Prescott, nodding, went on with his writing, turning out page after page. Then he rose, placing the sheets on News Editor Bradley’s desk.
“I’m pretty sure you’ll find it all right, Mr. Bradley,” declared Dick. “Now, I must get home, for I’m due in bed in half an hour.”
“Training and newspaper work don’t go well together,” laughed the news editor. “However, your football season will soon be over. This time next year you’ll be through with High School, and I hope you’ll be with us then altogether.”
“I don’t know about that, Mr. Bradley,” smiled Dick, picking up his hat and starting for the door. “But I do know that I like newspaper work mighty well. When a fellow is writing for a paper he seems to be alive all the time, and right up to the minute.”
“That youngster may come to us for a while, after he gets out of High School,” called Mr. Pollock, across the room, after Prescott had, gone out. “But he won’t stay long on a small daily. A youngster with all his hustle is sure to pull out, soon, for one of the big city dailies. The country towns can’t hold ’em.”
Dick went briskly down the street, whistling blithely, as a boy will do when he’s healthy and his conscience is clear.
A block below another boy, betraying the hang-dog spirit only too plainly, turned the corner into Main Street.
It was Phin Drayne, out for one of his night walks. Fearing that he might be insulted, and get into a fight with some one, Drayne had armed himself with one of his father’s canes. The stick had a crook for a handle.
Prescott caught a glimpse of the other boy’s face; then he turned away, hastening on.
“I’m not even worth looking at,” muttered Phin to himself.
Just as Dick went past, Phin seized the cane by the ferule end, and lunged out quickly.
The crook caught neatly around one of Dick’s ankles just as the foot was lifted.
Like a flash Prescott went down. One less nimble, and having had less training, might have been in for a split kneecap. But Dick was too much master of his body and its movements. He went down to his hands, then touched lightly on his knees.
Phin laughed sneeringly as Dick sprang up, unhurt.
“Keep out of my way, after this—you less-than-nothing!” muttered Dick between his teeth. “I don’t want to have to even hit a thing like you!”
“You’ll show good judgment, Mr. Big-head, if you don’t try it,” jeered Drayne, menacing Dick with the cane.
The color came into Dick’s face. Leaping forward, with all the adroitness of the born tackler, he caught that cane, just as it descended, and wrenched it out of Phin Drayne’s cowardly, hand.
Crack! Dick broke it in two across his knee, then tossed the pieces into the street.
“You’ll never be able to do anything better than a sneaky act,” muttered Dick contemptuously, turning to walk on.
With a smothered cry Phin Drayne leaped forward to strike Prescott down from behind.
Dick was around again like a flash, one fist striking up the arm with which the sneak had aimed his blow.
“Stand off, and keep away,” advised Prescott coldly.
“I won’t; I’ll thrash you!” hissed Phin.
There was nothing for Dick to do but put up his guard, which he did with great promptness. Drayne danced around him, seeking a good point at which to close in.
Prescott had no notion of fighting; neither did he propose to take an assault meekly.
“Look out!” yelled Drayne, suddenly rushing in.
“Certainly,” mocked Prescott coolly.
He shot up Phin’s arm as easily as could have been desired. With his right he parried another blow.
“Get out of this, and go about your business,” advised Dick sternly.
“Think I’ll take any orders from you?” snarled Phin. “I’ll—–“
He continued to crowd in, hammering blows. Dick parried, but did not attempt to retaliate. The truth was, he felt secretly sorry for the fellow who had fallen as low as Phin.
But Drayne was no coward physically, when his blood was up. It drove him to fever heat, now, to see how easily the captain of the football team repulsed him.
“I’ll get your wind going, and then I’ll hammer you for fair!” snarled Drayne.
“Mistake there, somewhere,” retorted Dick coolly.
But Drayne was coming in, harder and harder. Dick simply had to do something. So, after he had parried more than a score of blows the young football captain suddenly took a springy step forward, shot up Phin’s guard, and landed a staggering blow on the nose. Phin began to reel. Dick hit him more lightly on the chest, yet with force enough to “follow up” and send to his knees.
“Here, what’s this?” called a voice, and a heavy hand seized Dick by the collar behind, pulling him back.
It was Heathcote Drayne, Phin’s father, a powerful man, who now held Prescott.
Phin was quickly upon his feet and start forward.
From across the street sounded a warning cry, followed by footsteps.
“Now, I’ve got you!” cried Phin exultantly. He struck, and landed, on Dick’s cheek.
“Stop that, Phin!” shouted his father, without letting go of Dick’s collar, however. Phin, however, instead of obeying, aimed another blow, and would have landed, had not another figure bounded in and taken the blow, next hurling Phin back against a brick wall.
It was Len Spencer, “star” reporter of “The Blade,” who had thus interfered. And now Dave Darrin was dancing in front of Heathcote Drayne, ordering:
“Let go of Prescott! What sort of fair play is this?”
“Mind your own business!” ordered Mr. Drayne. “I’m stopping a fight.”
Not an instant did impulsive Darrin waste in arguing the matter. He landed his fist just under Heathcote Drayne’s left eye, causing that Heathcote to let go of Dick in a hurry.
“You young scoundrel!” glared Mr. Drayne, glaring at Dave.
“Opinions may differ as to who the scoundrel is,” retorted Dave unconcernedly. “My own notions of fair play are against holding one of the parties in a fight so that the other may hammer him.”
“I’ll have you arrested for this assault,” stormed Mr. Drayne, applying a handkerchief to the bruised spot under his eye. “Both you and Prescott—your ruffian friend for assaulting my son.
“Go ahead and do it,” retorted Dave. “As it happens, your son did all the assaulting, and Prescott, who didn’t care about fighting with such a thing, only defended himself. We saw it all from across the street, but we didn’t come across to interfere until we had to.”
“I’ll take some of your impudence out of you in the police court,” insisted Mr. Drayne.
“Yes, I would, if I were you,” broke in Len Spencer coolly. “I saw this whole business, too, and I’ll take pleasure in testifying against you both. Mr. Drayne, you didn’t see the start of this thing, and I did. But you, at least, know that your son is a moral leper kicked out of the High School because he was not decent enough to associate with the other students. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets some of his bad qualities from you, sir”
“You’ll sing a different tune in court,” asserted Heathcote Drayne heatedly.
“So will you,” laughed Len Spencer. “By the way, I see a policeman down the street. If you want to prefer a charge, Mr. Drayne, I’ll blow my police whistle and bring the officer here.”
Spencer took a whistle from his pocket, moving it toward his lips.
“Do you want the officer!” challenged the reporter.
But Mr. Drayne began to see the matter in a somewhat different light. He knew much about the nature of his son, and here were two witnesses against him. Besides, one was a trusted staff writer for the local paper, and the whole affair was likely to result in a disagreeable publicity.
“I’ll think this all over before I act,” returned Mr. Drayne stiffly, as he took his son by one arm. “Come along, Phin.”
As the Draynes moved away each held a handkerchief to his face.
“I don’t think much of fighting, and I don’t like to do it,” muttered Darrin, who was beginning to cool down. “But if Heathcote Drayne had had to do more fighting when he was younger he might have known how to train that cub of his to be more of a man.”
CHAPTER VIII
Dick Puts “A Better Man” in His Place
Of course Dick heard no more from the Draynes. He didn’t expect that he would.
Phin, however, was noticed no more on the streets of the little city. Then, in some way, it leaked out that his father had sent him to a military boarding school where the discipline was credited with being very rigid.
“I guess papa has found that his little boy was none too much of an angel,” laughed Dave Darrin when discussing the news with his chums.
The first four games of the season went off successfully for Gridley, though all were hard battles in which only fine leadership and splendid team work by all saved the day.
Two of these games had been played on the home grounds, two away from home. The fifth game of the season was scheduled to be played on the home grounds. The opponent for this game was to be Hallam Heights High School. The Hallam boys were a somewhat aristocratic lot, but not snobbish, and the Gridley young men looked forward to an exciting and pleasant game. It was the first game ever played between Gridley and Hallam Heights. Coach Morton talked about the strangers one rainy afternoon in the gymnasium.
“I believe you’re going to find yourselves up against a hard proposition,” declared coach slowly “These young men attend a High School where no expense is spared. Some of the wealthy men of the town engage the physical director, who is one of the best men in his class. Speight, who was at college with me, is engaged in addition as the football coach. I remember Speight as one of the cleverest and most dangerous men we had at college. He could think up a whole lot of new field tricks overnight. Then again, most of the Hallam Heights boys are young fellows who go away for athletic summers. That is, they are young fellows who do a lot of boating, yachting, riding, tennis, track work, and all the rest of it. They are young fellows who glory in being in training all the year around. Speight writes me that he thinks he has the finest, strongest and most alert boys in the United States.”
“We’ll whip them, just the same,” announced Dick coolly.
“Gridley will, if anyone can—I know that,” agreed Mr. Morton. “You’ve won all four games that you’ve played this season. Hallam Heights has played five games and won them all. The Hallam youngsters are out to capture the record that Gridley has held for some time that of capturing all the games of the season.”
“Bring ’em on!” begged Darrin. “I wish we had ’em here to play just as soon as the rain lets up.”
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking that, because the Hallam boys have rich fathers, they’re dudes, who can’t play on wet ground,” laughed Mr. Morton.
“If Hallam sends forth such terrors,” grinned Dick, rising from the bench on which he had been sitting, “then we must get in trim for ’em. Come on, fellows; some of the light speedy exercises. I’ll work you up to all the speed you can take care of, this afternoon.”
For the next ten minutes Dick was as good as his word. Then, after a brief breathing spell, Prescott ordered his men to the running track in the gallery.
“Three laps at full speed, with a two-minute jog between each speed burst, and a minute of breathing between each kind of running,” called out Dick.
Then, after he had seen the fellows started, he turned to the coach.
“If I never learned anything else from you, Mr. Morton, I think I’ve wholly absorbed the idea that no man is in condition unless he can run well; and that nothing will make for condition like judicious running.”
“As to what you’ve learned from me, Captain Prescott,” replied the coach, “I fully believe that you’ve learned all that I have to teach. I wouldn’t be afraid to go away on a vacation and leave the team in your hands.”
“Him!” smiled Dick. “Without you to back me up, Mr. Morton, I’m afraid some of the fellows might kick over the traces.”
“They wouldn’t kick over but once,” laughed the coach. “The first time any fellow did that you’d drop him from the team. And the fellows know it. I haven’t noticed the young men attempting to frisk you any.”
“One did.”
“I know whom you mean,” replied the submaster, his brow clouding. “But he got out of the team, didn’t he?”
“Yes; but I didn’t put him out.”
“You would have put him off the team if it had been left for you to do it.”
As soon as he thought the squad had had enough exercise to keep them in tone, Dick dismissed them.
“But every one of you do his level best to keep in condition all the time until we get through with Hallam Heights,” urged the young captain. “That applies, too, not only to team members, but to every man in the squad. If the Hallam fellows are swift and terrific, we can’t tell on whom we may have to pounce for substitutes.”
This was to be a mid-week game, taking place Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday morning word reached school that Hudson, who was down to play right guard, and Dan Dalzell, right end, were both at home in bed, threatened with pneumonia. In each case the doctor was hopeful that the attack would be averted, but that didn’t help out the afternoon’s game any.
“Two of our prize men out,” muttered Dick anxiously to Dave at recess.
“And it’s claimed that misfortunes always travel by threes,” returned Darrin, half mournfully.
“Don’t!” shivered Prescott. “Let us off with two misfortunes.”
Afternoon came along, somewhat raw and lowering. Rain might prevent the game. Less than three quarters of the people who bought seats in advance appeared at the grounds. The sale of spot seats was not as brisk by half as it would have been on a pleasanter day.
But the Hallam Heights boys came along early, bounding and full of fun and dash.
They were a fine-looking lot of boys. The Gridley youngsters took to their opponents instantly.
“I wonder what’s keeping Dick?” muttered Dave Darrin, half anxiously, in dressing quarters.
“Anyway, we won’t worry about him until we have to,” nodded Mr. Morton. “Our young captain is about the promptest man, as a rule, in the whole squad.”
“That’s just why I am uneasy,” grunted Dave.
Hardly had he spoken when Dick Prescott came in—but limping slightly!
And what a rueful countenance the young captain of the team displayed!
“Suffering Ebenezer, man, but what has happened?” gasped Dave.
All the other Gridley youngsters stopped half way in their togging to listen for the reply.
“Nothing much,” grunted Dick. “Yet it came near to being too much. A man bumped me, as I was getting on the car, and drove me against the iron dasher. It was all an accident, due to the man’s clumsiness. But it barked my knee a good bit.”
“Let me see you walk about the room,” ordered Coach Morton. He watched closely, as Dick obeyed.
“Sit down, Prescott, and draw the trousers leg off on that side. I want to examine the knee.”
While Mr. Morton went to work the other members of the team crowded about, anxiety written on all their faces.
“Does it hurt more when I press?” asked the submaster keenly. “Ah, I thought so! Prescott, you’re not badly hurt for anything else; but your knee is in no shape to play this afternoon!”
A wail of dismay went up from the team members. The rueful look in Dick’s face deepened.
“I was afraid you’d bar me out,” he confessed. “I never felt so ashamed in my life.”
“It wouldn’t be of any use for you to play, for that knee wouldn’t stand it in any rough smash,” declared the coach, shaking his head solemnly.
“It’s all off with us, then,” groaned one of the fellows. “We may as well ask Hallam if they’ll allow us to hand ’em a score of six to nothing on a platter, and then stay off the field.”
“Hush your croaking, will you?” demanded Dave Darrin angrily, glaring about him. “Is that the Gridley way? Do we ever admit defeat? Whoever croaks had better quit the team altogether.”
Under that rebuke the boy who had ventured the opinion shrank back abashed.
“You’re sure I’ll be in no shape to go on, Coach?” asked Dick anxiously.
“Why, of course you could go on,” replied Mr. Morton. “And you could run about some, too, unless your knee got a good deal stiffer. But you wouldn’t be up to Gridley form.”
“Have I any right to go on, with a knee in this shape?” queried Dick.
“You certainly haven’t,” replied Mr. Morton, with great emphasis.
“Dave,” called the young football chief, “you’re second captain of the team. Get in and get busy. Put up the best fight you can for old Gridley!”
“Aye, that I will,” retorted Dave Darrin, his eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing. “I’ll go in like a pirate chief, and I’ll break the neck of any Gridley man who doesn’t do all there is in him this afternoon.”
“Listen to the fire eater,” laughed Fenton. Dave grinned good-humoredly, but went insistently:
“All right. If any of you fellows think I take less than the best you can possibly do, try it out with me.”
Then Darrin came over to rest a hand on Prescott’s shoulder.
“Dick, you’ll give me any orders you have before we go on, and between the halves, won’t you?”
“Not a word,” replied Dick promptly. “Dave, you can lead as well as ever I have done. If you’re going to be captain to-day you’ll be captain in earnest. I’ll hamper you neither with advice nor orders.”
With so important a player as Dick Prescott out of the team Dave had a hard task in rearranging the eleven. In this he sought direction from Mr. Morton. Rapidly they sketched the new line-up.
Darrin himself would have to drop quarterback and go to center. For this latter post Dave was rather light, but he carried the knack of sturdy assault better than any other man in the team after Prescott.
Tom Reade was called to quarter. Shortly afterwards all the details had been completed.
“As to style, you’ll gather that from the signals,” muttered Darrin. “The only rule is the one we always have—that we can’t be beat and we know we can’t.”
There came a rap at the door. Then a bushy mop of football hair was thrust into the doorway.
“Talking strategy, signals or anything we shouldn’t hear?” asked the pleasant voice of Forsythe, captain of the Hallam Heights boys.
“Not a blessed thing,” returned Dave. “Come in, gentlemen.”
Captain Forsythe, in full field toggery, came in, followed by the members of the visiting team, all as completely attired for work.
“We’re really not intruding?” asked Forsythe, after he had stepped into the room.
“Not the least in the world,” responded Dave heartily. “Mr. Forsythe. let me introduce you to Mr. Morton, our coach, and to Mr. Prescott, the real captain of this tin-pan crowd of pigskin chasers.”
“Oh, I mistook you for Prescott,” replied Forsythe, as he acknowledged the introductions.
“No; I’m Darrin, the pewter-plate second captain—the worst you’ve got to fear to-day,” laughed Dave, as he held out his hand.
“Why—what—-anything happened?” asked Captain Forsythe, looking truly concerned.
“Captain Prescott has had his knee injured, and two of our other crack men are in bed, sick,” replied Mr. Morton cheerfully. “Otherwise we’re all quite well.”
“Your captain and two other good men out?” asked Forsythe in real sympathy. “That doesn’t sound fair, for we came over here prepared to put up the very best we had against you old invincibles. I’m awfully sorry.”
“Captain Forsythe, we all thank you for your sympathy,” Dick answered, “but Captain Darrin can lead at least as well as I can. I believe he can do it better. As for the team that we’re putting in the field to-day, if you can beat it, you could as easily beat anything we could offer at any other time. So, as far as one may, with such courteous opponents as you are, Gridley hurls back its defiance and throws down the battle gage! But play your very best team, Captain Forsythe, and we’ll do our best in return.”
CHAPTER IX
Could Dave Make Good?
Dave Darrin, a good deal disheveled and covered with soil and perspiration on his face and neck, came striding in after time had been called on the first half.
Dave’s generalship had kept Hallam Heights from scoring, but Gridley hadn’t put away any points, either.
“You saw it all from the side lines, Dick?” Dave asked, as the chums, arm in arm, strolled into dressing quarters.
“Yes.”
“What are your instructions for the second half.”
“I haven’t any.”
“Your advice, then?”
“I haven’t any of that, either. Dave, any fellow who can hold those young human cyclones back as you’ve done doesn’t need any pointers in the game.”
“But we simply couldn’t score against them,” muttered Darrin. “So I know there’s something wrong with my leadership. What is it?”
“Nothing whatever, Darrin. It simply means that you’re up against the hardest line to get through that I’ve ever seen Gridley tackle. Why, yesterday I was looking over the record of these Hallam boys, and I find that they’ve already whipped two college second teams. But you’ll get through them in the next Dave, if there’s any human way of doing it. So that’s all I’ve got to say, for I’m not out there on the gridiron, and I can’t see things from the side line the same as you can on the ten-yard line. Perhaps Mr. Morton may have something to offer.”
But the coach hadn’t.
“You’re doing as well as any man of Gridley could do, Darrin,” the submaster assured the young second captain. “Of course, with Prescott at center, and yourself jumping around as quarter-back the team would be stronger. But in Prescott’s enforced absence, I don’t see how you can play any point of the line more forcefully than you’ve been doing.”
But Dave, instead of looking puffed up, replied half dejectedly:
“I was in hopes you could both show me where I’m weak.”
“You’re not weak,” insisted Coach Morton.
“That throws me back on thinking hard for myself,” muttered Darrin.
Where a weaker man would have been pleased with such direct praise Dave felt that he was not doing his duty because he had not been able to lead as brilliantly as Dick had done in earlier games.
“Brute strength isn’t any good against these Hallam fellows,” Darrin told himself, as he returned to the field. “They’re all A-1 athletes. Even if Gridley played a slugging game, it wouldn’t bear these Hallam boys down. As to speed and scientific points, they seem to be our masters. Whatever we do against them, it must be something seldom heard of on the gridiron something that will be so brand new that they can’t get by it.”
Yet twice in the half that followed Gridley barely escaped having to make a safety to save their goal line. Each time, however, Dave wriggled out of it.
When there were but seven minutes left neither team had scored.
Gridley now had the ball for snap-back at its own twenty-five-yard line.
The most that home boosters were hoping for now was that Gridley would be able to hold down the game to no score.
Dave had been thinking deeply. He had just found a chance to mutter orders swiftly.
Fenton, little, wiry and swift, was to-day playing at left end, the position that Dick himself had made famous in the year before.
“Eighteen—three–eleven—seven—nine!” called Tom Reade, crisply.
The first four figures called off the play that Gridley was to make, or to pretend to make. But that nine, capping all at the end, caused a swift flutter in Gridley hearts. For that nine, at the end of the signal, called for a fake play.
Yet the instant that the whistle trilled out its command every Gridley player unlimbered and dashed to the position ordered.
Only three men on the team understood what was contemplated. Coach Morton, from the side lines, had looked puzzled from the moment that he heard the signal.
Dick Prescott, eager for his chum’s success, as well as the team’s, stood as erect as he could beside Mr. Morton, trying to take in the whole field with one wide, sweeping glance.
As Tom Reade caught the ball on its backward snap, he straightened up, tucking the ball under his left arm and making a dash for Gridley’s right end.
Immediately, of course, Hallam rushed its men toward that point.
Yet the movements of Gridley’s right wing puzzled the visitors. For all of Dave’s right flankers dashed forward, making an effective interference.
Surely, reasoned Captain Forsythe, Tom Reade didn’t mean to try to break through by himself with the pigskin.
That much was a correct guess. Tom didn’t intend anything of the sort.
All in a flash Reade, as prearranged, dropped the ball, punting it vigorously.
Up it went, soaring obliquely over Gridley’s left flank and far beyond.
Just a second before the ball itself started, little Fenton had put himself in motion. By the time that the ball was in the air Fenton was past Hallam’s line and scorching down the field.
Now Forsythe and every Hallam man comprehended all in a flash.
Fenton had caught the ball with a nicety that brought wild whoops from the Gridley boosters, now standing on their seats and waving the Gridley colors.
“That little fellow looks like a streak of light,” yelled one Gridley booster.
The description wasn’t a bad one. Fenton was doing some of the finest sprinting conceivable. Before him nothing menaced but big Harlowe, Hallam’s fullback. Harlowe, however, was hurling himself straight in the impetuous way of little Fenton.
It looked like a bump. There could be but one result. Fenton would have to go down to save the ball.
Harlowe reached out to tackle.
Fenton came to a quivering stop, just out of reach. Then, almost instantly, the little left end dashed straight forward again.
But the move had been enough to fool Harlowe. Of course, he assumed that Fenton would spring to one side. Harlowe imagined that it would be a dodge to the left, and Harlowe leaped there to tackle his man.
But Fenton, actually going straight ahead, fooled the calculation of his powerful adversary and got past on the clever trick.
Harlowe dashed after his sly opponent. But Fenton, still almost with his first big breath in his lungs, was running as fast as ever. A man of Harlowe’s size was no one to send after a greased mosquito like Fenton.
So nothing hindered. Amid the wildest, noisiest rooting, Fenton stepped it over Hallam’s now undefended goal line, reached down and pressed the pigskin against the earth for a touchdown.
On the grand stand the noise was deafening. The whistle sounded and the flushed players of both teams came back to range up for the kick from field. Dave, his cheeks glowing, took the kick. He sent a clean one that scored one more point for Gridley.
The cheering and the playing of the band still continued when the two elevens again lined up for play during the last five minutes of the game. The referee was obliged to signal to the leader to stop his musicians.
Forsythe looked hot and weary. His expectation of an easy victory had come to naught. Unless he and ten other Hallam boys could work wonders in five minutes.
But they couldn’t and didn’t. The time keeper brought the game to a close.
“Gridley has handed us six to nothing,” muttered Forsythe, as he led his disheartened fellows from the field. “That puts us with the other second-rate teams in the state.”
“A great lot of orders you needed, didn’t you?” was Captain Dick Prescott’s happy greeting as Dave met him beyond the side lines.
“You won that game for us, just the same,” retorted Dave.
“I?” demanded Dick, in genuine amazement.
“Yes; you, and no one else.”
“How?”
“You refused to give me a hint. You threw me down hard, on my own resources. I saw all those hundreds of people demanding that Gridley win,” retorted Dave. “What could I do? I had to make the fellows do something like what they’ve been doing under Dick Prescott, or confess myself a dub. I couldn’t lean on a word from you, Dick. So you fairly drove me into planning something that would either carry off the game or make us look like chromos of football players. You wouldn’t say a word, Prescott, that would take any of the blame on yourself! So didn’t you force me to win!”
“That’s ingenious, but not convincing,” retorted Dick, as the two chums stepped into dressing quarters. “To tell you the truth, Dave, I think a good many people now believe that you ought to be the regular captain.”
But Darrin only grinned. He knew better.
Some of the fellows tried to praise Fenton to his face.
“Quit! You can’t get away with that,” chuckled the fast little left end. “Some one had to take that ball and drop it behind Hallam’s goal line. I was the one who was ordered to do it. If I hadn’t, what would you fellows have said about me?”
By the time that the Hallam Heights young men were dressed several of them came to the Gridley quarters, Forsythe at their head.
“We want to shake hands,” laughed Forsythe, “and to make sure that you have no hard feelings for what we tried to do to you.”
Dick and Darrin took this in laughing goodfellowship.
“If you call this your dub team to-day,” continued Forsythe, a bit more gloomily, “we shudder to think what would have happened to us had you put in your regular line-up.”
“There isn’t any dub team in Gridley,” spoke Dick quickly. “All of our fellows are trained in the same way, by the same coach, and we stake all our chances on any line-up that’s picked for the day. It was hard on you, gentlemen, that my knee put me out for the day. Darrin is twice as crafty as I am.”
“Oh, Darrin is crafty, all right,” agreed Forsythe cheerfully. “But, somehow, I like him for it.”
On some of the side streets Gridley boys were allowed to light bonfires that evening, and there was general rejoicing of a lively nature. From the news that had come over concerning the Hallam Heights team there had been a good deal of fear that Gridley would, on this day, receive a set-back to its rule of always winning.
CHAPTER X
Leading the Town to Athletics
“Mr. Morton, we want a little word with you.”
“All right—anything to please you,” laughed the submaster, looking at Dick and Dave as they came up to him in the yard at recess.
“We’ve been thinking over a plan,” Dick continued.
“It has something to do with athletics, then!” guessed the submaster.
“Yes, sir,” nodded Dave.
“High School athletics, at that,” continued Mr. Morton.
“There you’re wrong, sir, for once,” smiled Prescott. “Mr. Morton, we’ve been thinking of the High School gym. It’s a big place. Pretty nearly three hundred gymnasts could be drilled there at once.”
“Yes; I know.”
“There’s a fine lot of apparatus there,” went on Dick. “It cost thousands and thousands of dollars to put that gym. in shape.”
“And it’s worth every dollar of the cost,” contended Mr. Morton firmly.
“Mr. Morton,” challenged Dick, “who paid for it?”
“The city government,” replied the submaster.
“Where did the city government get the money?”
“From the citizens, of course.”
“Now, Mr. Morton,” went on Prescott, “how many of the citizens get any direct benefit out of that gym.? Only about a quarter of a thousand of High School students! Couldn’t the city’s money be spent so that a far greater number would have the use of and benefit from the city’s big investment!”
“Why,” replied the submaster, looking puzzled, “the youngsters in the lower schools have their needs provided for, in some way, in their own school buildings.”
“True,” agreed Dick. “But what of the small army of clerks and factory employees of Gridley? Aren’t they citizens, even if they haven’t the time to attend High School? Haven’t our smaller business fry a right to the health and good spirits that come out of gymnastic and athletic work? Haven’t our typewriters, our salesgirls and factory girls a right to some of the good things from the gym.? Aren’t they all citizens, and isn’t the gym. their property as much as it’s anyone else’s!”
“Excellent,” nodded Mr. Morton. “But how do you propose to get them interested in the use of their property, even if the Board of Education will permit it?”
“The willingness of the Board of Education can be dropped out of sight,” argued Dick. “The Board is the servant of the people, and must do what the people want. What Dave and I want to see is to have the High School gym. turned over to the young working people of the city in the evening time. Say, two evenings a week for young men and two evenings for the young women. We believe it will result in big gains for Gridley. When you put new life and brighter blood into the toilers, it increases the wealth of the whole city, doesn’t it?”
“I declare, I think it ought to,” replied Mr. Morton. “But see here, how are two boys—or, let us say, two boys and a submaster—going to bring about any such result as this?”
“By presenting it properly through the leading daily of Gridley,” replied Prescott, with great promptness.
“Have you received any assurance that Mr. Pollock, of ‘The Blade,’ will be for this big scheme of yours?” asked Mr. Morton.
“When we’ve explained it all, I don’t see how he can help being for it,” rejoined Prescott. “If ‘The Blade’ takes hold and booms this idea, day in and day out, it won’t be very long before evening gym. classes will be filled to overflowing. And the Board of Education would have to give way before the pressure.”
Then Dave took hold of the subject for a while, talking with great earnestness. Mr. Morton listened with increasing interest.
“I think, boys, that you’ve hit upon an idea that will be of great service to our city,” remarked the submaster. “Yet what put all this into your heads!”
“Why, sir, it’s our last year at the High School,” replied Dick, smiling though speaking with great earnestness. “After four years of the fine training we’ve had here, Dave and I feel that it’s our place to do something to leave our mark behind. We’ve been talking it all over, and we’ve hit upon this idea. Will you stand by us in it?”
“Why, yes; all that I can, you may be sure. But just what do you boys expect me to be able to do!”
“Why, help us form the plans and back us up in them. You are really the leader in school athletics in this town, Mr. Morton,” explained Prescott. “I can quote you in ‘The Blade’ as to the benefits that would result in giving gym. training to workers who can’t attend High School. And, in the spring, after a winter in the gym., young men and women could form outdoor squads for running and other outside training. Altogether, sir, we think we might make Gridley famous as a place where all who possess any real energy go in to keep it up through public athletics. And such classes of young men and women could have the use of our athletics field.”
By the time that recess was over the submaster certainly had enough thoughts to keep him busy.
That afternoon Dick and Dave took Mr. Morton around to “The Blade” office. Right at the outset Mr. Pollock jumped at the idea.
“Prescott,” he cried, “you’ve sprung a big idea. ‘The Blade’ will feature this idea for days to come. You may have a column, or a column and a half every day, and ‘The Blade’ will also back it up on the editorial page. Now, go ahead and get your stuff in shape. Above all, have interviews with prominent men, especially employers, setting forth the benefit that ought to come to the young people and to the city at large. Take as your keynote the idea that the city’s duty is just as great to provide physical education as it is to supply learning out of textbooks. You’ll know how to go ahead on that line, Prescott.”
By the next day Gridley had something new to talk about. By the time three days had passed the matter was being discussed with great seriousness.
Employers saw, and said that the time young men spent in a gym. would not be spent in billiard rooms or other resorts of a harmful or useless character. Young women who went to the gym. would be home and in bed early, instead of staying up most of the night at a dance. All who entered the gym. classes would begin to think about their bodily condition and plan to improve it. Improved bodies meant a better grade of work and increased pay.
Dick wrote splendidly on the subject. “The Blade,” editorially, gave Dick & Co. full credit for springing the idea. The Board of Education, at its next meeting, authorized the superintendent of schools to throw the High School gym., open evenings for the purpose indicated. It also voted Mr. Morton an increase of pay on condition that he take charge of the evening gym. classes for young men. One of the women teachers was granted a like increase for assuming charge of the evening gym. classes for young women.
Dick Prescott, on behalf of the High School boys, guaranteed that the most skilled in athletics among the High School boys would be on hand to aid in training the young men, and in getting up sports and games for the gym. in winter, and for the athletic field in the spring.
As soon as the classes were opened they were crowded to their utmost capacity. All of the younger portion of Gridley seemed suddenly anxious to go in for athletics.
“Prescott and his well-known comrades of the High School appear to be leading in the very vanguard of athletics this year,” stated “The Blade” editorially.
Dick and his friends could not, however, give as much aid to the new scheme now as they intended to do later. They were in the middle of the football season, and that had to be carried through first of all.
Yet it was a big evening for Dick, Dave and their chums when the High School gym. was thrown open for the forming of the gymnastic class for young men.
Almost three hundred presented themselves for enrollment. Scores of the leading citizens were also on hand to see how the new plan would take. Among these latter was Herr Schimmelpodt, the retired contractor, who was always such an enthusiastic booster for High School athletics.
“I tell you, Bresgott, it vos a fine idea of yours,” cried the big German, as he stood in a corner, looking on, while Dick talked with him. “This vill keep young folks out of drouble, and put dem in health. It vill put Gridley to being twice as good a town, alretty.”
“Hullo, Mr. Schimmelpodt,” called a young clerk, passing in trunks and gym. shoes. “Don’t you get into a squad to-night? This would do you a lot of good.”
“Maype, if I go in for dis sort of thing, I crowd out some young mans who needs it as much as you do,” retorted the German, blinking.
“But don’t you think you need it, also” laughed the clerk?
“Now, led me see,” pondered the German. “Young man, you think you gan run?”
“I know I can,” laughed the clerk, leaping lightly up and down on his soft gym. shoes.
“I yonder if you could reach dot door ofer dere so soon alretty as I gan?” queried Herr Schimmelpodt.
“Will you run me a race?” grinned the clerk.
“Vell, you start, und ve see apout it.”
Tantalizingly, the clerk started. Then he glanced back over his shoulder. There was a great noise on the floor of the gym. Herr Sclhimmelpodt had started. He was so big that he made a good deal of noise when he traveled. But he was going like a streak, and the clerk began to sprint in earnest.
It was all in vain, however. With a few great bounds Herr Schimmelpodt was close enough to reach out one of his big arms and lay hold of the fleeing clerk. That clerk stopped suddenly, with a jolt.
“Vy don’t you go on running, ain’t it?” demanded Herr Schimmelpodt.
A crowd formed about them.
The reason why the clerk didn’t continue his running was a very good one. One of the German’s big hands encircled the clerk’s thin arm like a bracelet of steel. The clerk struggled, but he might as well have tried to break out of irons.
“You vant me to bractise running, so dot I gan catch you, eh?” grunted the German. “You vant me to eat breakfast sawdust for a dyspepsia vot I ain’t got, huh? You vant me to dake breathing eggsercises ven I can dake more air into my lungs, alretty, dan your whole body gan disblace? You vant me to do monkey-tricks mit a dumb-pell, yen I gan do things like dis?”
Suiting the action to the word, Herr Schimmelpodt grasped the clerk by one shoulder and one thigh. Up over his head the German raised the unhappy young man. Herr Schimmelpodt’s arms fell and rose as he “exercised” with the young man for a wand.
Everything in the gym. had stopped. All eyes were on this novel performance. Roars of laughter greeted some new stunts that Herr Schimmelpodt performed with his human wand. The great German was the only one who seemed unconscious of the hurricane of laughter that he was causing.
At last the German put his victim back on the floor.
“Yah, young mans, I am much oblige dot you show me how I need eggsercise. I feel much better alretty.”
Red-faced, the clerk fled to the other side of the room, followed by the laughter of the other gymnasts.
Yet Herr Schimmelpodt’s good-natured performance had great value. It taught many of the young men present how far this generation has fallen behind in matters of personal strength. Mr. Morton had easier sailing after that.
CHAPTER XI
The “King Deed” of Daring
“Yes; that performance helped a lot.”
Herr Schimmelpodt was prevailed upon, by Mr. Morton, to come around on another evening to show some further feats with his great strength.
Around the waist-line the German was flabby; the fat rolled in heavy ridges. Feeling aware of this defect in personal appearance Herr Schimmelpodt determined to devote some of his abundant leisure to getting his belt line into smaller compass. But the German would not do this before all eyes in the public, gym. So he and some other well-to-do business men who were conscious that the years had dealt too generously by them in the matter of flesh, hired a small hall and converted it into a private gym.
It was all the doings of Dick & Co., just the same.
The town was ripe, now, for performances in extraordinary athletics. Fate willed it that there should be a chance.
Once a year an opera company of considerable prominence appeared at Gridley for one evening.
Whenever this evening came around, it was made the occasion for a big time in local society. The women of the well-to-do families turned out in their most dazzling finery.
This year “Lohengrin” was to be sung at the local opera house. Dick could have obtained, at “The Blade” office, free seats for Dave and himself for this Friday night. But they were still in close training, and there was a game on for the afternoon of the day following. For that reason nine o’clock found both of the young men in bed and asleep.
Near the opera house the street was thronged with carriages. Carriage after carriage drove up and discharged its load of handsomely dressed women and their more severely attired escorts. All of Gridley that could attend the opera were in evening dress.
During the evening a half gale of wind sprang up. While all was light and warmth inside, outside the wind howled harder and harder. By the time that the music lovers began to pour out, the blast was furious.
Leaning on the arm of her escort, as her carriage drove up to the door, one beautifully gowned woman stepped out. Over her hair was thrown a black, filmy scarf in which nestled a number of handsome diamonds.
Just as she reached the curb, but before she could step into the waiting carriage, this woman gave a shriek of dismay.
The gale had caught at her diamond-strewn head-covering. Like a flash that costly creation was caught up from her hair and borne on the wind.
Others standing by saw the costly thing whisked obliquely up into the air. It was still ascending on the blast when it passed out of the range of vision.
“O-o-o-oh! My beautiful jeweled scarf!” sobbed the woman hysterically. The crowd quickly formed about her. She was recognized as Mrs. Macey, the wife of a wealthy real estate operator.
“It was careless not to have it fastened more securely, but it’s no use to cry over what can’t be helped now, my dear,” replied her husband. “Get into the carriage and I’ll see if any trace can be found of the scarf.”
Still sobbing, Mrs. Macey was helped into the carriage. Then Mr. Macey enlisted the help of the bystanders.
In every direction the street was searched. The fronts of the buildings opposite were examined; the gratings in the sidewalk were peered through. But there was no trace, anywhere, of the jeweled scarf.
“It will be worth two hundred and fifty dollars for anyone to find it and return it to me,” shouted Mr. Macey. That scattered the searchers more widely still. Presently a woman friend drove home with Mrs. Macey, while her husband remained to push the search. He kept at it until two o’clock in the morning, half a hundred men and boys remaining in the search.
Then Mr. Macey gave it up. The gaudy, foolish trifle was worth about five thousand dollars. As the night wore on Mr. Macey began to have a pessimistic notion that perhaps some one had found the scarf but had been too “thrifty” to turn in such a precious article for so small a reward.
“I guess it may as well be given up,” sighed Mr. Macey, after two in the morning. “I’m going home, anyway.”
The readers of “The Blade” that crisp October morning knew of Mrs. Macey’s loss.
There was much talk about the matter around the town. People who walked downtown early that morning peered into gutters and down through sidewalk gratings. Then, at about seven o’clock a sensation started, and swiftly grew.
One man, glancing skyward, had his attention attracted to something fluttering at the top of the spire of the Methodist church, more than half a block away from the opera house. It was fabric of some sort, and one end fluttered in the breeze, though most of the black material appeared to be wrapped around the tip of the weather vane in which the spire staff terminated.
“That’s the jeweled scarf, I’ll bet a month’s pay!” gasped the discoverer. Then, mindful of the reward, he dashed to the nearest telephone office, asking “central” to ring insistently until an answer came over the Macey wire.
“Hullo, is that you, Mr. Macey?” called the discoverer, a teamster. “Then come straight up to the Methodist church. I’ll be there. I’ve discovered the jeweled scarf.”
“How—how many jewels are left on it?” demanded Mr. Macey.
“Come right up! I’ll tell you all about it when you get here.”
Then the teamster rang off, after giving his name. The real estate man came in a hurry, in a runabout. His wife, pallid and hollow-cheeked, rode in the car with him. To Mr. Macey the teamster pointed out the barely visible bit of black fluttering a hundred and sixty feet above the pavement.
“Now how about the reward, Mr. Macey?” demanded the teamster.
“That will be paid you, if you return the scarf to Mrs. Macey,” replied the real estate man dryly.
The teamster’s jaw dropped. For the uppermost eighteen feet of the spire consisted of a stout flagpole. Below this was the sloping slate roof of the top of the steeple proper. Only a monkey or a “steeplejack” could get up there, and on a day like this, with a half gale still blowing, a steeplejack might be pardoned for declining the task.
Swiftly the news spread, and a great crowd collected. Dave Darrin heard of it right after breakfast, and hurried to get Dick Prescott. Together the chums joined the crowd.
“You’ll have to get a steeplejack for the job, Mr. Macey,” the chums heard one man advise the real estate operator.
Only one was known. His home was some forty miles away. Mr. Macey tried patiently to get the man over the long distance telephone. Some member of the man’s family answered for him. The expert was away, and would not be home, or available, for three days to come at least.
“Never mind, Macey,” laughed the friend, consolingly. “It’ll wait. No one in Gridley will take the scarf. It’s safe up there.”
“Huh! Is it, though?” snorted the real estate man. “At any minute the strong wind may unwind it and send it whirling off over the town. Or the gale may tear it to pieces, scattering the diamonds over a whole block, and not one in ten of the stones would ever be found.”
Mrs. Macey sat in the runabout, a picture of mute misery.
Herr Schimmelpodt elbowed his way through the outskirts of the crowd and stood absorbing his share in the local excitement.
“Ach! I am afraid dere is von thing dot you gan’t do, Bresgott,” smiled the German. “Ach! By chimminy, though, I don’t know yet.”
“I was wondering myself whether I could make a good try at steeple climbing,” laughed Dick eagerly. “The money sounds good to me anyway.”
“No; I don’t know. I think it would be foolish,” replied Herr Schimmelpodt.
“I believe you could get up there, Dick,” muttered Darrin, in a low voice.
“Then you could, Dave.”
“I think I could,” nodded Darrin. “And, by crickets, if you were here, Dick, I’d certainly try it.”
“Try it anyway, then,” urged Prescott.
“Not unless you balk at it,” returned Darrin.
“I’m not going to balk at it,” retorted Dick, flushing just a bit. “But you spoke of it first, Dave, and I think you ought to have first chance at the reward.”
“Tell you what I’ll do,” proposed Darrin, seriously. “We’ll toss for it, and the winner has the try.”
“I’ll go you,” nodded Prescott.
Herr Schimmelpodt, regarding them both seriously, saw that they meant it.
“Boys, boys!” he remonstrated. “Don’t think of it yet!”
“Why not?” asked Dick.
“You would be killed,” remonstrated the big German.
“Is that the best opinion you have of us, after the way you’ve been praising us athletes for two years?” laughed Prescott.
“I’ll toss you for it, Dick,” nudged Dave.
“What’s this?” demanded Mr. Macey.
“Prescott and I are going to toss for it, to see who shall have the first chance to climb the spire and flagstaff,” replied Dave.
“Nonsense! Out of the question,” almost exploded Mr. Macey. “It would be like murder to allow either of you to try. That’s work for a regular steeplejack.”
“Well, what is a steeplejack?” demanded Dick. “He’s a fellow of good muscle and nerve, who can stand being in high places. Either of us could climb a flagpole from down here in the street. Why can’t either of us go up there, just as well, and climb from the steeple roof?”
“Prescott, have you any idea of the strength of the wind up there?” demanded the real estate man. “It’s blowing great guns up there!”
“Get some one to toss the coin, and either you or I call,” insisted Darrin.
Some one told Mrs. Macey what was being proposed.
“Oh, stop them!” she cried, leaning forward from the runabout. “Boys, boys! Don’t do anything wildly rash like that! I’d sooner lose the scarf than have lives risked.”
“She needn’t worry,” sneered some one in the crowd. “The High School dudes are only bluffing. They haven’t either o’ them the sand to do a thing like that.”
Both Prescott and Darrin heard. Both flushed, though that was all the sign they gave.
“Herr Schimmelpodt, you must have a cent,” suggested Dick. “Toss it, will you, and let Darrin call the turn.”
Grumbling a good deal the German produced the required coin. He fingered it nervously, for a moment, then flipped it high in the air.
“Tails!” called Dave.
It came down heads.
“Oh, well, the best two out of three,” insisted Dick.
“That fellow’s nerve is going already,” laughed some one. “He’s anxious for the other fellow to get the honor.”
There was a grim twitching at the corners of prescott’s mouth, but he said nothing.
Again the coin was tossed. This time Dick called:
“Heads!”
He won.
“I’m ready,” announced Dick quietly.
“I congratulate you, old fellow,” murmured Dave eagerly. “And I’m going with you to the base of the flagpole! The last climb is yours you’ve won it!”
CHAPTER XII
The Nerve of the Soldier
Again Mrs. Macey sought to interpose. Her husband, too, was at first against it.
But, now that the die was fairly cast, Herr Schimmelpodt firmly championed the boys.
“Eider von of dem gan do it—easy!” declared the big German. “You don’t know dem boys—-vot? Ach, I do. Dey got der brain, der nerves und der muscle.”
“It’s a crime to let such youths attempt the thing,” shivered an anaemic-looking man in the crowd. “Whichever one goes up that flagstaff will come down again faster. He’ll be killed!”
“Cheer up some more,” advised Herr Schimmelpodt stolidly. “It don’t gost you nottings, anyway. If Dick Bresgott preak his neck soon, I gif him der bulliest funeral dot any boy in Gridley efer hat.”
“But what good—–” began the nervous man tremulously.
“Talk ist cheap,” retorted Herr Schimmelpodt, with a wink, “mid dot’s all I haf to bay for dot funeral. Dick Bresgott ain’t fool enough yet to preak der only neck he has.”
At this a jolly laugh went around, relieving the tension a bit, for there were many in the crowd who had begun to feel mighty serious as soon as they realized that Dick was in earnest.
Some one brought the janitor of the church. A hardware dealer near by came along with two coils of rope, which he thought might be handy.
Mr. Macey went inside with the janitor and the two chums. A score or two more would have followed, but the janitor called to Herr Schimmelpodt to bar the way, which the big German readily did.
Then the four inside began to climb the winding staircase to the bell loft.
“Go slowly, Dick; loaf,” counseled Dave. “Don’t waste a bit of your wind foolishly.”
At the bell loft all four paused to look down at the crowd.
Now up a series of ladders the four were obliged to climb, inside the spire top. This spire top was thirty-six feet above the floor of the bell loft; but eight feet from the top of the spire a window let out upon a narrow iron gallery that ran around the spire.
“I—I don’t believe I’ll step out there,” faltered Mr. Macey, who was stout and apoplectic-looking.
“I don’t blame ye any,” agreed the janitor. “It ain’t just the place, out there, for a man o’ your weight and years.”
“Don’t look down at the street, Dick,” begged Dave.
“Why not?” asked Prescott, deliberately disobeying. “If I couldn’t do that without getting dizzy, it would be foolish to climb the pole.”
“Prescott, you’d better not try it,” protested Mr. Macey. “Just listen to how strong the wind is at this height. I’m afraid you’ll be dashed down to the ground. Gracious! Hear the flagstaff rattle.”
“I expected it,” replied Dick, sitting down, inside the spire top.
“What are you doing?” demanded the real estate man.
“Taking off my shoes,” Dick replied coolly.
“Do you really mean to make the attempt?”
“You don’t think a Gridley boy would back out at this late moment?” queried Dick, in surprise.
“Ye couldn’t stop these younkers, now, by force,” chuckled the janitor.
“I certainly wouldn’t care to try force,” remarked Mr. Macey dryly. “These young men are too well developed.”
Dave was now on the floor, getting off his shoes.
“What are you going to do, old fellow?” asked Prescott.
“Going to follow you as far as the top of the spire,” replied Darrin quietly. “Who knows but I may be able to be of some use?”
Dave stepped out first on the little iron balcony. The crowd below saw him, but at the distance could not make out clearly which boy it was. Then Prescott followed.
“Give me one foot,” called Dave, kneeling and making a cup of his hands.
Dick placed his foot, then started to climb the sloping surface of slate, Darrin aiding.
As Dave straightened to a standing position Dick reached up, getting hold of the base of the flagstaff.
“Hold on there, a minute,” advised Dave, as his chum stood on the little ledge at the top of the spire. “And don’t be foolish enough to look down into the street.”
Dave darted inside, picking up the lighter of the ropes. Going out on the balcony again Darrin tossed one end of the rope to Dick, who made it fast around the flagpole.
Using the rope, Dave went easily up and stood beside Prescott.
“There is a fearful wind here,” muttered Dick, as both swayed while holding to the stout, vibrating mast. “But you can make it, old fellow.”
It had been the original intention in building the church to use this mast as a flag pole. Then some doubt had arisen among the members of the parish. A weather vane had been put at the top of the pole, and the question of connecting flag tackle had been left to be decided at a later date.
Had the flag tackle been there now Dick could have made an easier problem of the ascent; yet, even with the rope, it would have been an undertaking from which most men would have shrunk.
“I’m going to start now,” said Dick very quietly.
“Good luck, Dick, old fellow!” called Dave cheerily. “You’ll get through.”
Darrin still remained standing on top of the spire after Dick had started to climb.
The only way that Prescott could move upward was to wrap arms and legs around the pole.
How the wind swayed, jarred and vibrated it! Once, when ten feet of the ascent had been accomplished, Dick felt his heart fail him.
A momentary impulse, almost of cowardice, swept over him.
Then he steeled himself, and went on and up.
That staff must be more than a mile high, it now seemed to the boy, hanging there in momentary danger of his life.
Dave, standing below, looking up, knew far more torment.
Watching Dick, Darrin began to feel wholly responsible for the whole awful predicament of his chum.
“I urged him on to it,” thought Dave, with a rush of horror that his own peril could not have brought to him. “Oh, I hope the splendid old fellow does make this stunt safely!”
It seemed as though thousands were packed in the street below, every face upturned. The breath of the multitude came short and sharp. Two women and a girl fainted from the strain.
In a window in the building across the street a photographer poised his camera. Behind the shutter was a long-angled lens, fitted for taking pictures at a distance.
Just as Dick Prescott’s arms were within two feet of the weather vane the photographer exposed his plate.
Dick, in the meantime, was moving in a sort of dumb way now. The keenness of his senses had left him. He moved mechanically; he knew what he was after, and he kept on. Yet he seemed largely to have lost the power to realize the danger of his position.
A-a-ah! He was up there now, holding to the weathervane! His legs curled doggedly around the flagstaff. He had need now to use all the strength in his legs, for he must use one hand to disentangle the black scarf, which lay twisted about the vane just over his head. But it was the right scarf. The glint and dazzle of the diamonds was in his eyes.
How the extreme end of that flag pole quivered. It seemed to the boy as though the pole must bend and snap, what with the pressure of the heavy wind and the weight of his body!
Slowly, laboriously, mechanically, like one in a trance, Dick employed his left hand in patiently disentangling the black web from the trap in which it had been caught.
At last the scarf was free. Most cautiously Dick lowered his left hand, tucking the jeweled fabric carefully into the inner pocket of his coat.
“I—I—guess—it safe—in there,” he muttered, hardly realizing that he was saying any thing.
Dave, from below, had looked on, fascinated. Now that he saw the major part of the daring feat accomplished, Darrin did not make the mistake of shouting any advice to his comrade. He knew that any sudden shout might attract Prescott’s attention in a way to cause him to lose his head.
Slowly—oh, so slowly! Dick came down. It seemed as though, at last, he understood his danger to the full and was afraid. The truth was, Prescott realized that, with all the vibrating of the staff in the wind, his muscular power was being sapped out of him.
Dave Darrin was down again, crouching on top of the spire, when Dick reached him.
“Just touch your feet, Dick!” Darrin called coolly. “Then stand holding to the pole until I get down into the balcony.”
Dick obeyed as one who could no longer think for himself.
This done, Dave slipped down the spire’s slope, by the aid of the rope, until his feet touched the balcony’s floor. Now he stood with upturned face and arms uplifted.
“Use the rope and come down, Dick,” hailed. Darrin softly. “I’m here to catch you, if you need it.”
Down came Prescott, holding to the rope, but helped more by Dave’s loyal arms.
“Help Prescott inside, you two,” Dave ordered sharply. Then, after the men inside the spire top had obeyed, Dave swung himself in. He left the rope fastened above, for whoever cared to go and get it.
Mr. Macey, ashen faced and shaking, stared at Dick in a sort of fascination.
“I—I got it,” said Dick, when he could control his voice. “Here it is, safe in my pocket.”
“I forgot to ask,” rejoined Mr. Macey tremulously. “I’m sick of that bauble. Ever since you started aloft, Prescott, I’ve been calling myself all sorts of names for being a party to this thing.”
“Why, it’s all right,” laughed Dick, only a bit brokenly. “It was easy enough—with a fellow like Dave to help.”
“Did he go up the flagstaff, too?” demanded Mr. Macey, opening his eyes wider.
“No,” declared Darrin promptly. “Prescott did it.”
“But good old Dave was right at hand to help,” Dick contended staunchly.
“Get yourselves together, boys. Then we’ll get down out of here,” urged Mr. Macey. “I haven’t done anything, but I feel as though I’d be the one to reel and faint.”
“Take this scarf, now, please,” begged Dick, holding open his coat.
The real estate man looked over the bauble that had placed two manly lives in such desperate jeopardy. The fabric was much torn, but all the precious stones still appeared to be there.
Mr. Macey folded the scarf and placed it in one of his own inner pockets.
“Now, let us get down out of here,” begged the real estate man. “This place is giving me the horrors.”
“You can start ahead, sir,” laughed Dave. “But we want time to put our shoes on.”
Two or three minutes later the four started below, going slowly over the ladder part of the route. When they struck the winding staircase they went a bit more rapidly.
Down in the street it seemed to the watchers as though ages had passed since the two boys had been seen going inside from the iron balcony.
But now, at last, Herr Schimmelpodt heard steps inside, so he threw open the heavy door at once.
As Dick and Dave came out again into the sunlight what a mighty roar of applause and cheering went up.
Then Herr Schimmelpodt, advancing to the edge of the steps, and laying one hand over his heart, bowed profoundly and repeatedly.
That turned the cheering to laughter. The big German held up his right hand for silence.
“Ladies und chentlemen,” shouted Herr Schimmelpodt, as soon as he could make him self heard, “I don’t vant to bose as a hero!”
“That’s all right,” came with a burst of goodhumored laughter. “You’re not!”
“It vos really nottings vot I did,” continued the German, with another bow.
“True for you.”
“Maybe,” continued Herr Schimmelpodt, “you think I vos afraid when I climb dot pole. But I wos not—I pledch you mein vord. It is nottings for me to climb flagpoles. Ven I vos ein poy in Germany I did it efery day. But I will not dake up your time mit idle remarks. I repeat dot I am not ein hero.”
The wily old German had played out his purpose. He had turned the wild cheering, which he knew would have embarrassed Prescott, into a good-natured laugh. He had diverted the first big burst of attention away from the boys, much to the relief of the latter.
But now the crowd bethought itself of the heroes that a crowd always loves. Hundreds pressed about to shake the bands of Prescott and Darrin.
“Get into my car! Stand up in front of Mrs. Macey and myself until we can get out of this crowd,” urged Mr. Macey, bustling the boys toward the runabout.
Mrs. Macey, whitefaced, was crying softly and could not speak. But her husband, with the two boys standing up before him, honked his horn and turned on the power, starting the car slowly. A path was thus made for their escape through the crowd, though the cheering began again.
“Now, you can put us down, if you will, sir,”, suggested Dick, when they had reached the outer edge of the crowd.
“Not yet,” retorted Mr. Macey.
“Why not, sir?”
“You’ve a little trip to make with me yet.”
“Trip?”
“Wait a moment, and you’ll see.”
Less than two minutes later Mr. Macey drove his car up in front of one of the banks and jumped out.
“Come on, boys,” he cried. “I want to get that reward off my mind.”
“You run in, Dick,” proposed Dave, on the sidewalk. “I’ll wait for you.”
“You’ll go with me,” Prescott retorted, “or I won’t stir inside.”
So Darrin followed them into the bank.
“I’m so thankful to see you boys safely out of the scrape,” declared Mr. Macey, inside, “that I’m going to pay the full reward to each of you.”
“No you won’t,” retorted Dick very promptly. “You’ll pay no more than you offered. Dave and I’ll divide that between us.”
“Not a cent for me!” propounded Darrin, with emphasis.
“If you don’t share the reward evenly, I won’t touch a cent of it either, Dave Darrin,” rejoined Dick heatedly.
Dave tried to have his way, but his chum won. Mr. Macey made another effort to double the reward, but was overruled.
So young Prescott received the two hundred and fifty dollars in crisp, new bills, and as promptly turned half of the sum over to his chum.
Now that it was safely over with, it had not been a bad morning’s work!
CHAPTER XIII
Dick Begins To Feel Old
Despite the strain of what they had gone through Dick and Dave led the Gridley boys through a fierce gridiron battle that same afternoon, and won again by a score of 13 to 5.
But the people of Gridley paid little heed to the score that day, or the next. The sensation that Dick and Dave had supplied was the talk of the town, to the exclusion of other topics relating to high School boys.
Mr. Pollock bought a copy of the photograph showing Dick close to the weather vane on his climb. A half-tone cut made from this photograph was printed in “The Blade.”
“This young man is now a member of ‘The Blade’ staff, reporting school and other matters,” ran the comment under the spirited picture. “We believe that Mr. Prescott will continue to be a member of the staff, and to grow with ‘The Blade.'”
“What about that, Dick?” laughed Darrin.
“I’ve told Mr. Pollock and Mr. Bradley that I believe my plans will carry me a good distance away from ‘The Blade’ office after this year,” replied Dick, with a meaning smile. “If they won’t believe me now, perhaps they’ll wake up later.”
The town had not been wanting in croakers at the outset of the football season, who had predicted that Dick Prescott and his chums would “drag down” the football team and its fine traditions from past years.
But the eleven, mainly under Dick and under Dave’s captaincy in two fierce gridiron battles, had gone right along winning games.
The last three battles had been fought out to a successful finish in November. There now remained only the Thanksgiving Day game to complete the season.
By all traditions each football team in the country strives to have its biggest fight take place on Thanksgiving Day. By another tradition, every team seeks to have this game take place on the home grounds.
In the latter respect Gridley lost this year. The game, which was against Fordham High School, was scheduled to take place at Fordham.
Enthusiasm, however, was at top notch. Citizens hired the Gridley Band to go along with the young men and help out on noise. A special train in two sections was chartered, for some seven hundred Gridleyites had voted in favor of an evening dinner on Thanksgiving Day; they were going along to see the game.
Fordham had lost two games, against exceptionally strong teams, earlier in the season, but had of late a fine record. Fordham had dropped several of its original players, putting in heavier or better men, and a new coach had been employed. The Fordham boys were now believed to be able to put up a strenuous game.
“I hope you’re going to win, Prescott,” said Mr. Macey, meeting Dick on the street one afternoon not long before Thanksgiving.
“Have you any doubts, sir?” smiled the captain of the Gridley team.
“Well, you see, Fordham was my native town. I run down there often, and I know a good deal of what’s going on there. Fordham’s second coach has attended the last two games you played, and he has been stealing all your points that he could get.”
“He has, eh?” muttered Prescott. “That’s news to me. Oh, well, it’s legitimate to learn all you can about another team’s play.”
“From the reports Fordham has of your play the young men over in that town are certain that they’re enough better to be able to bring your scalps into camp.”
“Perhaps they’ll do it,” laughed Dick pleasantly. “We’ll admit that we’re about due for a walloping whenever the crowd comes along that can do it.”
“I am only telling you what I hear from Fordham,” continued Mr. Macey.
“And I’m glad you did, sir. We’ll try to turn the laugh on Fordham.”
“Then you think you can beat ’em?”
“No, sir. We never think we can. We always know that we can! That’s the Gridley way—the Gridley spirit. We always win our battles before we go into them, Mr. Macey. We make up our minds that we can’t and won’t be beaten. It isn’t just brag, though. We base all our positiveness on the way that we stick to our training and coaching, and on our discipline. Mr. Macey, this is the third year that I’ve been playing on different Gridley High School teams. I remember a tie game, but no defeats.”
“I guess Fordham will find it a hard enough proposition to down you young men,” remarked Mr. Macey.
“They’re going to discover, sir, that they simply can’t do it. Gridley never goes onto any field to get beaten.”
“Und dot isn’t brag, neider,” broke in a man who had halted to listen. “Ven dese young men pack deir togs to go away, dey pack der winning score in der bag, too. Ach! Don’t I know dot? Don’t I make mineself young vonce more by following dese young athletes about?”
Herr Schimmelpodt looked utterly shocked that anyone should think it possible for another High School eleven to take a game from Gridley.
Dick soon encountered Dave and told him the news he had gleaned from Mr. Macey.
“Been sending their second coach over to watch our play, have they?” laughed Darrin softly. “That seems to show how much they fear us in Fordham.”
“I believe we are going to have a stiff game,” muttered Prescott. “Hallam Heights and Fordham are the only two teams that think enough of the game to hire two coaches.”
“Well, we have Hallam’s scalp dangling down at the gym.,” laughed Dave Darrin.
“And we’ll have Fordham’s in the same way,” predicted Dick confidently.
It barely occurred to the young captain of the team to wonder what it would mean for him if the game to Fordham should be lost. Dick would be the first captain in years who had lost a football game for Gridley. It would be a mean record to take out of High School life. But Dick gave no thought to such a possibility.
“Of course we’re going to wallop Fordham,” he thought. “I wish only one thing. I’d like to see the Fordhams play through a stiff game just once.”
It was too late, however, to give any real thought to this, for Fordham’s next and last game of the season was to be the one with Gridley.
“Are you girls going to the game?” asked Dick, when he and his chum met Laura Bentley and Belle Meade before the post office.
“Haven’t you heard what the girls are doing, Dick?” questioned Laura, looking at him in some surprise.
“I have heard that a lot of the girls are going to the game.”
“Just forty-two of us, to be exact,” Laura continued. “We girls and our chaperons are to have one car in the first section. You see, we’ve arranged to go right along with the team. We have our seats all together at Fordham, too.”
“My, what a lot of noise forty-two girls can make in a moment of enthusiasm!” murmured Dave.
“We can, if you give us any excuse,” advanced Belle.
“Oh, we’ll give you excuse enough. See to it that you keep the noise up to the grade of our playing.”
“Mr. Confident!” teased Belle.
“Why, you know, as well as we do, that we’ll come home with Fordham’s scalp!” retorted, Darrin.
“You’ve heard some of the talk about Fordham’s confidence in winning, haven’t you?” asked Laura, a bit anxiously.
“Yes,” nodded Dick. “But that doesn’t mean anything. You know the Gridley record, the Gridley spirit and confidence.”
“Still,” objected Belle, “one side has to lose, and the Fordham boys have all the stuff ready to light bonfires on Thanksgiving night.”
“Have you any particular friends over in Fordham?” asked Dave Darrin, with a sudden swift, significant look.
“No, I haven’t,” retorted Belle hastily. “And I hope, with all my heart, that Gridley gains the only points that are allowed. Yet, sometimes, so much confidence all the while seems just a bit alarming.”
“I won’t say another word, then, until after the game,” promised Darrin meekly.
“And then—–?”
“Oh, I’ll turn half girl, and say ‘I told you so,'” mimicked Dave good-humoredly.
It would have been hard to find anyone in Gridley who would have said openly that he expected the home boys to be beaten; but there were many who knew that they were more than a bit anxious. Before the game, anyway, Fordham’s brag was just as good as Gridley brag.
“Won’t you be glad, anyway, when the Thanksgiving game is over?” asked Laura.
“Yes, and no,” smiled Prescott seriously. “When I come back from Fordham I shall know that I have captained my last game on a High School team. That tells me that I am getting along in life—that I am growing old, and shall soon have to think of much more serious things. But, honestly, I hate awfully to think of all these grand old High School days coming to an end. I mustn’t think too much about it until after the game. It makes me just a bit blue.”
“Won’t you be captain of the basket ball team this winter?” asked Laura quickly.
“No; I can’t take everything. Hudson will probably head the basket ball team.”
“Why, I heard that you were going in hard for basket ball.”
“So I am. Mr. Morton is so busy, with the new evening training classes, that he has asked me to be second coach to the basket ball crowd. I’ll undoubtedly do that.”
“Oh, then you’ll still be leading the athletic vanguard at the High School,” murmured Laura, and, somehow, there was a note of contentment in her voice.
“I shall be, until I’m through with the High School,” Prescott answered. “But think—just think—how soon that will come around for all of us!”
CHAPTER XIV
Fordham Plays a Slugging Game
For half an hour before the first section of the special pulled out, the Gridley Band played its liveliest tunes. A part of the time the band played accompaniment to the school airs, which the crowd took up with lively spirit.
There is a peculiar enthusiasm which attaches to the Thanksgiving Day game. This is due partly to the extra holiday spirit of the affair. Then, too, there is the high tension that precedes the last game of the season.
With a team that has won every game to that point, yet often with great difficulty, the tension of spirits is even higher.
As the first section of the special rolled in at the railway station the part of the crowd that was “going” began to break up into groups headed for the different parts of the train.
Herr Schimmelpodt went, of course, to the car that carried the team. The boys wouldn’t have been satisfied to start or to travel without him. The big German had come to be the mascot of Gridley High School.
Just before the train started Herr Schimmelpodt waddled out to the rear platform of the car.
In his right hand he brandished a massive cane to which the Gridley High School colors were secured.
“Now, listen,” he bellowed out. “Ve come back our scalps not wigs! You hear dot, alretty?”
While the cheering was still going on, and while the band was crashing out music, the first section pulled out, making room for the second section.
A run of a little more than an hour at good speed, and with no way stops, brought the Gridley invading forces to Fordham.
At the depot, the local team’s second coach awaited the players. He had two stages at hand, into which the team and subs piled. A wagon followed, carrying the kits of the Gridley boys. There were two more stages for the band. All the other travelers had to depend on the street-car service.
Finding the stages rather crowded, Dick nudged Darrin, then made for the kit wagon.
“I really believe we’ll have more comfort, Dave,” proposed Prescott, “if we get aboard, this rig and ride on top of the tog bags.”
The suggestion was carried out at once.
“I’ll drive along fast, if you want,” proposed the driver, “and get the togs down to the grounds ahead of your team.”