"Oh, we'll have our eleven somehow," insisted Dave positively.
"How about our uniforms?" Tom Reade wanted to know.
"We'll have them, too," asserted Dick. "I don't know just how we'll do it, but we'll manage."
Dick Prescott and his chums were in much better spirits after that brief consultation. Then they separated, each going to his home for supper.
Dick's father and mother were proprietors of the most popular bookstore in Gridley. It stood on one of the side streets, just a little way down from Main Street. Over the store were the living rooms of the family. Dick was an only child.
After stowing away such an evening meal as only a healthy boy knows how to take care of, Dick reached for his cap.
"I'm going out to meet the fellows, mother, if you don't mind," said young Prescott.
"I'm sorry to say that there's just one matter that will delay you for perhaps twenty minutes," replied Mrs. Prescott. "Mrs. Davis was in and ordered some books this afternoon. She wants them delivered this evening, so I said I'd send you around with them. That won't bother you much, will it?"
"Not so much but that I'll get over it," laughed the boy. "Maybe I'll pick up one or two of the fellows, anyway."
"Richard, I'd rather you'd deliver the books before you meet any of your friends," urged Mrs. Prescott. "The books are worth about ten dollars, and if you have some of your friends along you may begin skylarking, and some of the books may get damaged."