cross to his dormitory by the rear path, and the sentries are hardly posted yet. Besides, I guess they won't report me when they know it's football matters. I'm anxious to know."
"Better stay here—morning will do," counseled Paul.
"No, I'm going, I'll be right back," replied his roommate, and off Dick started before the last notes of the bugle had died away.
Rules regarding being out of the academy after taps were very strict, except at certain times when more liberty was allowed. But this was not one of those occasions, and Dick knew he would have to be careful. He did not mind indulging in a few pranks occasionally, but now, as he was on the eleven, and captain as well, it behooved him to be careful, so that he would not be barred from athletics.
He swung quietly along the tree-shaded path leading to the dormitory where Hatfield had his rooms. The path was not so well shaded now as in summer, for the trees were almost leafless save for certain oaks, the brown foliage of which rustled in the night wind.
"Sounds like a storm," mused the young millionaire. "I hope it keeps clear long enough for the Haskell game—that is if they'll play us."
As he strolled along he kept a lookout for any sentries, for sometimes new cadets were picked for this duty, and they took delight in reporting their older comrades. But the coast seemed to be clear.
"Guess I'll go see how Grit is, before I go to Hatfield's room," said Dick half aloud, for his pet was now kept in one of the stable barracks. "Poor old fellow, I wish they'd let me keep him with me nights; but they won't."
He swung off in the direction of the building where the cavalry horses were kept, and, as he neared the one where his dog slept he saw a dark figure step out from behind a tree. The figure was that of a cadet with a rifle.
"Hope that's a friend of mine," mused Dick grimly.
A moment later came the command:
"Halt!"
Dick obeyed.
"Who goes there?" was the inquiry as the rifle was swung around.
"Friend."
"Advance friend, and give the countersign."
Dick was startled. Though this was strictly in accordance with the rules, it was something that was seldom enforced. And, to tell the truth, Dick did not have the countersign.
"Well?" came the impatient query. Dick wondered who his challenger could be, for the face was in the shadow.
"I—I'm afraid I haven't the countersign," faltered Dick, who was somewhat annoyed. "Is it actually necessary?"
"Of course it is," was the snapping answer. "Otherwise I shouldn't have asked for it. If you haven't it, you're under arrest."
"I'm Dick Hamilton," said our hero, "and I was on my way to see Hatfield about some football matters. Besides taps have only just sounded."
"Some time ago," was the curt reply. "Besides Hatfield's rooms aren't in the stable."
"I know, but I wanted to see if my dog Grit was safely fastened."
"Oh. Well, I'm sorry," but there was no contrition expressed in the voice, "but I'll have to place you under arrest for trying to run guard, Captain Hamilton," and with that the sentry stepped out from under a tree, revealing himself as Sam Porter.
For a moment Dick half thought it was a joke, and he was about to laugh it off. The idea of a member of the football squad—even though temporarily deposed from the team, stopping another team member when on athletic business, even though against the rules, was almost unheard of.
"I guess it's all right—you might remember the countersign for me," said Dick lightly.
"Not much!" snapped Porter.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't choose to. You're under arrest and you will so report to Major Webster.
"Do you mean it?"
"I certainly do."
"But it's—it's so unusual."
"That's just the reason I'm doing it. They make a fellow do guard duty on a frosty night, to catch guard-runners, and then some one kicks when he does it. No, I'm in earnest, and if some of the other fellows who do sentry-go would be the same, they'd stop this. I don't care enough about war tactics to be a sentry, but as long as I am here no one can run the guard on me."
"I wasn't running the guard. I told you where I was going. I want to see if Hatfield had heard from the Haskell team yet."
"And I find you headed toward the stable where your dog is kept, so I can believe you or not as I choose."
Dick started. It was, in a measure telling him that he had not spoken the truth and for a brief moment he felt the hot blood mount to his head. Then he calmed down as he remembered that he was captain of the eleven, and, in a measure responsible to his men for his conduct. Besides, he reflected quickly, Porter might be trying to force him into a quarrel, and that would never do.
"Very well," answered Dick, as quietly as he could, "I'll report to the major. Good night!" He swung on his heel and turned aside.
"Um!" was the only reply that Porter grunted out, as he resumed the patrolling of his post.
"Well?" asked Paul, as his chum entered.
"Not well—bad. I was caught."
"By whom?"
"Porter."
"Porter. Hum! Was he in earnest about it?"
"He seemed so," and Dick recounted the conversation.
"Well, there's something in what he says," agreed Paul. "Sentry-go is no fun, but as long as we're at a military school we have to do it once in a while. Still if enough of us enforced the rules, as I suppose we ought to do, there'd be one of two things happen. They'd either abolish it, or running the guard would stop, and there wouldn't be anything for the sentries to do."
"That's so. Well, I'm the goat to-night. Might as well have a bad job over with. I'm going to report."
"Then you didn't see Hatfield?"
"No, we'll have to wait until morning to hear."
Dick went off in no very happy frame of mind, and he was a little uneasy as to what form of punishment the major would mete out. But he was fortunate in finding that old soldier entertaining a war comrade in his room, and swapping campaign stories. The major was, therefore, in a very amiable mood, and after listening to Dick's frank report said:
"Hum! Well, don't do it again. You may write me out a page of field tactics and consider yourself relieved of arrest. Don't do it again. Good night, Captain Hamilton."
Dick saluted and swung away, highly pleased at the lightness of his task. He heard the major and his comrade-in-arms laughing as he strode away, and the instructor in tactics exclaimed:
"That's not a circumstance to what we used to do, eh, Ned, when we were camped near some city and wanted to go in and have a good time?"
"That's right," agreed his friend.
Dick's little escapade was known all over the academy next morning, and there was almost universal condemnation of Porter's act. But Dick, to the no small astonishment of his chums, declared that the deposed left-end had done just right.
"What are you sticking up for him for?" asked Paul in some indignation. "It'll get so all the other sentries will do the same thing."
"Well, that might not be so bad. Besides, I do think he did right—even though class custom is against it. Then, too, I don't want to get on unfriendly terms with him. I hope to keep in touch with that old miser Duncaster through Porter."
"Oh, yes, about your father's business. How is it coming on?"
"Not very well. I hear that the other side has made a very good offer to Mr. Duncaster, but he has turned them down the same as he did me. There are other matters cropping up, however, that make things complicated in the electric road business, and poor dad is worried to death. I don't know what his next move will be."
"Did you hear whether or not we'll have a game with Haskell?"
"No, but here comes Hatfield now. We'll ask him. He has some mail, perhaps he just heard."
"It's all right!" joyfully called the manager, waving a letter at Dick. "They'll play us next Saturday. Those coaches must have quite a pull."
"Will they put in their first team?" asked Dick anxiously, for there would be little glory in beating the Haskell scrub.
"They'll do that, and also come here to give us a game."
"On our own grounds? Good!" cried Paul. "We'll play our heads off!"
"It's great!" declared Dick. "I only hope we—but there of course we're going to win!" and he changed his sentence with an assumed confidence he hardly felt.
"Will we work any of the new plays on 'em?" asked Paul. "I like the wing shifts and the sequence plays."
"We'll work 'em if we get a chance," said Dick. "It will all depend on what sort of a game they put up. We may have to kick a lot."
"Well, we're up to snuff on that line," declared the manager. "Now I must arrange the details. I hope we get out a big crowd and make some money."
"And I hope the fellows come out to practice this afternoon," spoke Dick. "Come on Paul, we've got the science lecture on now."
The scrub, against whom the Varsity matched forces that afternoon, had been having some secret practice of their own, and they worked a couple of tricks on the rather surprised first team that netted a good gain, and eventually a touchdown.
"That's something you must be on the lookout for," said Mr. Martin, who was a bit chagrined over what had happened. "It isn't enough to play well on your own team, you must watch what the other fellow is doing. Now try again, and put some ginger into your work."
"Yes, you're getting a bit stale I'm afraid," declared Mr. Spencer, and he added some rather sharp words of correction.
The Varsity members were somewhat hurt. They did not know that the words were spoken intentionally, and to force them to do a little better.
The rebuke had the desired effect, and thereafter the unfortunate scrub team was shoved all over the gridiron, not only not getting within striking distance of their opponents' goal line, but having three touchdowns rolled up against them in short order.
"That's something like!" cried Mr. Martin in approval. "Now, Hamilton, try that wing shift," he whispered to Dick. "I think we can fool them."
It was a well executed play, and when the man with the ball got safely away, and through the scrub line Dick slipped and fell, for the ground was soft from a recent rain. Down he went at full length into a puddle, with another player on top of him, and when he arose he was rather a sorry-looking sight, but not injured.
Time was called directly after that, and as the players filed off the field, passing through a little knot of spectators, Dick heard his name called.
"Well, of all the disgraceful sights, you certainly present one!" exclaimed a rasping voice. There was a menancing growl from Grit, whom one of Dick's friends held in leash. Our hero looked toward where the voice had sounded.
"Uncle Ezra!" he faltered, as he saw his grim-visaged relative.
"Yes, I'm here, and I must say of all the brutal exhibitions I ever saw, this is the worst. I never saw a bull fight, but it can't be much worse!"
There was some laughter at this, and Dick looked at his crabbed uncle in some alarm.
"Have you come to see me?" he asked.
"Not exactly. I came because your father is in trouble, and I want to help him."
"Trouble? What kind—the—" began our hero.
"If you'll go somewhere and get washed up, and put some clean clothes on, so you won't look so much like a tramp, I'll talk to you," said Mr. Larabee stiffly. "I've come to take you back home, Nephew Richard."
For a moment the young millionaire did not know what to say or think. His father in trouble! Uncle Ezra had come to take him away from Kentfield! And in the height of the football season just before the first big game!
"Is my father ill?" asked Dick.
"No, not ill, only worrying over business. I always said he had too many irons in the fire, and now some have burned him," declared the old man as he walked along beside his nephew out of ear-shot of the crowd. "I've come on to try my hand at helping him."
"But what can you do here?" asked Dick. "And why must I leave Kentfield?"
"To help your father. I should think you'd be glad to. He needs money. It costs money to stay here and play those silly, dangerous games."
"Not very much money, Uncle Ezra."
"Don't tell me! You ought to be in my woolen mill earning four dollars and a quarter a week, instead of wasting cash here. Now I want to have a serious talk with you, Nephew Richard. Your father is in trouble, and it's your duty to leave here and help him."
"I think I can help him by staying here just as well. But did he tell you to take me away from Kentfield—just when I have the football team in good shape? Did he say I was to leave?"
"No, he didn't exactly say so, but I know it would help. Besides, you might get injured playing this game, and then you'd be a cripple for life. You ought to be at work. Now I can make a place for you in the mill. In time you could work up to twelve or fifteen dollars a week, and of course, being my nephew, and the son of my only sister, I'd give you a chance. Better come, Dick. You might be hurt here."
"And I might be hurt in the mill, Uncle Ezra. I have heard of people being caught in the machinery."
"Well, of course it's possible," admitted the crabbed man. "But you must be careful. Besides if you got hurt in the mill it would be in a good cause. Though I warn you I carry accident insurance for all my employees and you can't collect any damages from me."
"Then I think I'll stay and play football, Uncle Ezra."
"Oh, the perversity and foolishness of the rising generation!" groaned Mr. Larabee. "But hurry on and get cleaned up. It is a disgrace for me to be seen walking with you, and I have on my best black suit that I don't want to get spoiled. Besides I must hurry back. I have a lazy hired man that loafs when I'm away."
Dick thought that any hired man who would not take a little chance of resting when his taskmaster was away from home would not show much spirit. But there was Mrs. Larabee to reckon with, and she was almost as much of a "driver" as her husband.
"There, now I am ready to hear all about it," said Dick, when he had led his uncle to one of the reception rooms of the academy, and had removed most of the traces of the recent football conflict. "Are father's affairs in much worse shape?"
"I should say they were!" exclaimed Uncle Ezra. "This man Porter—why Nephew Richard—what is that on your nose?" and the horrified old man sprang from his chair and approached our hero.
"Nose? What's the matter with it?" asked Dick in some alarm.
"There's a great big cut on it! How did it happen?"
"Oh, that's where I tried to stop Hal Foster's shoe with my nose, I expect. That's nothing. It's only a little cut. You should have seen the one I had last year. And when Teddy Naylor broke his collar bone——"
"That's enough! Not another word about the brutalities of football! I've heard enough! It's disgraceful. Let us talk about something else."
"I'm anxious to hear about father's affairs," said Dick.
"I don't know very much," replied his uncle, "but I know that his enemies are pressing him hard to get the control of the trolley line away from him, and it is paying well, too. I never thought it would, but your father insisted that he was right. But he has too many irons in the fire, I'm sure. This time this Mr. Porter is fighting him, and when I saw your father yesterday he said he did not know what to do, because a Mr. Duncaster would not sell his stock."
"Yes, I know that Mr. Duncaster," said Dick, with a grim smile at the recollection of the interview with the man.
"I came here to argue with him," said Mr. Larabee.
"You did?" cried Dick.
"Yes, your father consented. He said you had been unable to do anything with him, and it would do no harm if I tried. I'm a fighter, I am!" and Uncle Ezra squared his jaw aggressively. "I'll make him do as we want him to."
Dick had his doubts about this, but said nothing. He had, moreover, a little feeling against his uncle.
"I want to help dad myself," reflected the young millionaire, "and I believe I can do more with this Mr. Duncaster than Uncle Ezra can. I don't like him 'butting in,' but if dad told him to it must be all right. But I don't believe he'll have much success."
"Now I thought if you could take me to see this person who has the stock," went on Mr. Larabee, "I can induce him to sell it. Once your father has possession of it matters will be all right. Could we go out to his place this afternoon?"
"Oh, yes," agreed Dick. "It is not much of a run to Hardvale."
"I'm glad of it, for then I can start back home to-night. If I take along some sandwiches, which perhaps you can get from the kitchen here for me, I can ride all night in a day coach, and so save a hotel bill. We'll start for Hardvale at once. It is within walking distance, I presume."
"No," answered Dick, and he felt a secret delight in his answer, "the only way to get out there and back in time for you to make an early start for home is to take an auto."
"An auto!" cried Uncle Ezra in horror. "Never! I'll never waste money on one of those affairs, and when I undertook to come here on your father's business I stipulated that I would pay all expenses. He is to give me a commission for doing the work, provided I get the trolley stock, and the less expenses I have the more money I can make."
"But if you don't hire an auto you'll be here so long that you'll have to stay over and pay a hotel bill," said Dick, trying not to smile.
"Couldn't we hire a horse and carriage, or go in a trolley car—trolleys are cheap." Mr. Larabee looked hopeful.
"There is no trolley line to Hardvale," said Dick, "and a horse and carriage would be too slow. It's an auto or a hotel bill, Uncle Ezra."
"Oh dear! What a hard world this is! Well, let us go and get a cheap auto. I'll bargain with the driver."
The chauffeur wanted six dollars to go out to Hardvale and back with his taxicab. At the first mention of the price Dick thought his uncle would have a fit. Then, with a grim tightening of his lips, the old man began to bargain.
"I'll give you two dollars," he said.
"It wouldn't pay for my time, oil and gasolene," declared the man.
"I'll make it three, and not a cent more!" exclaimed Uncle Ezra firmly, with his hand on his pocketbook as if afraid it would be taken away from him.
"You'd better walk!" said the chauffeur. "I haven't any more time to bother with you."
Uncle Ezra begged and pleaded, but the driver was firm.
"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do," said the crabbed old man finally. "I'll pay your price, though I want you to understand that I think it's robbery, but will you throw in some sandwiches for my supper. I'm going to travel all night."
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," finally agreed the chauffeur. "Though it's the first time I've ever given a tip in my own cab. Hop in."
They arrived at Mr. Duncaster's house a little before dusk, and Uncle Ezra rapped on the door. There was a long silence and he knocked again.
"Nobody home I guess," ventured the chauffeur, who was lighting his lamps, preparatory for the trip back.
"Let me try," suggested Dick, and he gave several vigorous blows on the door. Uncle Ezra had rapped lightly, probably so as not to unduly wear out the pair of ancient gloves he was wearing.
This time a window over the front door was opened, and the head of Mr. Duncaster, graced with a nightcap and a tassle, was thrust out.
"What do you want? Go away from here! I've gone to bed!" he shouted. "I'll have you arrested for disturbing the peace! Get away!"
He started to close the window.
"Here! Wait!" cried Mr. Larabee. "I want to talk to you about your trolley stock."
At the mention of stock the window was opened again, and once more the head came out.
"Stock is it? Trolley stock? I suspected it was something like that when I smelled your gasolene wagon coming to my door. Well, that stock isn't for sale, and don't you bother me any more about it. I won't sell to either side. Now you get away. I always go to bed early and it's past my sleeping time now. Get away!"
"But you don't understand!" cried Mr. Larabee in desperation. "We want your stock, and I am authorized to offer you——"
"I won't listen to you! Get away, I'm going to sleep!" The head was drawn in and the window came down with a bang.
"Wait! Hold on! I'll increase the price! I must talk to you!" cried Uncle Ezra, but Mr. Duncaster was firm, and there was no reply to repeated knockings.
"I guess we'd better go," said Dick gently. He had surmised how it would be.
"I'm going to try the back door," said Uncle Ezra craftily. "Maybe I can surprise him." But he had his knocking for his pains, and came back crestfallen.
"Come on," suggested the chauffeur. "I want to get back and do some business where I can make something."