"Yes," sheepishly admitted the other.
"Put it in your bag, then, and let it go on the baggage wagon. Fellows, we'll fight with nothing but fists, and only then if we're attacked."
"But those scoundrels will probably use brickbats," argued the fellow who had tried to drop the spiked shoe into his overcoat pocket.
"No matter," rang Dick's voice, low but commanding. "If we have to, we'll fight for our lives as we fought for the game—-on the square! Good citizens don't carry concealed weapons until called upon by the authorities to do it."
"Bully for you, Prescott!" rang the voice of the coach.
"You here, Mr. Morton?" cried Dick, wheeling and seeking the submaster. "Mr. Morton, you're not a boy, and you don't want to be mixed up in such affairs. Why don't you start——-"
"My place, Captain Prescott, is with the team I'm coaching," replied the submaster. "And I think the signs are that we're going to need all the pairs of fists that we have, and, more, too."
The baggage wagon came to the door. Dick, Dave and Tom coolly loaded the baggage on. The wagon started off at good speed.
Then the two stages drove up to the door.
"Pile in, boys!" called one of the drivers.