Dave Darrin came stealing over, as soft-footed as any panther.
Dick did not turn around to look at his chum. He merely held up a cautioning hand, and Darrin moved even more stealthily.
In another moment Dave's head was close to his chum's, and both young men were gazing upon the same scene.
"Davis and Fremont——-" whispered Darrin in his chum's ear.
"Bayliss, Porter and Drayne," Dick nodded back, softly.
"Trenhold, Grayson, Hudson," continued Darrin.
"All the 'soreheads,'" finished Dick Prescott for him.
"Or nearly all," supplemented Dave.
Indeed, the scene upon which these two High School boys gazed was one that greatly interested them.
On a little knoll, just beyond the line of bushes, and on lower ground, fully a dozen young men lounged, basking in the morning sun, which poured through upon this small, treeless space.
Though the young men down in the knoll were not carefully attired, there was a general similarity in their dress. All wore sweaters, and nearly all of them wore cross-country shoes. Evidently the whole party had been out for a cross country run.
Now, the dozen or so were eagerly engaged in conversation.
"It's too bad Purcell won't join us," remarked Davis.
"Yes," nodded another fellow in the group; "he belongs with us."
"Oh, well," spoke up Bayliss, "if Purcell would rather be with the muckers, let him."
"Now, let's not be too rank, fellows," objected Hudson slowly. "I wouldn't call all the fellows muckers who don't happen to belong in our crowd."
"What would you call 'em then?" growled Bayliss angrily. "Time was when only the fellows of the better families expected to go to High School, on their way to college. Now, every day-laborer's son seems to think he ought to go to High School——-"
"And be received with open arms, on a footing of equality," sneeredPorter.
"It's becoming disgusting," muttered Bayliss. "Not only do these cheap fellows expect to go to the High School, but they actually want to run the school affairs."
"I suppose that's natural, to some extent," speculated Porter.
"Why?" demanded Bayliss, turning upon the last speaker in amazement.
"Why, the sons of the poorer families are in a majority, nowadays," returned Hudson.
"Say, you're getting almost as bad as Purcell," warned Porter.
"If I am, I apologize, of course," responded Hudson.
"I've no real objection to the sons of poorer men coming to the High School," vouchsafed Paulson, meditatively. "But you know the cream, the finer class of the High School student body, has always centered in the school's athletic teams. And now——-"
"Yes; and now——-" broke in Bayliss harshly.
"Why, these fellows, who are not much more than tolerated in the High School, or ought not to be, make the most noise at the meets of the training squads," continued Paulson.
"And some of 'em," growled Fremont, "actually have the cheek to carry off honors in scholarship, too. Take Dick Prescott, for instance."
"Oh, let the muckers have the scholarship honors, if that's all they want," retorted Bayliss "A gentleman hasn't much need of scholarship, anyway, if he's an all-around, proper fellow in every other respect. But the, gang that call themselves Dick & Co. are a fair sample of the muckers that we have to contend with."
"No," objected Fremont; "they're the very worst of the lot in the High School. Why, look at the advertising those fellows get for themselves. And not one of them of good family."
"Fellows of good, prominent families don't have to advertise themselves," observed Bayliss sagely.
It was plain that by "good" family was meant one of wealth. These young men had little else in the way of a standard.
"It makes me cranky," observed Whitney, "to see the way a lot of the girls seem to notice just such fellows as Prescott, Darrin, Reade, Dalzell—-fellows who, by rights, ought to be through with their schooling and earning wages as respectful grocery clerks or decent shoe salesmen."
"But this talk isn't carrying us anywhere," objected Bayliss. "The question is, what are we going to do with the football problem this year? We don't want to play in the same eleven with the cheap muckers, and have 'em think they're the whole eleven. The call for the football training squad is due to go up some time next week."
"Bert Dodge says——-" interrupted Paulson.
"Yes, Dodge is the fellow I wish we had here with us today," interposedBayliss. "Dodge is the one we ought to listen to."
"Poor Dodge has his own troubles today," murmured Hudson.
"Yes; I know—-poor fellow," nodded Bayliss. "I wish we fellows could help him, but we can't."
"I was talking with Dodge yesterday, before his own troubles broke loose," went on Hudson. "Dodge's idea is that we ought all to keep away when the football squad is called. Then Coach Morton may get an idea of how things are going, and he may see just what he ought to do."
"But suppose the muckers all answer the call in force?" inquiredTrenholm. "What are we to do then?"
"We're to keep out of the squad this year," responded Bayliss promptly. "See here, either we fellows organize the Gridley High School eleven ourselves, and decide who shall play in it, or else we stay out and let the muckers go ahead and pile up a record of lost games this year."
"That's hard on good old Gridley High School," murmured Hudson.
"True," agreed Fremont. "But it'll teach the town, the school authorities, the coach and after this year, that only the prominent fellows in the school should have any voice in athletics. Let the muckers be content with standing behind the side lines and rooting for the real High School crowd."
"Shall we put it to a vote?" asked Bayliss, looking about him.
"Yes!" answered several promptly.
"Then, as I understand it," continued Bayliss, "when the football call goes up, we're all to ignore it. We're to continue to ignore the call, and keep out of the school football squad this year, unless the coach and the Athletics Committee agree that we shall have the naming of the candidates. Is that the general agreement among ourselves?"
"Yes!" came the chorus.
"Any contrary votes?"
Momentary silence reigned in this conclave of "soreheads."
"Yet," continued Bayliss, "we've started training among ourselves.This morning's cross-country is part of our daily training.If we have to refuse the football call, and stay out of the squad,are we to drop our present training?"
"Hardly, I should say," responded Fremont. "I have something to suggest in that line. If we can't go into what is really a gentleman's eleven under the High School colors, I propose that we organize an eleven of our own, and call ourselves simply the Gridley Football Club. We can bring out an eleven that would put things all over any school team that the muckers could organize without our help."
"We wouldn't play the muckers, would we?" demanded Trenholm.
"Certainly not!" retorted Bayliss, with contemptuous emphasis.
"We won't even know that a mucker High School team is on earth," laughed Porter.
"I think we understand the plan well enough, now, don't we?" inquiredBlaisdell, rising.
"We do," nodded Porter. "And we'll all do our full share toward bringing control of High School affairs back to the aristocratic leadership that it once had."
"Hoist our banners, and let them proclaim: 'Down with the muckers!'" laughed Hudson, rolling up the hem of his sweater.
"We want a good, not too fast but steady jog back to town," announcedBayliss.
At the first sign that the "soreheads" were preparing to leave the spot Dick had taken advantage of their noise to slip away. Dave had followed him successfully.
Then, from another hiding place these two prowling juniors, grinning, watched the "soreheads" move away at a loping run.
"We certainly know all we need to about that crowd," mutteredDick, a half-vengeful look in his eyes. "The snobs!"
"Oh, they're cads, all right," assented Dave. "Yet that bunch of fellows contains some of the material that is needed in putting forth the best High School team this year!"
"Humph!" commented Dave disgustedly. "Yet, Dick, I was almost surprised that you would stop and listen, without letting the fellows know you were there."
"It does seem sneaky, at first thought," Prescott admitted, almost shamefacedly.
"Hold on there!" ordered Dave. "I don't believe you'd do a thing like that, Dick Prescott, unless you had an honorable reason for it."
"I did it because the honor of the High School is so precious to me—-to us all," Dick replied. "We want to put forth a winning team, as Gridley High School has always done. Now, these 'soreheads' aim to defeat that by keeping a few of the best players off the eleven. I listened, Dave, because I wanted to know what the trouble was, and just who was making it. Now, I guess I know how to deal with the 'sore-heads.' I'll make them ashamed of themselves."
"How?"
"One thing at a time, Dave. In our excitement we've almost forgotten that we started out to find Theodore Dodge and clear up the mystery of his disappearance."
"The further we go the more mysterious this becomes," mused Dick, as he and Darrin stood together over a clump of faintly-marked footprints, a quarter of an hour later.
"How does the mystery increase?" Darrin inquired.
"For one thing, we don't always find the bootmarks of the men who were with Mr. Dodge. Yet once in a while we do. There are the prints of all three. When Theodore Dodge passed by this way the other two men were with him, or had him in sight. And our course shows that the three were plunging deeper and deeper into the woods. But come along. There must be an end to this, somewhere."
Ten minutes later Prescott and Darrin felt that they had come to the end of the mystery. For the faint trail had led them up a slight, stony slope, and now the two boys lay flat on the ground.
Below them, in a bush-clad hollow, two miles from the world in general, stood a little, old, ramshackle shanty. The location was one that seekers would hardly have found without a trail to lead them to it.
To the door of this shanty a broad-shouldered, rough-looking and powerful fellow of forty had just come. The man, who was poorly clad, wore brogans, and held in his right hand a weighty, ugly-looking club. The fellow was smoking a short-stemmed pipe, and now stood, with his left hand shading his eyes, peering off at the surrounding landscape.
Dick and Dave hugged the ground more closely behind their screen of bushes.
"It's all right, Bill," announced the lookout in the doorway.
"'Course this," growled a voice from the inside. "Too far from the main line o' travel for anyone to be spying around. Besides, no one guesses——-"
"Well, you can go to sleep if ye wanter, Bill. I'm goin' ter sit up and smoke."
With that the brogan-shod man disappeared inside the shanty.Dick and Dave glanced at each other with eager interest.
"I wonder whether they have Mr. Dodge in there with them?" breathedDick, in his ear.
"If Mr. Dodge is in there he's keeping amazingly quiet," Darrin responded doubtingly.
"Within a very few minutes," Prescott rejoined, "I'm going to know whether Mr. Dodge is in that shanty."
"We found his footprint close enough near here," argued Dave.
"Yes, and I feel sure enough that Mr. Dodge is there. But why don't we hear something from him? The whole business is so uncanny that it gives one that creepy feeling."
For a full quarter of an hour the two chums remained hidden, barely stirring. From the shanty, at first, came crooning tones, as though the man in brogans were humming over old songs to himself. Occasionally there was a snore; evidently Bill was drowsing the day away.
"Now, I'm going down there," whispered Dick.
"Look out the big fellow doesn't catch you," warned Darrin. "I've an idea he'd beat you to a pulp if he caught you."
"I'm not as big as he is," admitted Dick, grinning, "but I thinkI might prove as fast as he on my feet."
As Prescott started to steal down into the hollow Dave reached about him, gathering all the fair-sized stones within reach.
"If Dick has to come from there on the rim," soliloquized Darrin, "a few stones hurled at the face of that ugly-looking customer might hold him back for a while. And I used to be called a pretty fair pitcher!"
Prescott, in the meantime, was stealing around the shanty, applying his eyes to some tiny cracks.
At last he turned, making straight and cautiously up the slope.
As he came near, Dick sent Dave a signal that made that latter youth throb with expectancy.
"Yes! We've found Theodore Dodge!" whispered young Prescott eagerly."He's in there, lying on the floor, bound and gagged."
"Whew! And what is Mr. Brogans doing?"
"Sitting on the floors smoking and playing solitaire with a dirty pack of cards. The other rascal, Bill, is sleeping at a great rate."
"What are we going to do now?"
"Dave, are you willing to stay here, hiding and keeping watch on the place?"
"Surely," nodded Darrin, with great promptness.
"If the wretches should try to take Mr. Dodge away from here——-"
"I'll follow 'em, of course."
"And leave a paper trail," nodded Dick.
"Here is all the paper I have in my pockets," he added.
"I have some, too," muttered Dave.
"I'll be back as speedily as I can get help."
"You ought not to be gone more than an hour."
"Not as long as that, I hope. Goodbye, Dave, and look out for yourself."
After going the first hundred yards Dick Prescott let himself out into a loping run, very much like that used by the "soreheads" in getting back to town. With a trained runner the cross-country style of running is suited for getting over long distances at fair speed.
Twenty minutes later young Prescott reached a farm house in which there was a telephone. He asked permission to use the instrument.
"Go right in the parlor, and help yourself," replied the farmer's wife.
As Dick rang on, and stood waiting, transmitter at his ear, he first thought of calling for the police station.
"No, I won't, either," he muttered. "This belongs to my paper.Let them tip off the police. Hello! Give me 'The Blade' office,Gridley, please."
Dick waited patiently a few moments. Then:
"Hullo! 'The Blade?' This is Prescott. Is Mr. Pollock there?He is? Good! Tell him I want to speak with him."
Then Mr. Pollock's voice sounded over the wire.
"Hullo, Prescott! Why aren't you on hand, with that big Dodge story hanging over our heads? Why, it brought me down hours before fore my time."
"Pollock, I've found Dodge," replied Dick Composedly. "At least,Darrin and I——-"
"What's that!" broke in the editor's excited voice. "You've foundDodge? Alive?"
As rapidly as he could young Prescott told the story. Mr. Pollock listened gladly.
"Now, where are you, Prescott?"
Dick told Mr. Pollock the name of the farmer from whose home he was telephoning.
"Just you wait there, Prescott. And, oh!—-pshaw! I came near forgetting to tell you the biggest news of all—-for you. Mrs. Dodge this morning offered a thousand dollars' reward for the finding of her husband, dead or alive. You'll get that reward—-you and Darrin! But I've no more time to talk. Stay right where you are until I reach you."
Nor was it long before Dick, pacing by the farmyard gate, saw an automobile approaching at a lively clip. In it were the chauffeur and Editor Pollock.
The latter waved his hand wildly when he caught sight If his HighSchool reporter.
Right begged this automobile sped another, in which sat Chief Coy, Officer Hemingway and a uniformed policeman, in addition to the chauffeur.
"We didn't lose much time, did we?" hailed Mr. Pollock, as the first auto slowed up "Jump in, quick! Show us the way."
"I suppose there's some excitement down in Gridley, about this time?" laughed Dick, as the two autos raced along once more.
"Not a bit," replied the editor. "And for the very simple reason that no one knows that Dodge has been found."
"His family know it, of course?" queried Dick.
"No; not a word. Chief Coy kept it quiet, and asked me to do the same. He didn't want the Dodge family all stirred up by false hopes in case you had made a mistake. The silence will keep 'The Evening Mail' from learning the news for a while. And I've had our forms left standing. We're all ready to run out an extra —-in case you haven't made a mistake, Prescott," added Mr. Pollock quizzically.
Dick smiled resignedly at this implied doubt. But the autos were making fast time, and soon the machines had gone as far on the way as they could be used.
"Now we'll have to get out and strike across country, through the woods," Prescott called.
So far Dick had resolutely tried to keep out of his mind any thought of that thousand-dollar reward. It sounded too much like "Blood money" to take pay for helping any afflicted family out of its troubles. Besides, it had been the glory of doing a piece of bright newspaper work that had allured the two High School boys at the outset.
"Yet a thousand dollars is—-a thousand dollars!" Dick couldn't help feeling, wistfully, as he piloted his party across fields and through the woods. "A thousand dollars! Five hundred apiece for Dave and me! What a fearful big lot of money! What we could do with it, If we had it! I wonder whether it would be right and decent to take it?"
Then, as he neared the place where he had left his chum on post Dick Prescott found other and anxious thoughts crowding into his mind.
Was Dave Darrin, staunch and reliable Dave—-still there, on post, and unharmed?
Was Theodore Dodge there? Were his captors still with him?
A few minutes later all fears and doubts were dispelled.
Dave Darrin rose to greet the newcomers informing them, in a whisper, that all was still well in the old shanty below.
He of the brogans and club heard a slight noise outside. Swiftly he rose and darted to the door, ready to pounce.
But he beheld the policemen, with the newspaper trio just behind them. More, Chief Coy and his subordinates had their revolvers drawn.
"Howdy, gents?" was Mr. Brogans' greeting as he dropped his club and tried to grin.
"Take care of him, Hemingway," directed Thief Coy, briefly.
"Me?" demanded Brogans, in feigned astonishment. "What haveIdone?"
The noise roused Bill, who sprang up. But Bill must have found the police wonderfully soothing, for he quieted down at once.
Both rascals were taken care of. Then Theodore Dodge was found lying bound and gagged on the floor. A ragged, foul-smelling coat had been substituted for the one that had been left at the river's bank. The banker looked up at the intruders with a stupefied leer, betraying neither alarm or pleasure.
As soon as the two rough-looking fellows had been handcuffed Mr. Dodge was freed, and his tongue also, but Chief Coy, after raising the banker and questioning him, muttered:
"Clean out of his head. Daffy. Must have wandered away fromGridley during a loony streak. He isn't over it yet."
The two rough-looking ones protested loudly against being deprived of their liberty.
"I don't really know that you fellows have done anything," admitted Chief Coy. "But I'm taking you along on suspicion that it was you, and not Mr. Dodge himself, who bound and gagged him."
This retort, given with a great deal of dry sarcasm, silenced the prisoners for the time being.
"We ought to have this out an hour before 'The Evening Mail' people," exulted Editor Pollock. "Prescott, my boy, you're a born reporter! And, Darrin, you're not much behind." "Theodore Dodge found by two "Blade" reporters! That won't sound bad!"
The briefest questioning was enough to show that Theodore Dodge was in no condition to give any account of himself. He did not reply with an intelligible word. His eyes held only a vacant stare. It was as though memory and reason had suddenly snapped within his brain.
"The doctors will want him," commented Chief Coy. "And we can't be hustling back a bit too soon."
It had been a gloomy morning at the home of Banker Dodge.
Through the night, none had slept. Anxiety had kept them all on the rack.
Mrs. Dodge, a thin and nervous woman, had gone from one spell of hysterics into another, as morning neared. A trained nurse had to be sent for.
Then in a calm lull Mrs. Dodge had telephoned for Lawyer Ripley, who lost his breakfast through the speed with which he obeyed the summons of the distracted wife.
As a result of the lawyer's visit the reward of a thousand dollars had been offered.
The house was quiet again. Dr. Bentley, having been called for the third time, had administered an opiate, and Mrs. Dodge was sleeping. The other members of the family tip-toed restlessly about.
Bert Dodge felt in a peculiarly "mean" frame of mind that morning. The young man simply could not remain in one spot. The more he had thought, through and through the night, the more he had become convinced that his father had killed himself because of some entanglement in the bank's affairs.
"And I'll be pointed out as the defaulter's son," thought Bert bitterly. "Oh, why couldn't the guv'nor think of some one besides himself! We'll have to move away from Gridley, of course. But the disgrace will follow us anywhere we may go. Oh, it's awful—-awful! Of course, I'm not in any way to blame. But, oh! What a disgrace!"
It was well along in the forenoon when Bayliss, returning homeward in sweater and running togs, espied Bert's white, wan face near the front door. Bayliss signaled cordially to young Dodge, who, glad of this kindliness at such a time, went down the walk to the gate.
"No news of your father yet, I suppose?" asked Bayliss.
"No," sighed Bert.
"Too bad, old fellow!"
"Yes; the uncertainty is pretty tough on us all," Dodge replied.
"Oh, you'll hear before the day is out, and the news will be all right, too," declared Bayliss, with well-meant cheeriness. "Then you'll be with us on the morning cross-countries again. We missed you a whole lot this morning, Bert."
"Did you?" asked young Dodge, brightening.
"Yes; and, by the way, we've decided on our course—-for our set, you know. We're going to ignore the football call next week. If Coach Morton asks us any questions, then we'll let him know how the land lies. We won't try to make the High School team if the muckers are allowed the same show. We'll have a select crowd on the eleven, this year, or else all of our set will stay off."
"The muckers have some good football men among them, too," grumbled Bert. "Of course for that gang that call themselves Dick & Co we can't any more than make guesses. But some of them would be handy on an eleven I guess."
"Yes; if they were not muckers," agreed Bayliss loftily. "But there are enough of our own kind to make as good an eleven as Gridley High School ever had."
"It's a pity we can't get up our own eleven play the muckers, just once, and beat them out for the right to represent Gridley."
"It wouldn't be so bad an idea. But they might beat us," retorted Bayliss dryly. "So, on the whole, our fellows have decided not to pay any heed whatever to Dick & Co. or any of the other muckers. After this the line must be drawn, at High School, between the gentlemen and the other kind."
"All plans looking in that direction will have my hearty support," pledged Bert Dodge.
"I know it, old fellow."
"It's queer that the question never came up before about the muckers,"Bert mused.
"We never had Dick & Co. in school athletics, until last year," replied Bayliss significantly.
"That fellow, Prescott, is about the worst——-"
Bert Dodge stopped right there. Bayliss, too, started and turned. Around the nearest corner some folks were making a big noise. Then around the corner came two autos, while a crowd raced along on the sidewalks.
"Hurrah! Mr. Dodge is found. Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin found him!" shouted a score of urchins in the crowd.
Bert and Bayliss both gasped. Then the autos slowed up at the curb before the gate. The police prisoners were still in the second car.
Bert took a look, recognized his father, despite the strange look in that parent's face.
"Help them bring my father in, Bayliss!" called young Dodge."I'll run to prepare the folks."
In another moment there was a turmoil of excitement inside the Dodge house. While the excitement was still going on Bert came out to inform the crowd that both his father and mother needed quiet and medical attendance. Bert begged the crowd to go away quietly.
Dick and Dave were standing before the gateway way while EditorPollock answered some of the queries of the crowd.
"Great luck for you fellows, Prescott and Barren!" called some one in the crowd. "You two will know what to do with a thousand dollars' reward!"
Bert Dodge wheeled about like a flash, and facing Dave and Dick, shouted:
"If that's what you two fellows are hanging around here for, you'd better clear out! Take it from me that you fellows will get no thousand dollars, or ten cents, out of our family!"
Mr. Pollock, usually a very calm man, wheeled upon young Dodge.
"My lad, when you find out what Prescott and Darrin have done in the way of rescuing your father, you'll feel wholly ashamed of yourself. I don't believe either young man has given a second thought to the reward."
People in a crowd take sides quickly. Bert heard several muttered remarks from the bystanders that made him flush. Then, choking and angry, he turned and darted for the house.
By this time Mr. Pollock, Dick and Dave were speeding for "The Blade" office.
Already a run had started on the Second National Bank. A crowd filled the counting room and extended out onto the sidewalk. Their depositors, largely small business men and people who ran private check accounts, were frightfully nervous about their money.
Up to noon the bank paid all demands, though the accounts were adjusted slowly, while the crowd grew in numbers outside. At noon the Second National availed itself of its privilege of closing its doors promptly at that hour on Saturday.
Dick Prescott wrote with furious speed at "The Blade" office. In another room Mr. Pollock wrote from the facts supplied by Dave Darrin. In half an hour from the time these three entered the office the "Extra" was out on the street—-fifteen minutes ahead of "The Mail," which latter newspaper contained very little beyond the fact that Mr. Dodge had been found, and that he was now under the care of his family. "The Mail" stated that the discovery had been made by "two High School boys" aiding the police, and did not name either Dick or Dave.
On Monday the bank examiner arrived. He made a quick inspection of the bank's affairs, and pronounced the institution "sound." The run on the bank stopped, and timid depositors began to bring back their money. The members of the Dodge family could once more hold up their heads.
In the meantime Dr. Bentley had called in a specialist. Together the two medical men decided that Theodore Dodge had suffered only from an extreme amount of overwork; that the strain had momentarily unbalanced his mind, and had made the deranged man contemplate drowning himself.
By means of a modified form of the "third degree" Chief Coy, by this time, had succeeded in making the two vagrants confess that they had found Mr. Dodge, with his coat and hat off standing by the bank of the stream. Guessing the banker's condition, and learning his identity, the two men, though they did not confess on this point, had evidently coaxed the banker away to their shanty away off in the heart of the woods. Undoubtedly it had been their plan to keep the banker under their own eyes, with a view of extorting a reward from the missing man's family. The judge of the local court finally decided to send both men away for six months on a charge of vagrancy.
And here the matter seemed to end. Though Lawyer Ripley urged the prompt payment of the offered reward to Prescott and Darrin, Mrs. Dodge, influenced by her son, demurred. At Mr. Pollock's suggestion Dick and Dave promptly drew up and signed a paper releasing the Dodge family from any claim. This paper was also signed by the fathers of the two boys, and forwarded to Lawyer Ripley. That gentleman man returned the paper to Dick, with a statement that he might have something to communicate at a later date.
Tuesday morning, with many secret misgivings, Coach Morton, who was also one of the submasters of the High School, posted the call for the football squad. The call was for three o'clock Thursday afternoon, at the gym.
"Humph!" was the audible and only comment of Bayliss, as he stood before the school bulletin board at recess and read the announcement.
"I guess the day for football here has gone by," observed Porter sneeringly.
"Of interest to ragamuffins only," sneered Paulson, as he turned away to join Fremont of the senior class.
"Listen to the wild enthusiasm over upholding the school's honor in athletics," muttered Dave, scowling darkly.
"We knew it was coming," declared Tom Reade.
Abner Cantwell was still principal at Gridley High School, though that violent-tempered and unpopular pedagogue had been engaged, this year, only as "substitute" principal. There were rumors that Dr. Thornton, the former and much-loved principal, would soon be in sufficiently good health to return. So the Board of Education had left the way clear for dropping Mr. Cantwell at any moment that it might see fit.
Dick & Co. had gathered by themselves on this Tuesday, at recess. They did not discuss the football call, nor its reception by the "soreheads," for they had known what was coming. Just before recess was over, however, there were sudden sounds of a riot around the bulletin board.
"Tear that down!"
"Throw 'em out!"
"Raus mit!"
"The mean cheats!"
There was a surging rush of High School boys for the bulletin board.
Bayliss and Fremont, both of the senior class, who had just posted a new notice, were now trying to push their way through an angry crowd of youngsters that had collected.
"They're no good!"
"A disgrace to the school!"
"Send 'em to Coventry!"
"No! Handle 'em right now!"
There was another rush.
"Get back, you hoodlums!" yelled Bayliss, his face violet with rage.
"I'll crack the head of any fellow that lays hands on me!" stormedFremont.
"Oh, will he? Come on, then, fellows!"
Fremont was caught up as though by a cyclone. Two or three fellows seized him at a time, passing him down the corridor. The last to receive the hapless Fremont propelled him through the main doorway of the school building. Nor was this done with any gentle force, either.
Bayliss, not attempting to fight, was simply hustled along on his feet.
Out of one of the rooms near by rushed Mr. Cantwell, the principal—-or "Prin." as he was known, his face white with the anger that he felt over what he regarded as a most unseemly disturbance.
"Stop this riot, young gentlemen!" commanded the principal sternly.
"Send in the riot call, like you did last year!" piped up a disguised, thin, falsetto voice from the outskirts of the rapidly growing crowd. Quite a lot of the girls had gathered, too, by this time.
The principal turned around, sharply, as some of the girls began to giggle. But Mr. Cantwell was unable to detect the one who had thus taunted him.
Coach Morton peered over the railing of the floor above.
"Mr. Morton!" called the principal.
"Yes, sir."
"Sound the assembling gong, if you please."
Clang! clang! clang!
The din of the gong cut their recess four minutes short, but not one of the excited High School boys regretted it. They had had a chance to express themselves, and now fell in, filing down to the locker rooms, then up the stairs once more to the assembly room. Bayliss and Fremont came in, joining the others. They were white-faced, but strove to carry their heads very high.
The sounding of the gong had stopped the circulating of the paper that had been so angrily torn down from the bulletin board. It was in Dick Prescott's hands now.
The notice had announced the formation of a "select" party for a straw ride for the young men and young women of the junior and senior classes on Thursday afternoon, starting at two-thirty o'clock. Invitations would be issued by the committee, after requests for tickets had been passed upon by that committee. Bayliss, Fremont and Paulson signed the notice of the straw ride.
This was the means by which the "soreheads" chose to announce that they would ignore the football squad call for Thursday.
Wisely, for once, the principal did not choose to question the young men regarding the excitement attending the close of recess. Studies and recitations went on as usual.
But feeling ran high. The "soreheads" and their sympathizers were known, by this time, to all the other young men of the student body. During the rest of the day's session many a "sorehead" found himself being regarded with black or sneering looks.
Of course the self-elected "exclusive" set was not numerously represented in the High School. Most of the boys and girls did not come from well-to-do families. Some who did had refused to have anything to do with the "sorehead" crowd.
The instant that school was dismissed that Tuesday afternoon scores of the more boisterous boys rushed from the building, across the yard, and double-lined the sidewalk leading from the gateway.
"Ugh! ugh! ugh!" they groaned, whenever any of the "soreheads" tried to walk this gauntlet in dignified silence.
"Let's keep out of that, fellows," advised Dick, to his chums, who grouped themselves about him. "Groans and catcalls won't smooth or soothe any hard-feelings."
"I don't blame any of the fellows for what they're doing to the snobs," blazed Dan Dalzell indignantly.
"I don't say that I do, either," Dick replied quietly. "But there may be better ways of teaching fellows that they should stand by their school at all times."
"I'd like to know a better way, then," flared Tom Reade.
"Let's have it, instanter, Dick, if you've got one," begged GregHolmes.
"Yes; out with it, old chap," begged Harry Hazelton.
But Dick Prescott smiled provokingly.
"Perhaps, with the help of some of the rest of you," he replied, "I shall be able to find a way of cooling some hot heads. I hope so, anyway."
"Dick has his plan all fixed, now," Dan whispered, hopefully, to Tom.
"If he has," quoth Reade, under his breath, I wish he'd tell us his scheme."
"Humph!" retorted Dan. "You know Dick Prescott, and you know that he never shoots until he has taken time to aim."
"Oh—-great Scott!" gasped Tom Reade, as he paused at an item in"The Blade" the following morning.
That item had been written by Prescott. There could be no doubt about it in Reade's mind.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom's father.
"Oh, Dick has been paying his respects to a certain clique in the High School, I take it," Tom replied, with a grin. "I heard, yesterday, that he was going to shoot into that crowd. But—-and here's a short editorial on the same subject, too. Wow! Dick has fired into the enemy with both barrels!"
A moment later Tom passed the paper over to his father. Dick's article read:
_There is a possibility that Gridley High School will not be in the front ranks in football this year. Those who know state that a "sorehead" combination has been formed by the young male representatives of some of our wealthier families. These young men, having elected themselves, so it is said, the salt of the earth, or the cream of a new Gridley aristocracy, are going to refuse to play in the football eleven this year.
Even young men who belong to "prominent" families may have some gifts in the way of football ability. Three or four out of the dozen or more "soreheads" are really needed if Gridley High School is to maintain its standing this year. The remainder of the "soreheads" may, with advantage to the High School eleven, be excused from offering themselves.
The "soreheads," it is stated, feel that it would be beneath the dignity of their families for them to play on an eleven which must, in any event, be recruited largely from the sons of the Gridley families less fortunately situated financially.
Strangely enough, though they don't intend to play football this year, these "soreheads" have been training hard of late, one of their practices being the taking of an early morning cross-country run together.
The average young man at the High School is as eager as ever to uphold the town's and the school's honor and dignity on the football gridiron this year. Whether the so-called "soreheads" will reconsider their proposed course of action and throw themselves in with the common lot for the upholding of the Gridley name and the honor of the High School will have been determined within the next few days. It is possible, however, that this little coterie of self-appointed "exclusives" will continue to refuse to cast their lot with the commoner run of High School boys, to whom some of the "soreheads" have referred as "muckers." A Gridley "mucker," it may be stated in passing, is a Gridley boy of poor parents who desires to obtain a decent education and better himself in life._
"Is that article true?" demanded Tom Reade's father.
"Yes, sir," Tom responded. "Dick wouldn't have written it, if it hadn't been. But turn over to the editorial column, and see that other little bit."
The editorial in question referred to the news printed in another column, and stated that this information, if correct, showed a state of affairs at the High School that needed bettering. The editor continued:
If there are in the High School any young snobs who display such a mean and un-American spirit, then the thoughtful reader must conclude that these young men are being unjustly educated at the public expense, for such boys are certain to grow into men who will turn nothing of value back into the community. Such young men, if they really need to study, should be educated at the expense of their families. Both the High School and the community can easily dispense with the presence of snobs and snobbery.
"I guess there'll be some real soreness in some heads this morning," laughed Tom's father.
"Won't there!" ejaculated Tom, and hurried out into the street.It did not take him long to find some of his chums and otherHigh School boys. Those who had not seen "The Blade" read thetwo marked portions eagerly.
Bert Dodge had "The Blade" placed before him by his sister. Bert read with reddening cheeks.
"That's what comes of letting a fellow like Dick Prescott write for the papers," Bert stormed angrily. "That fellow ought to be tarred and feathered!"
"Why don't you suggest it to the 'soreheads'?" asked his sister, quizzically. Grace Dodge was an amiable, democratic, capable girl who had gone through college with honors, and yet had not gained a false impression of the importance conferred by a little wealth.
"Grace, I believe you're laughing at me!" dared the young man exasperatedly.
"No; I'm not laughing. I'm sorry," sighed the young woman. "But I can imagine that a good many are laughing, this morning, and that the number will grow. Bert, dear, do you think any young man can hope to be very highly esteemed when he sets his own importance above the good name and success of his school?"
Bert did not answer, but quit the house moodily. He encountered some of "his own set," but they were not a very cheerful-looking lot that morning. Not one of the "soreheads" could escape the conviction that Dick Prescott held the whip hand of public opinion over them. What none of them appreciated, was the moderation with which young Prescott had wielded his weapon.
Dodge, Bayliss, Paulson and Hudson entered the High School grounds together, that morning, ten minutes before opening time. As the quartette passed, several of the little groups of fellow students ceased their talk and turned away from the four "soreheads." Then, after the quartette had passed, quiet little laughs were heard.
All four mounted the steps of the building with heightening color.
Before the door, talking together, stood Fred Ripley and Purcell, whom the "soreheads" had endeavored to enlist.
"Good morning, Purcell. Morning, Ripley," greeted Bayliss.
Fred and Purcell wheeled about, turning their backs without answering.
Once inside the building the four young fellows looked at each other uneasily.
"Are the fellows trying to send us to coventry?" demanded Dodge.
"Oh, well," muttered Bayliss, "there are enough of us. We can stand it!"
Yet, at recess, the "soreheads" found themselves extremely uncomfortable. None of their fellow-students, among the boys, would notice them. Whenever some of the "soreheads" passed a knot of other boys, low-toned laughs followed. Even many of the girls, it proved, had taken up with the Coventry idea.
"Fellows, come to my place after you've had your luncheons," Bayliss whispered around among his cronies, after school was out for the day. "I—-I guess there are a—-a few things that we want to talk over among ourselves. So come over, and we'll use the carriage house for a meeting place. Maybe we'll organize a club among ourselves, or—-or—-do something that shall shut us out and away from the common herd of this school."
When the dozen or more met in the Bayliss carriage house that afternoon there were some defiant looks, and some anxious ones.
"I don't know how you fellows feel about this business," began Hudson frankly. "But I've had a pretty hot grilling at home by Dad. He asked me if I belonged to the 'sorehead' gang. I answered as evasively as I could. Then dad brought his list down on the table and told me he prayed that I wouldn't go through life with any false notions about my personal dimensions. He told me, rather explosively, that I would never be a bit bigger, in anyone's estimation than I proved myself to be."
"Hot, was he?" asked Bayliss, with a half sneer.
"He started out that way," replied Hudson. "But pretty soon Dad became dignified, and asked me where I had ever gotten the notion that I amounted to any more than any other fellow of the same brain caliber."
"What did you tell him? asked Bert Dodge, frowning.
"I couldn't tell him much," retorted Hudson, smiling wearily. "Dad was primed to do most of the talking. When he stopped for breath mother began."
"It's all that confounded Dick Prescott's doings! It's a shame! It's a piece of anarchy—-that's what it is!" muttered Paulson. "On my way here I passed three men on the street. They looked at me pretty hard, and laughed after I had gone by. Fellows, are we going to allow that mucker, Dick Prescott, to make us by-words in this town?"
"No siree, no!" roared Fremont.
"Good! That's what I like to hear," put in Hudson dryly. "And what are we going to do to stop Dick Prescott and turn public opinion our ways"
"Why——-"
"We——-"
"The way to——-"
"We'll——-"
Several spoke at once, then all came to a full stop. The "soreheads" looked at each other in puzzled silence.
"What are we going to do?" demanded Fremont. "How are we going to hit back at a fellow who has a newspaper that he can use as a club on your head?"
"We might have a piece put in 'The Evening Mail,'" hinted Porter, after a dazed silence. "That's the rival paper."
"Yes!" chimed in Bayliss, eagerly. "We can write a piece and get it put in 'The Mail.' Our piece can say that there has been a tendency, this year, or was believed to be one, to get a rowdyish element of the High School into the High School eleven, and that our move was really a move intended to sustain the past reputation of the Gridley High School for gentlemanly playing in all school sports. That will hit Dick & Co., and a lot of others, and will turn the laugh back on the muckers."
This proposition brought forth several eager cries of approval.
"I see just one flaw in the plan," observed Hudson slowly.
"What is it?" demanded half a dozen at once.
"Why, 'The Evening Mail' is a paper designed to appeal to the more rowdyish element in Gridley politics. 'The Mail's' circulation is about all among the class of people who come nearest to being 'rowdyish.' So I'm pretty certain, fellows, that 'The Mail' wouldn't take up our cause, and hammer our enemies with the word 'rowdy.' 'The Blade' is the paper that circulates among the best people in Gridley."
"And Dick Prescott writes for 'The Blade'!"
A gloomy silence followed, broken by Bayliss's disconsolate query:
"Then, hang it! What can we do?"
And that query stuck hard!
On that fateful Thursday morning every High School boy, and nearly every High School girl saw "The Blade."
The morning paper, however, contained no allusion whatever to the football remarks of the day before.
Instead, there was an article descriptive of the changes to be made out at the High School athletic field this present year, and there were points and "dope" (as the sporting parlance phrases it) concerning the records and rumored new players of other High School elevens that were anxious to meet Gridley on the gridiron this coming season.
Thursday's article was just the kind of a one that was calculated to make every football enthusiast eager to see the season open in full swing.
Again the "soreheads" came to school, and once more they had to pass the silent groups of their fellow students, who stood with heads turned away. The reign of Coventry seemed complete. Never before had any of the "soreheads" understood so thoroughly the meaning of loneliness.
At recess all the talk was of football. None of this talk, however, was heard by the "soreheads." Whenever any of these went near the other groups the talk ceased instantly. There was no comfort in the yard, that morning, for a "sorehead."
When school let out that afternoon, at one o'clock, Bayliss, Fremont, Dodge and their kind scurried off fast. No one offered to stop them. These "exclusive" young men could not get away from the fact that exclusion was freely accorded them.
Fred Ripley, as had been his wont in other years when he was a freshman, walked homeward with Clara Deane.
"Fred, you haven't got yourself mixed up at all with that 'sorehead' crowd, have you?" Miss Deane asked.
"Not much!" replied Fred, with emphasis. "I want to play football this year."
"Will all the 'soreheads' be kept out of the eleven, even if they come to their senses?" Clara inquired.
"Now, really, you'll have to ask me an easier one than that," replied Fred Ripley laughingly.
"I had an idea that all of the fellows whose families are rather comfortably well off might be in the movement—-or the strike or whatever you call it," Clara replied.
"Oh, no; there's a lot of us who haven't gone in with the kickers—-and glad we are of it," Fred replied.
"Still, don't you believe in any importance attaching to the fact that one comes of one of the rather good old families?" asked Clara Deane thoughtfully.
"Why, of course, it's something to be quietly proud of," Fred slowly assented. Then added, with a quick laugh:
"But the events of the last two days show that one should keep his pride buttoned in behind his vest."
As for the "soreheads" themselves, there weren't any more meetings. As soon as they actually began to realize how much amused contempt many of the Gridley, people felt for them, these young men began to feel rather disgusted with themselves.
Across the street, and not far from the gymnasium building, was an apartment house in which two apartments were vacant. Being well acquainted with the agent, Bayliss borrowed the key to one of the apartments. Before half past two that afternoon, Bayliss and Dodge were in hiding, where they could look out through a movable shutter at the gymnasium building.
"There go Prescott, Darrin and Reade," Bayliss soon reported.
"Oh, of course; they'll answer the football call," sniffed Dodge."It was over fellows just like them that the whole trouble started."
"And there's Dalzell, Hazelton and Hanshew. Griffith is just behind them."
"Yes; all muckers," nodded Dodge.
"There's Coach Morton."
"Of course; he has to attend," replied Dodge, coming toward the shuttered window. "But I'll wager old Morton isn't feeling over-happy this afternoon."
"I don't know," grumbled Bayliss. "There he is at the gym. door, shaking hands with Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin, and laughing pretty heartily."
"Laughing to keep his courage up, I reckon," clicked Bert Dodge dryly. "Morton knows he's going to miss a lot of faces that he'd like to see there this year."
Then Dodge took up post at the peephole, while Bayliss stepped back, yawning.
Several more football aspirants neared and entered the gym. The name of each was called off by Bert.
"This is the first year," chuckled Bayliss, "when Gridley hasn't had a chance for a star eleven."
"I'll miss the game, myself, like fury," commented Dodge. "All through last season, when I played on the second eleven, I was looking forward to this year."
"Now, don't you go to getting that streak, and quit us," warned Bayliss quickly. "Our set is going to get up its own eleven; don't forget that! And we're going to play some famous games."
"Sure!" admitted Dodge. But there was a choke in his throat.
Just a few moments later Bert Dodge gave a violent start, then cried out, in a voice husky with emotion:
"Oh, I say, Bayliss, look——-"
"What——-"
"Hudson!"
"What about him?"
"Quick!"
"Well, you ninny,"
"Hudson is going in the——-"
With a cry partly of doubting, partly of rage, Bayliss leaped forward, crowding out Dodge in order to get a better view.
Hudson was actually ascending the gym. steps, and going up as though he meant business.
"He's gone over to—-to—-them!" gasped Bert Dodge.
"The meantraitor!" hissed Bayliss.
Hudson did, indeed, brave it out by going straight on into the gym. As he entered some of the fellows already there glared at him dubiously. But Hudson met the look bravely.
"Hullo!" cried Dick. "There's Hudson!"
Coach Morton heard, from another part of the gym. Turning around, the coach greeted tile reformed 'sorehead' with a nod and a smile. Then some of the fellows spoke to Hudson as that young man moved by them. In a few moments more, Hudson began to feel almost at home among his own High School comrades.
Then Drayne, another 'sorehead,' showed up. He, too, was treated as though nothing had happened. When Trenholm, still another of the "soreheads," looked in at the gym., he appeared very close to being afraid. When he saw Hudson and Drayne there he hastened forward. By and by Grayson came in. At the window across the street Bayliss and Dodge had checked off all four of these "deserters" and "traitors."
"Well, they'll play, anyway—-either on school or on second," muttered Bert, to himself. "Oh, dear! Just think the way things have turned out."
These four deserters from the "soreheads" were all out of that very select crowd who did respond to the football call.
Promptly at three o'clock Coach Morton called for order. Then, after a very few remarks, he called for the names of all who intended to enter the football training squad for this season.
"And let every fellow who thinks he's lazy, or who doesn't like to train hard and obey promptly, keep his name off the list," warned the coach dryly. "I've come to the conclusion that what we need in this squad is Army discipline. We're going to have it this year! Now, young gentlemen, come along with your names—-those of you who really believe you can stand Spartan training."
"I think I might draw the line at having the fox—-or was it a wolf—-gnawing at my entrails, as one Spartan had to take it," laughed one youngster.
"Guess again, or you'd better stay off the squad this year," laughed the coach. "This is going to be a genuinely rough season for all weaklings."
There was a quick making up of the roll.
"Tomorrow afternoon, at three sharp, you'll all report on the athletic field," announced Coach Morton, when he had finished writing down the names. "Any man who fails to show up tomorrow afternoon will have his name promptly expunged from the squad rolls. No excuses will be accepted for failure tomorrow."
There was a crispness about that which some of the fellows didn't like.
"Won't a doctor's certificate of illness go?" asked one fellow laughingly.
"It will go—-not," retorted coach. "Pill-takers and fellows liable to chills aren't wanted on this year's team, anyway. Now, young gentlemen, I'm going to give you a brief talk on the general art of taking care of yourselves, and the art of keeping yourselves in condition."
The talk that followed seemed to Dick Prescott very much like a repetition of what Coach Luce had said to them the winter before, at the commencement of indoor training for baseball.
As he finished talking on health and condition Mr. Morton drew from one of his pockets a bunch of folded papers.
"I am now," he continued, "going to present to each one of you a set of rules, principles, guides—-call them what you will. On this paper each one of you will find laid down rules that should be burned into the memories of all young men who aspire to play football. Do not lose your copies of these rules. Read the rules over again and again. Memorize them! Above all, put every rule into absolute practice."
Then, at a sign, the young men passed before the coach to receive their printed instructions.
"Something new you've gotten up, Mr. Morton?" inquired one of the fellows.
"No," the coach admitted promptly. "These rules aren't original with me. I ran across 'em, and I've had them printed, by authority from the Athletics Committee. I wish I had thought up a set of rules as good."
As fast as they received their copies each member of the squad darted away to read the rules through. This is what each man found on the printed sheet:
"1. Work hard and be alive.2. Work hard and learn the rules.3. Work hard and learn the signals.4. Work hard and keep on the jump.5. Work hard and have a nose for the ball.6. Work hard all the time. Be on speaking terms with the ballevery minute.7. Work hard and control your temper and tongue.8. Work hard and don't quit when you're tackled. Hang onto the ball.9. Work hard and get your man before he gets started. Get himbefore the going gets good.10. Work hard and keep your speed. If you're falling behindyour condition is to blame.11. Work hard and be on the job all the time, a little faster, alittle sandier, a little more rugged than the day before.12. Work hard and keep your eyes and ears open and your head up.13. Work hard and pull alone the man with the ball. This isn't agame of solitaire.14. Work hard and be on time at practice every day. Train faithfully.Get your lessons. Aim to do your part and to make yourself aperfect part of the machine. Be a gentleman. If the combinationis too much for you, turn in your togs and call around duringcroquet season."
"What do you think of that, as expounding the law of football?" smiled coach, looking down over Dave Darrin's shoulder.
"It doesn't take long to read, Mr. Morton And it ought not to take long to memorize these fourteen rules. But to live them, through and through, and up and down—-that's going to take a lot of thought and attention."
To the four ex-"soreheads" not a word had been said about the late unpleasantness, nor was this quartette any longer in Coventry.
Trenholm, Grayson, Drayne and Hudson were the four best football men of the Bayliss-Dodge faction. Now that they were to play with the High School eleven all concerned felt wholly relieved.
As the young men were leaving the gym. that afternoon Coach Morton found a chance to grip Dick's arm and to whisper lightly in his ear:
"Thank you, Prescott."
"For what, Mr. Morton."
"Why, for what you managed to do to hold the school eleven together. That was clever newspaper work, Prescott. And it has helped the school a lot. I'm no longer uneasy about Gridley High School on the gridiron for this season. We'll have a team now!"
With a confident nod the coach strolled away.
As the gym. doors were thrown open the members of the new football squad rushed out with joyous whoops. Some of the more mischievous or spirited actually tackled unsuspicious comrades, toppling their victims over to the ground. That line of tactics resulted in many a "chase" that brought out some remarkably good sprinting talent. Thus the squad dissipated itself like the mist, and soon the grounds near the school were deserted.
Bayliss and Bert Dodge went away to nurse a grievance that nothing seemed to cure.
For these two, now that their strong line of resistance had been broken, found themselves secretly longing, as had the four deserters, for a place in the football squad.
Bert Dodge sulked along to school, alone that Friday morning. Bayliss, however, after a night of wakefulness, had decided to "eat crow."
So, as Dick, Dave and Greg Holmes were strolling along schoolward,Bayliss overhauled them.
"Good morning, fellows," he called, briskly, with an offhand attempt at geniality.
All three of the chums looked up at him, then glanced away again.
"Oh, I say, now, don't keep it up," coaxed Bayliss. "We High School fellows all want to be decent enough friends. And how's the football? I don't suppose the squad is full yet. I—-I half believe I may join and take a little practice."