"It's great," declared Ripley enthusiastically. "But we've got to move quickly, and at the right minute, or we'll be caught. I wouldn't give much for our chances of comfort if we're caught in this thing."
"We won't be, or we ought not to be," Dodge retorted. "But we'd better get home and get our suppers on the jump."
"We can do better than that; we can get a quick meal at one of the restaurants and then jump back on the job."
"Rip, you have a great head sometimes," admitted Bert Dodge.
At a time when every one else was at supper Fred Ripley and Bert Dodge stole back to the scene of the bonfire. After glancing cautiously about, they felt sure that no one was observing them. Then they stole close to the pile of combustibles. For a few moments they worked there, removing lids from tin cans and planting them safely out of sight.
Human nature—-of the American brand, at any rate—-dearly loves a bonfire. By dark that evening some two hundred grown-up and several hundred Gridley boys had congregated on the late ball field.
"Touch it off, some one. There's no use in waiting any longer," urged some of the bystanders. "It's almost dark."
"No, no! Wait!" urged Tom Reade. "The blaze will be all the finer after dark."
"Where's Dick Prescott?" sounded a voice, this being followed by a dinning clamor for the captain of the Centrals.
"Here!" called Dick, when he could make himself heard.