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DICK RANDALL

DICK RANDALL

THE YOUNG ATHLETE

BY

ELLERY H. CLARK

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

WALTER BIGGS

INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT 1910
The Bobbs-Merrill Company

PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.

TO MY NEPHEWS
WELD ARNOLD
AND
ALLEN WILLIAMS CLARK

CONTENTS

DICK RANDALL

DICK RANDALL

CHAPTER I

[THE NEW BOY]

Fall term at Fenton Academy had begun. Dick Randall came slowly down the dormitory steps, then stopped and stood hesitating, as if doubtful which way to turn. Uncertainty, indeed, was uppermost in his mind. He felt confused and out of place in his new surroundings, like a stranger in a strange land.

The day was dark and gloomy. The sky was overcast, and the afternoon sun shone halfheartedly from behind the clouds. A fresh breeze bent the trees in the quadrangle, scattering a shower of leaves about the yard. In spite of himself, Dick felt his spirits flag. 'A' thousand miles lay between him and home; and except for a few brief visits, made close at hand, this was his first real venture into the world. Unaccustomed to the change, unacquainted with his classmates, with the steady routine of work and play not yet begun, he was wretchedly homesick; and strive as he would, he could not keep his thoughts, for five minutes together, from his father and mother, and the white-walled farm-house on the slope of the mountain, looking down over the valley and the meadowland below. He felt ashamed and disgusted with himself, for he was no longer a "kid"; he was almost seventeen, and big and strong for his age; and yet, fight it as he might, the longing for home would not down.

Thus he stood dreaming, gazing unseeingly across the yard, until presently, with a start, he came to himself. A friendly hand smote him between the shoulder-blades, a friendly arm was drawn through his, and he turned to meet the somewhat quizzical glance of his classmate and next-door neighbor in the dormitory--Harry Allen.

Instinctively Dick smiled. He had sat next to Allen at supper the night before and had taken a liking to him from the start. Allen had chattered away steadily, all through the meal, yet his talk had been unaffected, entertaining, and wholly free from any effort at "trying to be funny" or "showing off." He was Randall's opposite in every way--as slight and frail as Dick was big and broad-shouldered, as light as Dick was dark, and apparently, at the present moment, as cheerful as Dick was depressed. "Well, Randall," he asked, "what you got on your mind? Composing a speech?"

Dick flushed a little. "No, nothing like that," he answered; "I don't know just what I was doing. Just thinking, I guess. You see--"

Allen interrupted him. "Oh, I know," he said; "I've been through it, all right. You can bet on that. Don't I remember the first day I came? Golly, I should say I did. Talk about a cat in a strange garret. Well, that was little me. Don't worry, though. Just about three days, and you'll think you've lived here all your life. It's a dandy school. You'll find that out for yourself. And Mr. Fenton! Well, if there's a better master in the state, I'd like to see him. Teach! I guess he can. Languages, you know--that's his branch. He's got Latin and Greek down fine. And English! Why, they say his English course is the best thing outside of college. He starts away back with Chaucer--'well of English undefyled,'--Spenser, you know, Faerie Queene--and he brings us right down to Robert Louis Stevenson. Oh, it's great! No fellow from this school has flunked English for ten years. How's that? Going some?"

He paused, a little out of breath. Dick smiled, finding something humorous in the contrast between his classmate's breezy speech, and the "English undefyled," for which his liking was so evidently sincere. Yet he found Allen's talk acting on him like magic, and by the time they had reached the end of the yard, his gloomy thoughts were forgotten, and he was himself once more.

To the left, they could see the boat-house, and the faint blue of the river, just showing through the trees; to the right lay the athletic field, and it was toward the track that Allen turned.

"Come on," he said; "let's walk down and watch Dave Ellis. He's going to try the Pentathlon. He's been training for it all summer. You met him last night, didn't you?"

Dick nodded. "Yes, I met him," he answered. He had sat opposite Ellis at table, and had admired his rangy and powerful build. Yet something, too, in his manner, had repelled him as well; Ellis had seemed a little patronizing, with a trifle too much of the "Conquering Hero" about him. So that now Dick hesitated for a moment, and then asked, "Say, Allen, if it's a proper question, what sort of fellow is Ellis? Doesn't he seem pretty--well, I don't know just what word I want--pretty--cocksure of himself, somehow?"

Allen did not answer at once, and when at length he did so, it was in rather a guarded tone. "Well, you see, Randall," he replied, "I don't believe I'd better say anything. Dave's a candidate for class president next spring, and he's pretty sure to get it, too. Only--some of the fellows have been sounding me to see if I cared to run, and if I should, why, I wouldn't want you to think, from anything I said--"

Randall's face was scarlet with embarrassment. "Excuse me, Allen," he cried, "I didn't know. I didn't mean--"

Allen hastened to reassure him. "Of course you didn't," He said; "that's all right, Randall. I only thought I'd let you know. And as far as that goes, there's really no reason why I shouldn't say what I think about Dave, if you'll give me credit for being fair about it, and won't think I'm trying to work any electioneering games. Here's just what I think about him. I think Dave's a good fellow. And he's certainly a remarkable athlete--one of the best, I guess, that we've ever had in the school. All I don't like about him is, that he hasn't much school spirit; I think he's for Dave Ellis first, and the school afterward. But still he's all right, you know. He's a good enough sort of fellow in most ways. One thing, though, he's got to look out for. And that's his studies. He had a close shave getting by last year, and I don't believe he's opened a book since school closed. Oh, Dave's all right, but you'll find he's a good deal bigger man outside the lecture room than he is in."

Dick nodded. "I see," he answered; "and I'm much obliged, Allen, for telling me about the election. I won't go putting my foot in it again, in a hurry. I'll know enough after this to keep my mouth shut, till I begin to get the hang of things. Ellis must be a dandy athlete, though. I never saw a better built fellow in my life."

Allen was quick to assent. "Oh, he is," he answered. "He's a corker. He's six feet one, and weighs a hundred and eighty pounds. He's awfully good on the track, and he pulls a fair oar, and I guess he's the best full-back we ever had in the school. Was the best fullback, I mean. You knew we'd cut out football, didn't you?"

"Yes," Dick answered, "I heard about it. Was a fellow really killed, Allen?"

His companion nodded. "Yes, Faulkner, of Hopevale," he said. "It happened in the Clinton game. It was an awfully sad thing, too. His whole family had come on to see the match. It happened in a scrimmage. He was picked up unconscious. But no one thought it was really anything serious. They took him to the infirmary; pretty soon he was in a fever; went out of his head; and two days later he died. Injured internally, the doctors said. So of course we cut out foot-ball, and I'm glad of it, too."

Dick drew a long breath. "That was tough!" he exclaimed. "Think how his father and mother must have felt! And the master at Hopevale, too. I suppose he considered himself somehow to blame, though of course he wasn't, really."

Allen shook his head. "No, of course it wasn't his fault," he answered. "It was just one of those things no one could foresee. But I'm glad they've stopped it, anyway. So now Dave's going to put all his time into the track, because, you see, with foot-ball off the list, it makes the Pentathlon more important than ever. This spring is going to decide who wins the cup, and the way things look now, the Pentathlon may settle the whole business. They've got a dandy Pentathlon man over at Clinton--a fellow named Johnson--he won it last year, and broke the record--made two hundred and eighty points--so if Dave could beat him, it would be great for us, all right. I guess we can tell something from what he does to-day."

They walked on for a few moments in silence; then Dick, with sudden resolve, turned squarely to his friend. "Look here, Allen," he said, "I know you'll think I'm greener than grass, but I read somewhere, once on a time, that if a fellow didn't understand a thing, he might as well own up to it, or else he'd never learn at all. And that's what I'm going to do now. I'm not up to date on school affairs. I don't even know what cup you're talking about. And I don't know what you mean by the Pentathlon. I suppose it's got something to do with athletics, but if you hadn't said anything about it, it might be something to eat, for all I'd know. So if you don't mind, I wish you'd explain things to me, and then, perhaps, I won't feel quite so much like a fool as I do now."

Allen laughed. "Heavens," he said, "it isn't your fault, Randall; it's mine. Here I go rattling on about everything, as if you'd been in the school as many years as I have. No wonder I've got you mixed. Well, now, let's see; I'll begin with the cup. No, I won't either; I'll begin at the beginning; and that's with Mr. Fenton. Do you know anything about what he did in college?"

Dick shook his head. "No, I don't," he answered humbly. "I told you I was green. We don't know much about athletics out our way. Unless plowing, and getting in hay, and chopping wood count for anything. If they do, we might have a show."

Allen laughed again. "Well, they ought to, all right," he answered. "What a bully idea for a Pentathlon! I'm going to speak to Mr. Fenton about it. People couldn't say athletics were a waste of time then. Well, to come back to him. He was a hummer when he was in college. He was awfully popular, and he stood away up in his class, and they say, in athletics, there wasn't anything he couldn't do. They wanted him for the crew, and they wanted him on the nine, but he wouldn't do either. I guess he didn't have any too much money then, and he told them, straight out, that he'd come to college to work, and not for athletics. He wasn't a crank, though; he took his exercise every day, only he didn't waste any time over it. And finally the trainer of the track team spotted him and got him to come out for the jumps. Golly, but he surprised them. He never seemed to take such a lot of pains about it, but I guess he was what they call a natural jumper. Anyway, before he got through, he did six feet in the high, and twenty-three two and a half in the broad. Perhaps that didn't hold them for a while. So you can see he's a good man to be master of a school. He's been through the thing himself, and he's got this whole athletic business down fine.

"I remember the talk he had with me when I first came to the school; it made me take a shine to him right away. He doesn't lecture you, you know, as if you were a kid; he talks to you just as if you were grown up, and knew as much as he did; maybe more. Well, first of all, he told me he didn't think any school could succeed where the master and the boys weren't in harmony; and then he went ahead and gave me his ideas on athletics. He said he liked them, and approved of them, and meant to do all he could to encourage them--but that he was going to keep them in their place. He said athletics were to help out lessons, and not to hinder them; and that there wasn't any need of any conflict between the two. But if there was a conflict, he said--if a fellow got so crazy over athletics that he couldn't study--then the athletics would have to go. And if that made the fellow feel so bad that even then he couldn't study--or wouldn't study--why, then it would be the fellow himself that would have to go. But he meant that more for a joke, I guess; nothing like that's ever happened since he started the school. It's a pretty pig-headed fellow that can't get along with Mr. Fenton. He's got a great way with him, somehow or other; I don't know just how he does it, but he gets lots of fellows interested in studying that you'd think were too lazy even to want to learn the alphabet straight. Oh, I tell you, Randall, he's all right."

Dick nodded. "I'll bet he is," he answered with enthusiasm. He was beginning to feel the genuine esprit de corps; was realizing, for the first time, that a school might be something more than a place where one came merely to "do" one's lessons, and to learn enough to enter college in safety. "Yes," he went on, "that sounds mighty sensible to me. And as you say, Allen, where a man's been an athlete himself, and a scholar, too, why, you can't help feeling a respect for what he thinks about things. I can understand, though, about fellows getting too much interested in athletics. I can see right now where I've got to look out for that, myself. You've seen such a lot of it here that you don't realize how it takes hold of a fellow that's never had any show to go into them. I feel as if I'd like to try everything in sight, if I didn't remember that my father's had to work good and hard to send me here. And he wouldn't care much for cups and medals, I guess. 'Book-learning,' that's what he wants to see me get. Still, I suppose there's time for studying and athletics, too, if a fellow goes at it right."

Allen nodded. "Oh, sure there is," he answered. "And don't get the idea, from what I said, that Mr. Fenton's a crank about it, or that he's the preachy kind, because he isn't. He's keen on physical culture, you know. A fellow's got to take his exercise every day, whether he's a star athlete like Dave, or the worst grind that ever wanted to swallow a Greek dictionary, roots and all. Oh, Mr. Fenton likes exercise, only, as he says, there's a happy medium everywhere--in athletics, just as in everything else. He doesn't want the fellows to underdo; and he doesn't want them to overdo; and he keeps an eye on every boy in the school. He takes just as much pride in having the fellows in good shape physically as he does in having them go into college with honors; and I tell you we don't have much sickness around here. So you needn't worry about exercise; there's no reason why you can't try anything you want. And I should think, to look at you, Randall, you'd make a crack-a-jack at something. How much do you weigh? A hundred and sixty?"

His companion's build, indeed, fully justified his admiration. Randall was strong and sturdy, from much hard work in the open, absolutely healthy, and as rugged and active as a young colt. It was small wonder that Allen, himself a member of the track team, looked him over with an appreciative eye.

Dick flushed with pleasure. "I weigh a little more than that," he answered. "About a hundred and sixty-eight, I guess. That's nothing, though. Think of Ellis."

"Oh, well," returned Allen, "weight isn't everything." Then added, with a smile, "You wouldn't think, to look at me, Randall, that I had any pretensions to being an athlete, now would you? As the song says, 'I'm as thin as the paper on the wall.' I hardly disturb the scales when I weigh myself."

Dick looked at him. "Why, I don't know," he answered frankly, and half-doubtfully, "but I should think, somehow, you look as though you could run pretty well."

Allen laughed. "Good guesser," he rejoined. "You've hit it, first crack. I don't mean, of course, that I'm any good, but running's the only thing I can do anywhere near well. It took a lot of hard work, too. I was certainly a lemon when I started in. But last year I won the quarter in the school games, and I got third in the big meet. So I won my 'F', and that makes a fellow feel good, you know. Shows he's done something for the school."

Dick looked puzzled. "Won your 'F'?" he questioned. "What does that mean, Allen?"

"Why," answered his friend, "if you make the crew, or the nine, or the track team, you get an athletic suit and a sweater. And on the shirt and the sweater there's a big 'F', and a little 'A' on each side of it. A. F. A.--Fenton Athletic Association. The crew fellows get a white sweater, with the letters in red; the nine have gray sweaters, with red letters; and the track team have red sweaters, with the letters in white. And if you're on a winning crew, or a winning nine, you can rip off the 'A. A.' from your sweater, and that leaves just the big 'F', and shows you're a point winner for the school. With the track team, it's a little different, because there it's more a case of every fellow for himself. You can't have the same kind of team work that you can with the nine and the crew. So when the big meet comes for the cup, no matter whether the school wins or not, if you get first, second or third in your event, then you're a point winner, and you've got a right to your 'F'. Now, do you see?"

Dick nodded. "Sure," he answered, "I've got that all straight; but now there's another thing I don't understand. What's the big meet? And what's the cup? You were going to tell me about the cup when we started, and then we got switched off on to something else."

Allen smiled. "I guess 'something else' was Mr. Fenton," he said. "I'm pretty apt to talk people to death about him. I think he's a corker, and I don't mind saying so. I'd rather have him think I was all right than win my 'F,' ten times over, and that's putting it pretty strong, too. Well, about the cup. That's a cinch to explain. It's just like this. There are three schools, you see, right around here, in a kind of ten-mile triangle. There's Clinton Academy and Hopevale and ourselves. We've always had some sort of league with one another, in all kinds of athletics, ever since the schools started, but six or seven years ago the masters and some of the graduates got together, and put things right on a systematic basis. Some rich old chap in New York, who was a graduate of Hopevale, and had a couple of boys in the school, donated a cup--a perfect peach--to be competed for every year until one school won it three times and then it was to be theirs for good. They put five sports on the schedule: foot-ball, base-ball, track and crew, which counted three points each; and the Pentathlon, which counted one. The school that won the most out of those thirteen points held the cup for that year.

"Well, Hopevale made a great start. They had some dandy athletes in the school then--some folks were mean enough to say that was why the old fellow in New York gave the cup--but anyway, however that was, they won, hands down, for two years running. The next year they thought there was nothing to it--they thought they couldn't lose--and I guess they eased up a little, and didn't train quite so hard as they did the other years. Well, they got a surprise all right, for Clinton beat them out. They made six points that year, to four for Hopevale, and three for us. And then, the year after that, Dave Ellis entered school, and we had our turn. We got so, with Dave at full-back, we never thought about the three points in foot-ball at all--we figured them just like money in the bank--all we used to wonder about, was how big the score was going to be. And then, in the spring sports, we had Mansfield pitching on the nine, and Harrison stroking the crew, and of course Dave came in strong again on the track. Oh, we had things easy for the next two years. The second year we won all thirteen points--made a clean sweep of everything. So we began to get cocky--same as Hopevale--but we never let up, you can bet; we worked as though we thought we hadn't a show, unless we kept on doing our darndest.

"And then of course everything had to go wrong. Mansfield graduated that year, and Harrison's father died, and he had to leave school; and then this fellow Johnson came to Clinton, and he was certainly a find. He and Dave had it out, hammer and tongs, in the track meet, and again in the Pentathlon, and Johnson had the best of it both times. And Clinton beat us by four points, and evened things up again. So you can see what a scrap it's been, right from the start--it couldn't very well have been closer--and you can imagine what it's going to be next spring. Each school has won the cup twice, so of course this time's got to settle it. Clinton has it all figured out that they're going to win. They give us the crew, and Hopevale the base-ball, but they say that with Johnson right they're sure to take the track meet, and the Pentathlon, too. But of course no one can tell as far ahead as that--it's foolish to try. Still, that's a pretty good prediction, I think myself, unless Dave can show an improvement over last year on the track. He says he can--he says he's been training all summer, and that he's in the shape of his life.

"I know what he's figuring on. If the three schools should be tied, and it should all hang on the Pentathlon, why, the fellow who won that would be a regular tin god, you know; he'd go down in the history of the school like George Washington in the history of the country. And Dave wouldn't mind being that fellow a little bit. Not that I'm trying to knock him, you understand. That's a good, legitimate ambition. I'd like to be the fellow myself; only I need a hundred pounds of weight, more or less, and about a foot more height, before I'd fit in the Pentathlon. And there's another reason for Dave's practising, too; he wants to get back at Johnson. Dave can't take a licking, you know; he isn't used to it, and it hurts. He claims he's going to square up this spring, but I'm not so sure. Johnson's an awfully good man, and the Pentathlon's no cinch for any one, no matter who he is."

Dick, wholly absorbed in his friend's recital, drew a long breath as Allen concluded. "By gracious," he exclaimed. "That is exciting, isn't it? Suppose it did work out that way. Just think of it. To have it hang on a single point, and then to have our school win--to have Ellis beat Johnson. Oh, that would be great!" He paused a moment, and then added: "Just tell me one other thing, Allen, and I won't bother you any more. I've got everything else straight, but just what's the Pentathlon, anyway?"

Allen laughed. "I'm going to send you in a bill for private tutoring," he said good-humoredly. "This is an awful strain on my mind, giving you so much information free. And it would take a Philadelphia lawyer to explain the Pentathlon straight. We go back a few thousand years, just for a starter, to the days of the Greeks. 'The glory that was Greece, and the grandeur that was Rome.' Edgar Allan Poe, Randall. Ever read him? Ever read The Haunted Palace? No? Well, you just waltz into the library some day and take a crack at it. If I could write one poem like that, I'd quit work for the rest of my life; I'd feel I'd done enough. Well, never mind, that's not the Pentathlon, is it? I need a muzzle, I think; that's the only trouble with me. Now, then, reverse the power. Back we go, back to the Greeks. They had a kind of all-around championship in their sports, you know; they called it the Pentathlon. Pente, five; athlos, contest; five-event, I suppose we'd say, now. First, I believe, it was running, jumping, throwing the discus, wrestling and fighting; and then, later, they cut out the fighting and put in the javelin instead. We've got the same kind of thing to-day--the all-around championship they call it. Dave says he means to try it some time when he goes to college. But it's too much for school-boys, of course; it's ten events instead of five, and there's a mile run in it and a half-mile walk.

"So our Pentathlon is modeled on the Greeks. We have five events, too: hundred-yard dash, sixteen-pound shot, high jump, hundred-and-twenty-yard high hurdles and throwing the twelve-pound hammer. You see, it's a pretty good test. You've got to have speed for the hundred and the hurdles, and spring for the high jump, and strength for the shot and the hammer. And something else besides; skill for all five of them. The four S's, Mr. Fenton says, speed, spring, strength and skill. He's a great believer in the Pentathlon; says it develops a fellow all over; arms and legs, back and chest; the whole of him. There's a dandy prize for it, too--a silver shield with an athlete on it, going through all the different events. But the scoring is the ingenious part; the man who thought that up was a wonder. You see it isn't like regular athletics--it's more like a kind of examination paper. Take the hundred, for instance. If you went into the Pentathlon and ran the hundred in nine and three-fifths--that's the world's record, you know--you'd get a hundred points; just the same as if you answered all the questions right in an examination. And then, at the other end, they set a mark so low that the smallest kid in school could beat it; twenty seconds, say. That's the zero mark, same as if you answered every question in the examination wrong. And for every second, and fraction of a second, in between you're marked according to what you do.

"It's the same, of course, with the other events, so you could make a total of five hundred; theoretically, I mean. Of course, really, no man ever lived--I don't suppose a man ever will live--who could be fast enough to be a champion sprinter and hurdler, and strong enough to be a champion weight man, and springy enough to be a champion high-jumper--all at the same time. Johnson made the record last spring--two hundred and eighty points--and that's awfully good for a schoolboy. He isn't such a big fellow, either; I don't believe he weighs much over a hundred and fifty; but he's fast--he can do a hundred in ten-two, all right--and he's a good hurdler and jumper, but he's not quite heavy enough for the weights. Still, Dave's got his job cut out for him; there's no doubt about that. Well, here we are; and, by gracious, we're late, too."

CHAPTER II

[DAVE ELLIS BREAKS A RECORD]

While Allen had been speaking, they had reached the entrance to the field; and as they passed the gateway in the high wooden fence they could see Ellis, on the other side of the track, just getting on his marks for the hundred yards. Ned Brewster, the captain of the track team, stood behind him, pistol in hand. Farther up the track, at the finish, were the three timers: Mr. Fenton, Doctor Hartman, the physical director of the school, and Jim Putnam, the captain of the crew. "Come on," cried Allen, and breaking into a quick run they reached the farther side of the field, halfway up the stretch, just as the pistol cracked, and Ellis leaped away into his stride. They pulled up instantly to watch him. He seemed to run mainly on sheer strength, paying little attention to form. As he flew past them, Dick, gazing at him open-mouthed, was dimly conscious of a number of things. He noticed that Ellis' face was contorted with the effort he was making, and heard his breath coming in short, agonized grunts, "ugh--ugh--ugh--" as he strove to increase his speed. The cinders crunched sharply under his flying feet, and with a thrill of envy Dick saw on his crimson jersey the big white "F" of the school. He felt that Ellis was indeed a hero. "Golly," he said half aloud, "if I could only run like that!"

Allen, more skilled in estimating a runner's speed, and more critical as well, showed little enthusiasm as Ellis, with a final effort, breasted the tape. "I guess that wasn't much," he observed. "I don't believe Johnson would worry a great deal if he saw that. Not better than eleven, anyway, and I don't believe as good. Speed was never Dave's strong point, you know. Let's find out how fast it was."

They walked up to the timers. Ellis, jogging slowly back, shook his head as he neared the group. "Slow," he said. "I knew it, all the way down. Couldn't seem to get going. How bad was it, Mr. Fenton?"

The master, a tall, finely-built man of middle age, with a pleasant, clean-cut face, snapped back his stop-watch, then looked up at the runner. "Why, it wasn't bad, Dave," he said cheerfully enough, "it's a cold day for good time. No one could expect to do much on an afternoon like this. You made it in eleven and two-fifths; all three watches were the same. And that's not bad at all; it gives you sixty-six points, to start with. Take your five minutes' rest now, and we'll try the shot."

Ellis nodded, and walked away into the dressing-room to change his light sprinting shoes for the heavier ones, with extra spikes in the heel, to be used in the shot put and high jump. Five minutes later he came out again and walked across the field to the whitewashed circle, took an easy practice put or two, and then made ready for his first try. The doctor and Putnam stood by to act as measurers, with the tape unrolled along the ground. Mr. Fenton stood near the circle, as judge. "Remember now, Dave," he said, "only three tries. Make the first one safe and sure, and don't forget to walk out the rear half of the circle, or I shall have to call a foul."

Ellis nodded, and at once made ready to put. Dick watched him admiringly, as he stood motionless, his weight thrown well back on his right leg, the toe of his left foot just touching the ground, the big iron shot resting easily against his shoulder. All at once he raised his left leg, balanced for a moment, and then sprang forward. The instant his right foot touched the ground he brought his body around like lightning, his right arm shot forward, and the big iron ball went hurtling through the air, landing a good six feet beyond his practice marks. Mr. Fenton gave an involuntary exclamation of surprise. "Well, well," he cried, "you have improved, Dave; that's excellent form; and good distance, too. That must be thirty-eight feet, at least."

The doctor held the tape against the inner edge of the toe-board; Putnam, at the other end, pulled it tight, and bent critically down over the mark left by the shot. Then he straightened up, waving his arm, with a broad smile on his face. "Bully!" he shouted, "thirty-eight, five and a half."

Ellis laughed, well pleased. "I told you I'd improved, Mr. Fenton," he said, "and I can beat that, too. I guess that's going to make Johnson's thirty-four feet look pretty sick, all right."

He seemed wholly unconscious of the disagreeable boastfulness of his tone. Allen, however, threw Dick a significant glance, which seemed to find a reflection in the rather grim expression on Mr. Fenton's face. The master looked as though he wished he had withheld his words of well-meant praise. "Perhaps, Dave," he said quietly, "Johnson may show improvement, too. It's better to overrate the other man than to underrate him."

If he intended to throw any reproof into his tone it was lost on Ellis, who seemed, indeed, scarcely to heed what the master was saying. "Throw her back, Jim," he called to Putnam. "I'm going to get her out for fair this time."

Putnam rolled back the shot. Ellis grasped it, balanced as before, knitted his brows, stiffened his muscles, and then, with every atom of strength at his command, delivered it. The result was disappointing. Something seemed lacking, and Putnam rose from making his measurement with a shake of his head. "Not so good," he called. "Thirty-seven nine."

Ellis turned to Mr. Fenton. "That was queer," he said disappointedly. "I thought I was going to lose it that time. Wonder what the trouble was."

Mr. Fenton smiled. "You tried too hard," he said. "That's one thing to remember, Dave, in the shot. The more you grit your teeth, and brace yourself for a great attempt, the worse you're apt to do. On your first try you stood up to it naturally, with your muscles relaxed; but on that last put your right arm was so rigid there was no chance to get your body into it. Now make this next try like the first one; only when you land from your hop, then come smashing right through with it; put all your strength on, just in that one second, and we'll see if we don't get results."

Dick laughed to himself. Here, he thought, was a modern master with a vengeance. What would the folks at home think of a teacher, renowned for giving "the best English course outside of college," vigorously telling one of his pupils to come "smashing right through" with a sixteen-pound shot. And yet, while Dick smiled, he felt his respect for Mr. Fenton in nowise diminished, but, indeed, rather increased, by seeing him thus display his knowledge of track and field. For the master, while always in friendly contact with his boys, never for a moment overstepped the proper bounds of the relationship. He was a hundred times more their friend, yet no whit less the master. Dick could scarcely have reasoned it out, step by step, yet with instinctive judgment, he found himself echoing Allen's words of a few moments before, "Mr. Fenton's all right."

Ellis, with a nod of comprehension, made ready for his third try. He started slowly, and then, as the master had suggested, put forth all his strength in one tremendous lunge. The effort was successful; the put was a splendid one. Putnam hurried to the spot, measured with care, and then triumphantly announced: "Thirty-nine, seven and a quarter."

Mr. Fenton nodded. "Very good, indeed," he said cordially. "This is a fine start, Dave." He drew forth his note-book from his pocket, calculated a moment, and then added: "Sixty-four points; that makes one hundred and thirty, in two events. This looks like a record."

With the trials in the high jump, however, Ellis' chances appeared less favorable. Even to Dick's inexperienced eye, it was evident that the big full-back was never cut out for a jumper. He ran slowly at the bar, from the side, clearing it awkwardly, with very little bound or spring. Mr. Fenton shook his head. "Still the old style?" he queried. "I thought you were going to try running straight at the bar in your vacation, Dave?"

Ellis looked a little shamefaced. "Well," he answered, "I did try it, Mr. Fenton, but I couldn't seem to get the knack, so I dropped it. It didn't come natural, somehow."

The master smiled. "How long did you keep at it?" he asked.

Ellis considered. "Oh, quite a while," he answered. "A week, I guess, anyway."

Mr. Fenton's smile broadened. "I think I told you, Dave," he said, "before vacation, that you mustn't get discouraged too soon. It's one of the hardest things in the world when you've once acquired your form in an event, to try to alter it. I know, in my day, I went through the experience. And it took me six months before I began to reap the advantage of the change. Here's a more modern instance, too. I was talking only this summer with the best pole-vaulter at Yale, and he told me that to change from the old-fashioned style of vaulting to the new had meant, for him, nearly a year of steady, monotonous work, with the bar scarcely higher than his head, before he felt satisfied that the knack was so thoroughly a part of him that he couldn't miss it if he tried. Then he put his knowledge into practice, and a thirteen-foot man was the result. So a week wasn't so very long, comparatively, Dave."

Ellis shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I can't jump anyway," he responded. "I'm going to get the agony over with. I'll have to make up what I lose here in the hammer."

The bar was raised, two inches at a time, until four feet ten was reached. Here Ellis missed twice, and just managed to get over in safety on his last try. He had plainly reached his limit, and at four eleven made three disastrous failures. He shook his head ruefully. "I can't jump," he repeated. "It's no good my trying."

Mr. Fenton figured the result. "Forty-two points," he announced. "That brings you up to a hundred and seventy-two. But if you'll practice steadily at the other style, Dave, and not try to do too much at first, until you've really learned the knack, you can jump three or four inches higher, I'm sure. However, never mind that now. The hurdles are next, and I think you'll make a better showing there."

Putnam and Allen had been setting out the hurdles on the track. To Dick, they looked terribly formidable. Ten of them in a row, each three and a half feet high, placed ten yards apart, with fifteen yards of clear running at start and finish. "Gracious," he thought to himself, "how can he ever get over all those without tripping. This Pentathlon looks like a hard proposition to me."

Scarcely, however, had Ellis cleared the first hurdle than Dick felt his enthusiasm return. It was all so different from what he had imagined--the whole race was so pretty and graceful to watch. When Putnam fired the pistol Ellis dashed away at full speed; then, nearing the first hurdle, leaped forward, his body crouched, his legs gathered under him, cleared it handsomely in his stride, and was off for the next. Dick felt like shouting aloud, as Ellis swept down toward the finish. Three strides between each hurdle, and then that quick forward bound; Dick found himself catching the rhythm of it. One--two--three--up! One--two--three--up! Ellis cleared the last hurdle and flashed past the tape.

The three timers consulted, then Mr. Fenton announced: "Eighteen four; fifty-two points; that's a total of two hundred and twenty-four." He figured for a moment with pencil and paper, then turned to Ellis, as he came walking back toward the finish. "First-rate, Dave," he said. "A hundred and forty feet with the hammer, now, and you'll beat Johnson's total. Do you think you can do it?"

Ellis nodded. "I can do that all right," he answered confidently. "Just wait a minute, till I get my breath."

A few moments later he had taken his position in the seven-foot ring, and was preparing to throw. Dick looked with interest at the leaden ball, with the slender wire handle, and the stirrup-shaped grips at the end. "Is that what you call a hammer?" he asked.

Allen nodded. "Sure, that's a hammer," he answered. "It is a kind of misfit name, though, when you come to think of it, isn't it? They really did use a sledge hammer, I believe, once on a time, but they've changed it so much, you wouldn't think the kind they use to-day belonged to the same family. Just watch Dave throw it, though."

Ellis crouched slightly, extending his arms straight out from his body. He swung the hammer around his head, once, twice, three times, constantly increasing its speed; and then, at the third revolution, spun sharply around on his heel and made his throw. It was a splendid try. The hammer went sailing out, high and far, landing with a thud in the soft grass half-way down the field. Dick's eyes kindled. "Oh, say, Allen, but that was pretty," he cried. "That's the best event of all of them. I wonder if he did a hundred and forty."

There was a little delay over the measuring. Then Putnam put his hand to his lips and shouted in across the field, "One hundred and forty-two eleven."

Ellis picked up his sweater. "I'm not going to take my other throws, sir," he said to Mr. Fenton. "I don't think I could better that one much; and as long as I've beaten Johnson's total, I don't care. I think, when I get a good warm-day next spring, I can do twenty points better, too."

Mr. Fenton nodded. "I think you can," he answered. "It's too cold to-day to do your best work. Everything considered, your performance was excellent. If we can increase that high jump a little, you'll be the next Pentathlon winner, unless Johnson shows great improvement over last year. And I hardly think he will. His lack of weight is against him for all-around work."

Ellis, visibly elated, jogged back toward the dressing-room. Mr. Fenton and the doctor started to leave the field. The boys who had been looking on walked after Ellis, in a little group, discussing his performance. Dick turned to Allen. "Any harm in my trying that shot?" he asked.

"No, indeed," Allen answered. "You've got just as much right as any one else. Go ahead!"

Dick, a little shamefaced, picked up the iron ball; stood, as nearly as he could remember, in the same position he had seen Ellis assume; made a cautious hop, and a slow and awkward put. Yet Allen, watching where the shot struck, turned and looked curiously at his friend. "Golly, Randall," he observed, "you must have some muscle somewhere. There wasn't a thing about that put that was right, but it went just the same." He paced back toward the circle. "Close to thirty feet," he said. "That's awfully good for a fellow just beginning. Try another."

Dick, secretly pleased at the impression he had made, determined to give Allen a still greater surprise. Promptly forgetting what he had heard Mr. Fenton tell Ellis, he braced his muscles, made a quick, long hop, tried to turn, caught his foot in the toe-board, and measured his length upon the field. Allen roared. "Oh, bully, Randall," he cried, "I wouldn't have missed that for money. 'Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself.' That's you, all right. Didn't hurt yourself, did you?"

Dick, picking himself up, grinned a little ruefully, as he contemplated the grass-stains which decorated the knees of his trousers. "No," he answered; "I didn't, but I surprised myself a little. I was going to show you something right in Ellis' class that time. I guess I'll own up that's one on me. I'm going to try that high jump, though. That's one thing I did use to do when I was a kid. I don't believe I'll break my neck on that."

They walked over to the jumping standards. "How high will you have her?" Allen asked.

Dick smiled. "Oh, I'm cautious now," he rejoined. "Put her at four feet. Maybe I can do that, if I haven't forgotten how."

Allen adjusted the bar. Dick backed away from the standards, measured the distance with his eye, and ran down the path, increasing his speed with his last three bounds. Then, easily and without effort, he shot up into the air, sailed high over the bar, and landed safely in the pit beyond. Allen gasped. "Good Heavens, Randall," he exclaimed; "what have I struck? Why, man, you went over that by a foot. You've got an awful spring."

Dick laughed. "Well, I had to do something to make up for the shot," he said. "But, honestly, it did feel good. I haven't jumped for a long time, though I used to be pretty fair; or at least they thought so at home. But that doesn't count for very much; it's a big world."

While they stood talking, the door of the dressing-room swung open, and Ellis came out, followed by two or three of his friends. As they passed Allen turned. "Say, Dave," he called; "did you hear about the new Pentathlon champion?"

Ellis stopped. "What's the joke?" he asked, not over pleasantly.

Allen laid a hand on Randall's shoulder. "It isn't any joke," he replied; "Randall here. He's just been beating all your marks. You won't have a show with him by next spring."

He spoke banteringly, but any allusion to a possible rival always had a sting for Ellis. He looked Dick over from head to foot; then slowly smiled. "Guess he'll have to grow a little first," he said cuttingly, and turned on his heel.

Two or three of his followers laughed. Dick felt his face grow red. "Confound him!" he muttered.

Allen's grip on his shoulder deepened. "Don't you mind," he said consolingly. "That's Dave, every time. Only one toad in his puddle, you know. But you wait. If I know anything about athletics, you'll show him something some day."

Dick looked a little vengefully after Ellis' retreating figure. The athlete's words and tone both rankled. "If I could," he said slowly, "I'd like to--mighty well."

CHAPTER III

[DICK AND JIM GO ON A SHOOTING TRIP.]

Two months of the fall term had come and gone; Thanksgiving Day was close at hand. Dick stood in front of his locker, dressing leisurely after his practice on the track, and chatting with Jim Putnam, the captain of the crew. Athletics were uppermost in their talk. They discussed everything in turn--the arguments, pro and con, for winning the cup; the chances of the crew, the nine, the track team; the rival merits of Dave Ellis and Johnson for the Pentathlon; then all at once Putnam abruptly changed the subject. "Oh, say, Dick," he remarked; "I was going to ask you something and I came pretty near forgetting it. What about Thanksgiving? You're not going home, are you?"

Dick shook his head. "No, it's too far," he answered. "I'm going to wait till Christmas. I suppose, though, most of the fellows do go home."

Putnam nodded. "Yes," he answered, "it's so near for most of them, they can do it all right without any trouble. I guess you and I live about as far away as any two fellows in the school. But I was thinking--as long as we're going to be here--I've got what I call a bully good scheme. Did I ever tell you about the lake, away up north of the village, where they get the ducks?"

Dick shook his head, his interest at once awakened. "No," he answered; "I didn't know that there were any ducks around here, Jim."

"Well, there are," returned Putnam; "but most people don't know it. I didn't get on to it until last spring. I was taking a tramp up through that way in the spring recess, and I stopped at a farm-house for the night. The folks were as nice as they could be. There's a young fellow that runs the farm, and his wife and three or four kids. Well, after supper we got talking about the country around there and the lake, and then he started telling me about the ducks. He says there are a lot of them every fall that keep trading to and fro between the lake and salt water, and that stay around, right up to the time things freeze. They leave the lake at daylight and don't come back till afternoon. And that's the time to shoot them. You set decoys off one of the points, and make a blind, and he's got a dandy retriever that brings in the ducks. He only shoots a few. He says he's busy about the farm, and he lives so far away there's not much use gunning them for market. So he just kills what he can use himself. But he told me any time I wanted to come up, he'd give me a good shoot and I've been meaning to do it all the fall; only the crew has taken so much of my time, I haven't got around to it. It takes a day to do it right, anyway.

"So I figured like this. First of all, we'll ask Mr. Fenton if we can go; but that will be only a matter of form. As long as he knows we're used to shooting, and are careful with our guns, he'll let us go all right; that's just the kind of a trip he likes fellows to take. Then we'll get word up to Cluff--that's the farmer, you know--that we're coming; and then we'll hire a team down in the village and we'll start Thanksgiving morning. It'll take us two or three hours to get up there, and then we'll have dinner, and have plenty of time to get everything ready for the afternoon. Cluff's got decoys, and I suppose, as long as it's Thanksgiving, he'll go along with us, and see that we get set in a good place. Then we'll have the afternoon shooting, and we can get supper there, and drive home in the evening. It's full moon, so if it stays clear it'll be as light as day. How does that strike you, Dick? Are you game?"

"Am I game?" repeated Randall. "Well, I should rather say I was. I haven't fired a gun for a year. They laughed at me at home for packing away my old shooting-iron in the bottom of my trunk; but I'll have the laugh on them now. I do certainly like to shoot ducks. What kinds do they have here, Jim?"

"Why, Cluff says there are lots of black ducks," Putnam answered; "and pintails, and teal. And some years, if there comes a good breeze outside, they have a flight of blackheads and redheads. Oh, if what he said was so, I guess we'll get some ducks all right. Let's make a start, anyway. I vote we go and see Mr. Fenton now."

They found the master in his study, and were forthwith questioned and cross-questioned, with good-natured thoroughness, until Mr. Fenton had satisfied himself that it would be safe to let them take the trip. Then, as Putnam had predicted, permission was readily enough forthcoming, though Mr. Fenton was frankly skeptical as to the amount of game they were going to bring home. "I doubt the ducks, boys," he told them smilingly; "but you'll have a fine time, just the same, no matter how many you kill. And don't forget that I'm trusting you. Take care of yourselves in every way. Don't shoot each other, and don't fall into the lake; and be sure and bring yourselves back, anyway; it won't matter so much about the ducks."

With many promises of good behavior they left him and hastened down to the village to hire their team and to send word to Cluff that they would arrive in time for dinner, on Thanksgiving Day. All that evening they talked of nothing but their plans; and that night, as Dick fell asleep, he was busy picturing to himself the appearance of the lake, seeing himself, in imagination, concealed upon a wooded point, with the retriever crouching at his side, and a big flock of redheads bearing swiftly down upon the decoys. So real did the scene become that half-asleep as he was, he came suddenly to himself to find that he was sitting bolt upright in bed, trying to bring an imaginary gun to his shoulder. Then, with a laugh, and with a half-sigh as well, to find that the ducks had vanished before his very eyes, he lay down again, and this time went to sleep in good earnest.

Thanksgiving Day dawned clear and bright, warm for the time of year, with a fresh breeze blowing from the south, and a faint haze hanging over the tops of the distant hills. By nine o'clock the boys were ready at the door of the dormitory, guns under their arms, shell-bags in hand. Shortly they perceived their buggy approaching, and Putnam gave a shout of laughter at sight of their steed, a little, shaggy-coated, wiry-looking black mare, scarcely larger than a good-sized pony. As the outfit drew up before the door, Putnam walked forward and made a critical examination; then turned to the driver, a rawboned, sandy-haired countryman, with a pleasant, good-natured face, and a shrewd and humorous eye. "Will we get there?" he demanded.

The man grinned. "You worryin' about Rosy?" he asked. "No call to do that. She's an ol' reliable, she is. Ben in the stable twenty-five years, an' never went back on no one yet. Oh, she'll git ye there, all right, ain't no doubt o' that at all; that is--" he added, "'thout she sh'd happen to drop dead, or somethin' like that. No hoss is goin' t' live for ever; specially in a livery stable. But I'll bet ye even she lasts out the trip."

Dick laughed, though there was something pathetic, as well, in the resigned expression with which the mare regarded them, as one who would say, "This may be all right for you young folks, but it's a pretty old story for me." "Well, I guess she won't run away," he hazarded hopefully.

The man shook his head with emphasis. "No, sir," he answered, "I can't imagine nothin' short of a tornado and a earthquake combined, would make Rosy run. But then again--" he added loyally, "she ain't near so bad as she looks. O' course, she couldn't show ye a mile in two minutes, but that ain't what you're lookin' for. Six mile an hour--that's her schedule--an' she'll stick to it all right, up-hill and down, good roads an' bad, till the cows come home. An' that's the kind o' hoss you want."

Putnam nodded. "Yes, sir," he returned, as they stowed away the guns in the bottom of the buggy, "horse or man--we're for the stayers, every time. And if Rosy's been sticking it out for twenty-five years, we'll see she gets treated right now. I guess she deserves it. All aboard, Dick?"

"Sure," Randall answered; then, turning to the man, "You'd better get in behind. We'll be going pretty near the stable, so we might as well give you a lift," and somewhat heavily laden they started, with light hearts, on their journey toward the lake.

They found their passenger decidedly communicative. "It's lucky for you boys," he presently remarked, "that you ain't no older'n ye be. 'F you were men, now, you might fairly be expectin' trouble, 'fore ye git through town."

Both boys looked at him with some curiosity. "Why, what do you mean by that?" asked Putnam. "What's wrong in the village?"

"Big row," the man answered, "over in the paper mills. They ben havin' trouble all the fall, fightin' over wages, an' hours, an' most everythin' else. They'd kind o' manage to agree, an' then, fust thing you know, they'd be scrappin' again, wuss'n ever. They got a passel o' furriners in there now," he added with contempt; "guess they think they're savin' money employin' cheap labor. Mighty dear labor, I expect 't'll be, 'fore they git through with 'em. These dagoes an' sich, a-carryin' knives--I do' know, I ain't got much use for 'em. My opinion, ol' Uncle Sam would do better to have 'em stay home where they b'long."

He paused and spit thoughtfully over the side of the buggy, evidently contemplating with disgust the presence of "dagoes an' sich," on New England soil.

"Well," queried Dick, "what's happened? Have they struck?"

The livery man nodded with emphasis. "Surest thing you know," he answered. "They went out yesterday, the whole gang, an' they ben loafin' round the town ever since. Things look kind o' ugly to me. 'Cause the owners, they got their sportin' blood up, too, an' they sent right out o' town for a big gang o' strike-busters, 'n they got in this mornin'. So there we be; an' as I say, it's lucky you boys ain't no older, or you might see trouble 'fore night. Well, guess this is about as near th' stable as we'll come. Much obliged to ye for the lift. Enjoy yourselves now, an' don't let Rosy git to kickin' up too lively, so she'll run with ye, an' dump ye out in a ditch. You keep her steadied down, whatever ye do."

With a good-natured grin, he jumped from the buggy and disappeared in the direction of the stable. The boys, driving onward through the village, looked around them with interest. The state of affairs appeared, as their friend had said, "kind o' ugly." Little knots of dark-skinned foreigners stood here and there about the streets, sometimes silent and sullen, again listening to the eloquence of some excited leader, haranguing them in his native tongue, accompanying the torrent of words with wildly gesticulating arms. As they turned into the road leading to the north, a dark-browed, scowling striker at the corner glared angrily at them as they passed, muttering words which sounded the very reverse of a blessing. Putnam whistled as they drove on. "Golly, Dick," he observed, "what did you think of that fellow? If looks could kill, as they say, I guess we'd be done for now. I hope they don't have a row out of it. Imagine running up against a chap like that, with a good sharp knife in his fist. I guess it takes some nerve to be a strike-buster all right."

Dick nodded assent, but twenty minutes later, strikes and strike-breakers were alike forgotten, as they left the village behind them, and struck into the level wood road leading northward to the lake. The change from civilization to solitude was complete. To right and left of them, squirrels chattered and scolded among the trees; chickadees bobbed their little black caps to them as they passed. Farther back in the woods a blue-jay screamed; overhead, high up in the blue, a great hawk sailed, circling, with no slightest motion of his outspread wings. The road stretched straight before them, narrowing, in the distance, to a mere thread between the wall of trees on either hand. The wind blew fair from the south; old Rosy settled down to the six miles an hour for which she was famed. Both boys leaned back in the seat, extended their legs ungracefully, but in perfect comfort, over the dashboard of the buggy, and then heaved a long sigh of well-being and content.

Dick was the first to speak. "Jim," he observed, "this is great. This is what I call living. It's just as Mr. Fenton said; this is good enough as it is if we don't get any ducks."

Putnam nodded assent. "You bet it is," he answered, "but we'll get the ducks, too. We'll surprise Mr. Fenton, if we can." He was silent for a moment, then added, "Say, Dick, you've been here two months now. What do you think of the master anyway; and what do you think of the school?"

Dick did not hesitate. "I think they're both bully," he answered promptly. "At first I used to laugh at Harry Allen for the way he went on about Mr. Fenton. I thought it sounded pretty foolish; but everything he said is so. I can't imagine how any one could be much nicer. It's just as Allen told me once--he doesn't preach, you know; I hate the pious kind of talk like anything; but he's just--well, I don't know--just so darned square to a fellow, somehow. And then, if you try to do anything yourself--just in little ways, I mean--you've kind of got the feeling that he's on to it, right away. He never gives you any soft soap, either, but if you're trying to plug along about right, you've got a sort of idea that he knows it; and if you're up to something you oughtn't to be up to, you've got just the same feeling that he's on to that, too. It's hard to explain; it's just like--just as if--oh, well, confound it, Jim, I can't put it into words, but you know what I mean."

Putnam nodded. "Sure I do," he answered; "and it is hard to put into words just the way you say. That was the reason I asked. I wanted to see how it hit you, coming into the school new the way you have. But it's so, isn't it? He never talks about being good, or about doing your duty, or any of that sort of thing--he only makes a speech once a year, at commencement, and that's a short one. But I'll tell you what I guess the secret is. I could never have expressed it--I'm not smart enough--but my father was up here last year, at graduation, and I asked him afterward, when we got home, what he thought it was about Mr. Fenton that made every one like him so. He said that was an easy one; that every man, who really made a success of his life, had two things back of him. First, he was in love with his work, and second, he had high ideals about his work. And he said you couldn't talk with Mr. Fenton for five minutes, without seeing what an interest he took in his school, and in his boys, and that more than making scholars out of them, or athletes out of them, he wanted to make them into men. And I guess that's about what we were trying to put in words, and couldn't."

Dick thought hard; then nodded. "Well, I guess so, too," he answered, and then, after a pause, "But now look here, Jim, if that's so, what do you think about this business of class president? Because that's an awfully important thing for the school. It shows people at graduation the kind of fellow we want to put forward to represent the class; and the honor sticks to him in college, and really, you might say, in a kind of way all through his life. And you can't tell me that you think Dave Ellis is the fellow Mr. Fenton would honestly like to see elected president, now can you?"

Putnam shook his head. "No, I can't," he answered; "but that isn't up to Mr. Fenton, Dick; he never would interfere in anything like that. And I'll tell you why. I met a fellow last summer who was quite prominent here in the school four or five years ago. We got to talking about different things and finally I told him about Dave and the presidency. He said that the year he graduated there was a lot of feeling in his class over the election and that finally some of the fellows went to Mr. Fenton and asked him if he wouldn't use his influence to try and get the right man in. He told them that was something he couldn't do; that if school life did anything at all it fitted fellows to meet some of the obstacles they'd have to run up against later in their lives and that this was just one of the things they would have to do their best to work out by themselves without coming to him. And, of course, you can see, when you come to think of it, that he was right. It's just like a republic and a monarchy; we wouldn't want even as good a man as Mr. Fenton to rule us like a king. It's his part to get as much sense into us as he can, and if he can't make us smart enough to tell a good fellow from a bad one, why, that isn't his fault. We've got to take the responsibility for that ourselves."

"Yes, I see," Dick assented; "but it's too bad, just the same, if we elect Dave. Because he isn't in it with Allen as a fellow. Harry's white clear through. But it's funny about Dave. He's certainly got an awful following; and I suppose he's dead sure to win."

Putnam nodded. "Yes, I think he is," he answered; "and really you can't wonder at it, either. Athletics count for such a lot nowadays--too much, I think--and somehow if a fellow is a star athlete, that seems to blind every one to his faults. And then you know what they say--that nothing succeeds like success. And Dave's really done a lot for the school in an athletic way. And they all think he'll be the big winner this spring; they think he'll land the Pentathlon, and help win the track meet, and of course that all helps. And then he's got that kind of a don't-give-a-darn manner. It jars a lot of the fellows, of course, just as it does you and me, but then, on the other hand, with a lot of the younger boys, it goes in great style. I think they imagine it's just about the sort of air that a really great man ought to have. It's funny to see some of them trying to imitate it. No, Dave's got the inside track.

"Allen's the better fellow, of course--Harry's about as nice as they come--but I don't see how he can win. And it's queer, too, you know; but his being such a corker in a literary way hurts him just as much as it helps him. He doesn't mean any harm by the way he's quoting his old poets all the time, but it doesn't go with the crowd. You know how it is. If you don't know a thing, and the other fellow does know it, and you have kind of a guilty feeling all the time that you ought to know it and don't, why then you sort of square up with yourself by getting to dislike the other fellow for knowing more than you do. That's sad, but it's true. And yet, of course, as I say, right down at the bottom, there's no comparison between the two fellows. Allen's as fair and square as a die, and the most kind-hearted chap that ever stepped, nice to everybody, big boys and small. And Dave--well, I don't know. I wouldn't slander a fellow for anything, but I don't think I'd trust old Dave very far. Did I ever tell you about Ned Brewster and the daily themes?"

Dick shook his head. "No, I don't think you ever did," he answered. "What about it?"

"Why," said Putnam; "it happened like this. There's an English course in college, you know, where they have to write a theme every day. We have the same thing here, for a month, second half year--English Fourteen. Well, Ned Brewster was talking to a crowd of fellows one day about a letter his brother had written him from college, telling quite a lot about this daily theme business--all about the good ones, and the funny ones, and a lot of things like that. Ned never thought anything more about it, but a little while after that Dave came to him, and asked him if he didn't think it would be an awfully good scheme to get Ned's brother to have copies of all his themes made and sent down to Ned, so they'd be all solid for that month of English Fourteen. Bright idea, wasn't it?"

Dick whistled. "Well," he ejaculated; "the mean skunk! What nerve! What did Ned say?"

Putnam grinned. "Not very much," he answered. "He told me he thought at first Dave was joking, but when he got it through his head that he was really in earnest I guess his language was quite picturesque. Dave hates him like poison now, and it makes it hard for Ned, being captain of the track team, you know, and Dave being the star athlete. It gives Dave all sorts of mean little chances to try to make the fellows think Ned isn't being square about the work, and all that sort of thing. You know what I mean. He keeps grumbling all the time, and saying that Ned shows favoritism to fellows he likes, and a lot of rot like that. And it hurts, too, because there are always some fellows foolish enough to believe it, and the first thing you know, you've got a split in the class. However, we're none of us perfect, so I suppose we can't be too hard on Dave. Maybe we can elect Allen, anyway. Something may happen in the next six weeks. I know one thing, anyway; Dave's got to hustle like a good one if he means to keep up in his work. I understand that he's right on the danger line now, and the mid tears are always pretty stiff, harder than the finals, I always thought. If he shouldn't pass, he wouldn't be eligible for the presidency--and as far as that goes, he wouldn't be eligible for athletics either. Wouldn't that raise the deuce? I suppose the track team would crumple like a piece of paper without Dave in the weights and the Pentathlon. Golly, though, that reminds me, Dick. Ned Brewster says you're the coming man on the track. Is that straight? Did you really do five six in the gym?"

Dick nodded. "Well, yes," he answered; "I believe I did. Only once, though. You know how it is. A fellow will get in a lucky jump, once in a while."

Putnam laughed. "Don't be so ashamed of it," he said good-naturedly. "That's a corking good jump for any one. Some fellows go plugging along half their lives, and don't get that high. Who can beat it, besides Johnson?"

Dick pondered. "Well, I can't think of any one," he said at last; "still, there may be a lot of fellows I don't know about--"

Putnam cut him short. "Oh, nonsense," he cried; "don't we get all the gossip from the school papers, and from the fellows we see? Didn't we know, the very same day, when Johnson broke the Clinton record, that time he did five eight and a half? No, sir, you're good for second place in the high, in the big meet, and that means your 'F.' What more do you want than that? Your first year at the game."

Dick was silent. Finally he said hesitatingly, "Well, Jim, I know I'm a fool, but I'd like awfully well to have some show for the Pentathlon."

Putnam looked at him in amazement. "Well, for Heaven's sake!" he ejaculated. "You don't want a great deal, do you? With Dave and Johnson both in the game? Why, where would you fit with them, Dick?"

Randall reddened a trifle. "Oh, well, probably I wouldn't," he returned; "but you see, they've both got their weak points. Dave's mighty good in the weights--I couldn't touch him there--but then in the jump he's really poor, and in the hundred and hurdles he's no more than fair. And Johnson's a great jumper, and a good man at the hundred and hurdles, but he isn't up in the weights, by a long shot. I don't mean," he added quickly, "that I think I can beat either of them now; maybe I never can beat them; but they could be beaten, just the same, easier than people think. It isn't as if either of them was so good that you'd know right away it was no use tackling them; and I don't know about Johnson, but I don't think Dave's going to improve a great deal on what he did when school began. He's really pretty stupid about athletics, just the way he is about books. He can't learn the knack of that high jump, to save himself. No, they could be beaten, all right, if a fellow could only get good enough."

Putnam considered. "Well, maybe that's so," he doubtfully admitted at last. "What can you do with the shot, Dick? And the hammer?"

"I'm putting the shot around thirty-five," Randall answered; "but the hammer is my weak spot. I can throw it pretty well from a stand, but I can't seem to learn the turn. I can beat Ellis sprinting, though, and I'm pretty sure I can beat him hurdling. But, of course, the hammer and shot would make all the difference. Still, it doesn't matter, anyway--the whole thing--as long as Dave can win for the school, only I figured that since it was so close between him and Johnson, it would be better for us to have two men training, in place of one. But I guess it's only a dream, anyway; I've got to learn to throw a hammer before I can make any sort of show."

Putnam nodded. "Yes, that's so," he answered. "The Pentathlon's an event where you've got to be pretty good at everything; you can't have any one weak spot, where you won't score at all, or you might as well stay out. Still, if you could get the knack with the hammer, I don't see but what you really might have a chance, after all. I didn't realize you could put a shot thirty-five feet. But for goodness' sake, Dick," he concluded, "promise me one thing. If you get to be the best that ever happened, don't go and get a swelled head; I've seen that so many times, where a new fellow makes good. It's natural, I suppose, but awfully painful for his friends."

Dick colored. "Of course I wouldn't," he replied with some indignation. "I don't believe there's much danger of my getting anywhere, in the first place; but even if I ever did, I wouldn't be such a fool as that. There's no sense in it. Mr. Fenton gave me a dandy book the other day--the best book I ever read--Rodney Stone. There's a lot about prize-fighting in it, and it tells about Lord Nelson, and Beau Brummel, and all about those times. But the prize-fighting was the best. There's one chapter, The Smith's Last Fight, why, I could feel the shivers running up and down my back, just as if I'd been there myself. Oh, it was bully! And it comes in, in the book, how every one of the champions, first and last, had to meet his match. 'Youth will be served, my masters,' that's what one old fellow keeps saying, and you can learn something from a book like that, now I tell you. You can learn that no matter how good you are, there's always some one that will beat you and the greatest athlete in the world has to go down with the rest. But it's all right to try to win, just the same. You want to turn out a winning crew just as much as I want to see the track team win, but I don't tell you not to get swelled headed. Come, now, isn't that right?"

Putnam hastened to assent. "Oh, sure," he answered; "I was only warning you; I didn't really believe there was any danger. 'And speaking of the crew, Dick, I think, by gracious, we've got more show than people imagine. Most of the fellows have an idea that Clinton's going to win, because they made a fast time row this fall, but I'm not worrying much over that. They only beat us half a length last year, and we're seconds better now than we were then. This new fellow, Smith, is a dandy at three, and Jimmy Blagden is twice the man he was last spring. He was really the weak spot in the crew, but now he's as good a bow as I'd want to see. So don't think your old track team is the only pebble; you're going to hear from us, too. We want that cup."

For two hours the talk flowed steadily along. Athletics, lessons, the presidency, the ducks, all taking their turn. And then at last, a little before noon, they passed the northern limit of the woods; the lake lay bright and blue before them, and a half mile or so ahead, in the middle of a sunny clearing, they beheld Cluff's farm.

CHAPTER IV

[THE SHOOTING TRIP'S UNEXPECTED ENDING]

Evidently visitors in this neighborhood were something of a novelty, for there was quite a bustle of excitement as they drew up before the door. Cluff himself came hurrying from the barn to meet them--a sturdy figure of a man, ruddy and bronzed from constant toiling in the open air. Colonel, the retriever, barked himself hoarse, trying vainly to jump up into the buggy, his tail wagging in eager welcome. Cluff's eldest boy, a tow-headed youngster of ten or eleven, came strolling around the corner of the house, barefooted, clad in blue overalls, a straw in his mouth, surveying them with critical interest. The farmer's pretty wife appeared in the doorway, two of the younger children peering forth shyly from behind her skirts. No greeting could have been heartier. Introductions were soon made, and then Cluff turned to his boy. "Now, you, Nathan," he directed, "take the hoss out to the barn. And you boys, you come right into the house, and pretty soon we'll have a bite to eat, and then we'll get started on our cruise."

Putnam could no longer keep from asking the momentous question. "How about the ducks?" he ventured.

The farmer grinned. "Ducks?" he echoed. "By golly, boys, you certainly have struck it right. We ain't had a better flight for twenty years. Lots of marsh ducks, and there's a big raft of redheads and blackheads been trading to and fro, regular, for the last two weeks, and there ain't nobody bothered 'em at all. Oh, you'll see plenty of ducks; there ain't no doubt about that. Only question is," he added humorously, "whether you can hit 'em or not. I ain't ever seen either of you boys shoot, so I don't know. What kind of guns you got?"

They produced them from the rear of the buggy. Jim's was a twelve bore, hammerless; Dick's a more ponderous and old-fashioned ten-gage hammer gun. At the sight of this latter weapon, Cluff nodded in approval, but looked a little askance at the lighter of the two.

"A twelve bore is good for quail and partridges," he remarked, "but you need a ten gage for ducks. You want a big gun to stop those fellers. A ten gage is what I use. Guess I'll put you over in the marsh, Jim. You can do closer range shooting there. And I'll give you my wading boots, so you can pick up your ducks yourself. 'Tain't deep over there, and the bottom's good. Then we'll fit your friend on Pebble P'int, and give him Colonel to fetch his ducks for him and I'll go over across to t'other side of the lake, and fit there, near the cove. That way, we'll keep the birds pretty well stirred up, and it'll make better shooting for every one."

An hour later, fortified with a good dinner of turkey and "fixings," they shoved off from the beach at the easterly end of the lake, Cluff and Putnam at the oars, Dick seated in the stern, and Colonel curled comfortably up forward, on the heap of wooden decoys.

Parallel with the course they were steering, a long strip of land extended out into the lake, wide and well-wooded at its base, narrowing gradually to the westward, and ending in the sloping pebble beach that had given the point its name. Here Cluff backed the boat in close to land, and set Dick and Colonel ashore; showed Dick how best to conceal himself in the blind, half-raised, half-hollowed among the stones; and then, unwinding the cord wrapped loosely around their bodies, he threw overboard some twenty or thirty of the wooden redhead and blackhead decoys, each securely weighted with a lump of iron, and then, with a wave of farewell, again bent to the oars, and rowed off down the lake. Dick made himself comfortable in the blind, and whistled to Colonel, who crept in beside him, and curled up snugly at his side. Dick heaved a sigh of satisfaction. "Now we're ready for 'em, old boy," he said, stroking the retriever's silky ears, "and I suppose, if they come in, and I miss 'em, you'll despise me for the rest of your natural life."

Far down the lake, he watched the boat disappearing against the outline of the western shore. In front of him, his little flock of decoys dipped gaily to the breeze, looking so lifelike, that half-closing his eyes, he could almost persuade himself that they were really alive. He glanced at his watch. It was half-past two, and Cluff had said that the flight would begin by three. Yet eager as he was, he did not grudge the time he had to wait. It was pleasant lying there, with the warm sun shining in his face; pleasant to listen to the wind, as it swept through the tree-tops, and to hear the ripple of the tiny waves against the smooth, clean gray of the beach, flecked here and there with foam.

Presently he could see the boat returning, with one figure only at the oars, and he knew that Putnam must be safely tucked away among the marshy sedges, at the other end of the lake. Cluff made for the cove, a short distance to the south, set his decoys, dragged his boat up into the bushes, and disappeared from sight. All was at last in readiness. For the hundredth time, Dick looked at his watch. Five minutes of three. And then, as he glanced up once more toward the north, he shrank down still lower into the stand. A pair of ducks were winging their way up the lake, heading almost directly for the spot where he lay. He watched them eagerly, hardly daring to breathe, and then, little by little, they swerved, flying closer to the water, and finally passed, just out of reach, keeping on toward the cove where Cluff was concealed. All at once, Dick saw them wheel, set their wings, and sweep gracefully in toward the little flock of decoys. "Why doesn't he shoot?" he wondered, "Why doesn't he shoot?"

A puff of smoke leaped from the bushes; a dull report came down upon the wind. One of the ducks towered straight into the air; the other Dick could not see. Then, in a flash, the survivor crumpled up and dropped headlong, motionless, into the waters of the lake. The second report came borne across the water. Dick drew a long breath. "By gracious," he murmured, "he can certainly hit 'em, for fair."

The minutes passed. Then, from across the lake he heard, very faint and far, the sound of Putnam's little twelve gage; and a moment later he saw three ducks flying toward the cove. Would they decoy again? he wondered. Would Cluff get another shot? They seemed to be coming straight on--

"Whew--whew--whew--whew--whew--" came the whistle of flying wings; on the instant he turned his head, and his heart jumped at the sight. Unperceived, a flock of a dozen blackheads had come down along the point, had swung in to him, and now were fairly hovering over the decoys. Quick as thought, his gun was at his shoulder--Bang! Bang! sounded the double report and one duck fell dead to each shot. Dick felt himself trembling like a leaf at the suddenness of it all. Colonel, awaiting the word, lay quivering at his feet, his eyes, glowing like coals, fixed on the ducks, as they lay floating in the water. "Fetch 'em out, old man," Dick cried, and like a shot, the retriever was down the beach, breasting the waves, head and tail high in air, like the sturdy veteran he was. One at a time, he brought them in, and laid them proudly at Dick's feet; then once more crouched in the stand, waiting until his chance should come again.

Nor did they have long to wait. Now, far off in the northern sky, the ducks began to come in a steady flight, flying singly, in pairs, and in flocks of varying size. The marsh ducks, Dick noticed, made, for the most part, straight down the lake, toward the point where Putnam lay hidden in the reeds, and from time to time, the faint report of his companion's gun came to him over the water, though at such a distance that Dick could only guess at what luck he might be having. It was different with Cluff. The cove was so near that Dick could keep a rough account of the number of ducks falling to the farmer's share, and it was seldom indeed that a flock swung into the cove, without leaving one or more of their number behind.

Dick's own aim was scarcely as good. He put a number of good shots to his credit, stopping a pair of widgeon with one barrel, just as they drew together in the air; again knocking three redheads from a flock of five, passing at full speed overhead, without swinging to the decoys; and twice scoring a clean right and left on blackheads as they lowered handsomely to the blind. Yet his kills were offset by some villainous misses, over which he could only shake his head dejectedly, and turn away in shame from the reproachful glance of the retriever's eye. Once, indeed, just at sundown, a flock of about fifty redheads swung in, at just the proper range, just the proper elevation, just the proper everything; and yet somehow, flurried by the magnitude of the opportunity, he waited too long, sighted first at one bird, then at another, and finally fired one ineffectual barrel, just as the last bird in the flock was getting out of range. For a moment he almost wept, and then found a crumb of comfort in the thought that only Colonel was there to see, and that he could not tell of it, even if he would.

All too soon the sun sank behind the hills at the westerly limit of the lake. Dick left the stand, walked around to relieve his cramped muscles, and then counted up his bag. Eight blackheads, five redheads, two widgeon, a black duck and two teal, eighteen in all. He stood regarding them with pride. Now and again in the dusk he could hear the whistle of passing wings overhead; once, halfway down the lake, Cluff and Putnam, returning, fired at some belated flock, and with the report of their guns two jets of living flame leaped upward against the dark. A little later and he could hear the sound of their oars; then presently a dim black shape loomed up ahead and Cluff's friendly hail sounded through the gloom. "Well, son," he called, "I heard you dottin' it into 'em. And I saw there was some that didn't get away. How many did you kill?"

"Eighteen," Dick called back, "and if I'd shot straight I'd have killed forty. How many did you folks get?"

"Jim got fourteen," answered Cluff, "and I scored up twenty-two. Guess maybe Mr. Fenton's going to be a mite surprised. I told you we'd do well. You just wait, now, till I take in these decoys, and we'll come ashore and get you."

They rowed home through the darkness and trudged up the path, well-laden with their spoils, glad when the lights of the farm-house gleamed cheerfully across the clearing, welcome enough in any case, but now suggesting, as well, the thought of supper preparing within. And what a supper it was! Just comfortably tired and hungry, the boys made an onslaught on the fare which surprised even their host, accustomed as he was to the demands of a healthy country appetite. "Well, I don't know," he remarked at last, "I rather thought I had you fellows beat on shooting ducks, but when it comes to putting away turkey I guess you've pretty well squared up the count."

By seven o'clock their horse was at the door, and putting in their guns and their share of the game, they bade good-by to Cluff and his wife, thanking them again and again for their kindness, and set out on their homeward way. They were scarcely as talkative, after the first few miles, as they had been on the way out, but sat in silence, each living the day over again in his mind. Retrospect had taken the place of anticipation, and their pleasure, while perhaps fully as great, was of a kind more tranquil, and less keen. Perhaps, too, the spell of the night quieted their tongues. The full moon rose high in the heavens, putting the stars to rout, and lighting the long, straight road ahead of them almost as clearly as if it had been day. And thus they jogged steadily along in silence until they had traversed the greater part of their journey home. Scarcely a sound had disturbed the quiet of the drive. Now and again they heard the hooting of an owl; once a fox yapped sharply, and in answer there came a distant, long-drawn chorus of barks and howls, as if every dog within a dozen miles was giving answer to the challenge. But of fellow-travelers, either driving or on foot, they saw no sign until they had come within a mile or so of town. Then Dick, half lulled to sleep by the steady, monotonous thud of the mare's feet on the road, started up suddenly, rubbing his eyes, for ahead of them he saw two shadowy figures, one tall, one short, striding along the path in the gloom. "Look at those men, Jim," he said. "I wonder what they're doing out here at this time of night?"

As he spoke the figures rounded a bend in the path and disappeared from sight. And then, before Putnam could answer, all in the same breath, there arose ahead of them a quick, sharp outcry, the sounds of a scuffle, and then a shrill and frightened scream, echoing wildly through the silent forest, "Help! Help!"

As quick as thought Putnam leaned forward, snatched the whip from its socket and brought it down with all his force across the mare's flanks. Old Rosy bounded forward under the blow and Putnam cried, "Load up quick, Dick! Load up your gun!"

It had been Randall's first thought. Even as Putnam uttered the words he reached down, drew out the ten bore from under the seat, slipped in two shells, and sat alert and ready, his body bent a little forward, his weapon across his knees, as they sped forward, the buggy rocking and swaying beneath them like a ship in a gale of wind. A moment later they rounded the curve and Putnam, with a mighty jerk on the reins, pulled the mare back almost to her haunches to avoid running over the huddled group of figures fighting in the road. At the same instant Dick leaped from the buggy and ran forward.

A quick glance revealed the situation. One man was being attacked by three others, while on the outskirts of the group a little boy hovered, terror-stricken, still crying out for help. The man upon the defensive was holding his own manfully. He was tall and active, and made shrewd play with a stout cudgel, apparently his only weapon, striving constantly to prevent his adversaries from attacking him in the rear. Yet three to one was heavy odds; knives gleamed in the moonlight; and while two of the attacking force advanced warily on him the third was creeping stealthily around behind just as the boys appeared on the scene. With a shout Dick leaped forward, discharging his right hand barrel over the heads of the contestants as he ran. The effect of his shot was well-nigh magical. On the instant the three men broke and ran, diving into the bushes as if they knew the country well. The tall man started to follow, fumbling vainly in his pocket as he did so, then drew up with a suppressed cry of pain and turned to his rescuers. "Much obliged," he said. "Just about in time, I guess; they pretty nearly had me--"

He broke off suddenly, lurching unsteadily toward the buggy. "Don't know but what they've done me, now," he muttered.

Dick could see that his face was deathly pale. "Here, Jim," he called, "take him and the boy. Drive right in to the hospital. I'll get back, all right; it isn't far--" He helped the man into the wagon and lifted the boy in behind. Putnam gave the mare a cut with the whip and the buggy shot forward toward the town.

CHAPTER V

[DUNCAN MCDONALD]

On a Saturday afternoon, a fortnight after the shooting trip to the lake, Dick Randall and Jim Putnam, on their way across the yard, came face to face with Harry Allen and Ned Brewster, sauntering leisurely over toward the gym. The day, although the month was December, was warm and clear; the ground lay bare of snow; altogether it was an afternoon when out of doors seemed far more attractive than in.

Allen, halting them, struck an attitude, raised one arm, and started to declaim. "Whither away, whither away--" he began, and then, as Brewster planted a well-aimed blow in the small of his back, he came abruptly to a stop. "Confound you, Ned," he said, "that hurt. Can't you appreciate good poetry? I never saw such a fellow. Well, if I've got to descend to vulgar prose, where do you chaps think you're going, anyway?"

Randall laughed, and in a tone of exaggerated deference, answered, "With your kind permission, Mr. Poet, we are 'whithering away' to the rustic cottage of Mr. McDonald, leader of strike-breakers, who has now recovered, and has been out of the hospital for some days. Mr. McDonald has won his fight; the 'passel o' furriners,' as my friend at the livery stable calls them, has been put to rout, and Mr. McDonald wishes to have an opportunity to thank his gallant rescuers in person. Isn't that what we are, Jim? Gallant rescuers? Of course we are."

Putnam nodded. "Sure," he answered, "of course. At least you are. I don't know whether I can qualify or not. I was driving the mare, you know. But still, on the whole, I believe that took more courage than fighting strikers. Oh, yes, we're heroes, all right, and we're going down to be properly thanked."

Brewster groaned. "My, but you're a chesty pair," he scoffed. "I don't suppose you'd let two ordinary mortals come along and breathe the same air with heroes, would you, now? Harry and I were just saying that the gym doesn't seem to offer much attraction on a day like this."

Randall bowed low. "My dear young men," he said, "if my co-hero, Mr. Putnam, the gentleman on my left, has no objection, we will permit you to go. I think that the sight of virtue rewarded would be a most useful lesson to you both. Perhaps Mr. Tennyson here might immortalize the whole thing in what he thinks is verse."

Brewster mournfully shook his head. "Oh, this is awful," he said, "we'll have to go with them, Harry. I wouldn't trust them alone, now. They're so puffed up that one good gust of wind would blow them clear away, and then we'd be minus our best high jumper, and our star quarter miler. So come on and we'll look after them. It's hard on us, I know, but it's our duty to the school."

They left the yard, walked down past the track, and then struck out straight across the fields on their long tramp. As they left the school boundaries behind them Allen turned quickly to Dick. "Well, all jokes aside," he exclaimed, "your friend's recovered, hasn't he?"

"Yes," Randall answered, "he's all right again now. They hit him a pretty good crack on the arm--broke a bone in his wrist, I believe--and he had a nasty cut in the shoulder, and lost quite a lot of blood. But they fixed him up at the hospital. It wasn't really anything serious."

"How did the boy come into it?" asked Brewster.

"Why," returned Randall, "it was quite a story. The boy was a French Canadian. His mother's dead and he was living alone with his father, up north of the village. The father was one of the strikers, but I guess he was rather a chicken-hearted kind of individual, for when the strike-breakers arrived and things began to look squally he got out of town, and left the little boy up there in the shanty, all alone. McDonald was the head man among the strike-breakers, and in the course of the evening he happened to hear about it and he said right away that he was going up to get the boy. His friends told him he was a fool to do it, but he said no one was going to bother him, anyway, and if they did he guessed he could look out for himself. Well, the strikers got wind of it and three of them laid for him when he was coming back with the boy. He said it was the neatest ambush you could imagine. He was on the watch for them, he thought, and he had a revolver in his pocket, and yet he walked right into them before he knew it. And I imagine he was having about all he wanted when we blew along and pulled off the great rescue scene. So that's all there was to that."

It was a good hour later when they finally came in sight of the cottage, standing by itself, far to the southward of the town. Everything about the place looked neat and clean. There was no sign of McDonald, but a little wisp of smoke curled upward from the chimney, seeming to hang motionless against the still, clear air. Putnam turned to Randall. "Think we've struck the right place, Dick?" he asked.

Dick nodded. "Seems to answer the description," he replied, and then, as they started to climb the fence surrounding the field which lay between them and the cottage he gave a little exclamation of surprise. "Why, for Heaven's sake," he cried, "talk about your track sports. What do you think of that, now?"

The others paused to follow the direction of his gaze. Sure enough, in the center of the field, between them and the cottage, were a set of high-jump standards, a take-off board for the broad jump, a shot ring, and three or four circles for throwing the hammer. They walked hastily forward, and then stopped, wondering, for, allowing for the necessary roughness of the field, everything was arranged in excellent style. Dick examined the ground in front of the standards with a critical eye, then voiced his approval. "The fellow who fixed up this place," he said, "knew his business. I believe, on a dry day like this, I could jump as high here as I could on the field at home. Who on earth do you suppose is interested in athletics around here? Couldn't be McDonald, could it, Jim?"

Putnam shook his head. "No, of course not," he answered. "A man who works in a paper mill all day isn't going to bother to build a place to practise jumping and throwing weights. Some of the boys from the village, most likely, I suppose."

They walked on across the field and knocked at the door of the cottage. Immediately they heard footsteps within, and a moment later McDonald himself appeared on the threshold. He was a tall, active-looking man, splendidly proportioned, with a keen and intelligent face. A slight pallor, and a little stiffness in the way he held his left shoulder, were the only signs which he showed of his recent encounter.

"Come in, come in," he cried, "the whole of you. I'm glad to see you, boys. I had considerable courage to ask you to come way over here, but the doctor wouldn't let me walk to the school, and I wanted to see you before I started back to work, to get a chance to thank you, fair and square, for that night. I guess, if you hadn't happened along, I wouldn't be here now. There isn't much I can do, I'm afraid, in return, only to tell you that I shan't forget it, if I ever have a chance to pay you back for what you did. And I thought--" He rose, took from the mantel two small leather cases, oblong in shape, and held them out to Randall and Putnam, one in either hand. "I thought maybe you'd like to have these for a kind of souvenir--most young fellows nowadays are interested in such things--perhaps, though, you boys aren't--"

The boys took the cases from his hand, pressed the spring which opened them, and the next moment were gazing with delighted surprise at the heavy gold medals within. At the same instant they read the inscriptions upon them, and then, both at once, gave a gasp of surprise, for the name, traced in tiny letters on the gold, below the word "Championship," was that of the man who had been known, a dozen years before, through the length and breadth of the country, as the foremost athlete of his day. Both boys cried out in chorus. "Oh, golly!" from Putnam; and from Dick, "Duncan McDonald! Why, for Heaven's sake! We never guessed--"

There was a moment's silence; McDonald flushing a little under the gaze of frank hero-worship which the four boys bent on him. And then, to break the pause, "Yes, I'm Duncan McDonald," he said, "or what's left of him. Not quite so spry, I guess, as when I won those, but I still answer to the same name."

There was another pause, until Brewster suddenly exclaimed, "Then that's your athletic field out there. We were wondering whose it could be."

McDonald smiled. "Athletic field is rather a big name for it," he answered. "It's a little place I fixed up so that I could go out once in a while, on a Saturday afternoon, and throw weights, and jump, just for the sake of old times. Why, do you boys care for that sort of thing?"

"Do we?" cried Brewster. "Well, I should say we did! You see--" and for ten minutes he talked steadily, telling the story of the cup, the Pentathlon, and everything else concerning the rivalries of the schools. As he finished McDonald nodded. "I see, I see," he said. "Well, that's a nice sporting situation, isn't it? Perhaps I could help you boys out a little, after all. When the weather gets better, along toward spring, if you would send your all-around man--Ellis, did you say his name is--over here, I might be able to show him something about his events. I'd be glad to try, anyway."

"Oh, that would be great," cried Brewster, "that would help a lot, I know. And we've another Pentathlon man right here. We think he'll be almost as good as Ellis by spring. Stand up, Dick, and be counted."

Randall laughed. "Don't talk about Pentathlon men," he said, "in present company. I don't believe Mr. McDonald would see much hope for me."

McDonald eyed him critically. "Well, I 'don't know about that," he said at length. "You've a good build for an all-around man. We all have to make a start. No one gets to be a champion all at once. By and by, if you like, we'll walk over to the field; I'll lend you a pair of spikes and we'll see what you can do. How would you like that?"

Dick's face was sufficient answer. "That would be fine," he replied. "You're mighty kind to offer to do it."

"Yes, indeed," chimed in Brewster, "it might make a big difference to our chances. We'd like nothing better;" and then, suddenly changing the subject, "Mr. McDonald," he asked, "if it isn't an impertinent question, why did you give up athletics? You're not old yet; you must be as good as you ever were. And I should think working in a mill would seem awfully slow, after all the fun you've had."

McDonald smiled. "Well, now, I know how it seems to you boys," he answered. "I can remember just how it looked to me when I was your age. But I'll tell you the honest truth. Athletics are a thing you want to go into for fun, and not for money. If I had my life over again, as the saying is, I'd stop right short where I turned professional, and take up some good trade instead. But of course I couldn't see it then. I was crazy about the game, and I had no money to speak of, so it seemed to be a choice between quitting athletics, or turning 'pro.' And I turned. But I've regretted it ever since. It isn't a sensible profession, you see. It's a job where you're best when you're young, and with every year that's added to your age, there's so much of your capital gone. No, professional athletics don't pay."

The boys looked only half convinced. "But think," said Allen, "of all you've done; and all the places you've seen. If I'd won championships in half a dozen different countries I don't believe I'd swap with any one."

McDonald smiled again. "Oh, I did have a good time, when I was an amateur," he replied, "but all the enjoyment that a fellow gets from looking back on pleasant memories stops right there. After you've turned pro, and are out for the stuff, the good sporting spirit is knocked right out of the thing. You think every man who's competing against you is a robber who's trying to take away your bread and butter, and that spoils most of the fun, to start with. And then a man can hardly make a living if he stays right on the square. There's always a cheap crowd of betting men who keep after a fellow, trying to get him to come in on some game that isn't quite on the level. They've pulled off some funny things, too, first and last.

"I remember one chap I knew who was a corking good shot-putter. He joined forces with a couple of betting men and they certainly rigged up a good plant. It was at a big fair in Canada. The two betting men dressed as farmers, and then they fixed this fellow up in a blue smock, and had him drive a cow into the fair. Oh, they staged the thing fine; and when the shot-putting came off this fellow makes a lot of talk about what he can do, and picks up the shot, and puts it around thirty-three or four feet. Then the two betting men make a holler, and work off a lot of farmer talk about 'that there feller with the caow'--oh, they do it slick, all right--and that begins to make fun, and pretty soon there's an argument started, and the two farmers get excited and fumble around in their pockets and pull out some old, dirty bills; and finally, there are so many wise guys in the crowd looking to make an easy dollar, the money's all put up and covered.

"The farmers breathe much easier after that--the rest of it is just a slaughter. The shot man plays the part, though, just to amuse himself. He gets into the finals--they're putting around thirty-seven feet or so--and then he makes a great holler about spiked shoes, 'them shoes with nails in the bottoms of 'em' he says, and at last he pretends to borrow a pair--which are really his own, that he has given to another of the gang to keep for him--and he stamps around in those, and spits on his hands, and goes though a lot of foolishness, and then steps into the circle and drives her out. Forty-four, ten! And then there's an awful silence in the crowd among the fellows who've bet their money against the man with the cow, and they sneak away kind of quietly, and here and there you'll hear one of them murmur to himself, 'Stung!' And that's professional athletics for you."

The boys had listened breathlessly. "Well," cried Allen, "that was a pretty dirty trick, all right, and yet," he added with a chuckle, "there's something funny about it, too. It isn't like taking in innocent people. The other fellows were out to do the crowd they thought were farmers, and they got about what was coming to them."

McDonald nodded. "Oh, yes, it's diamond cut diamond," he said. "If you bet on anything in this world, it's a good idea to get used to being surprised. But the trouble comes in mixing up a nice, clean game like athletics with such dirty business as that." He hesitated a moment, and then went on, "But it's mighty little right I've got to preach. I've done some things that I regret, and that I'd give a good deal to have undone, if I could. Because when you're right square up against it for your next dollar, or maybe your next dime, it beats all how a man will juggle with his conscience to make a scheme seem right. I'll tell you what I did once, away out west, if you care to hear."

The boys' faces, without their eager assent, would have been enough to tell him that he was speaking to listeners who could talk athletics by the hour, with never a sign of weariness. And presently he began. "This happened a good long time ago. It was in the fall of the year. I was quite a ways from home, and I was discouraged. I'd made application for a training job for the winter in three different colleges, and I'd been turned down, for one reason or another, in all three. It was early in September, just the time for the big fairs, and though the weather was beautiful, there was a kind of frostiness about the mornings that made me think of a cold winter coming back home, and reminded me that I had just two hundred dollars in my clothes, and not another cent in the whole wide world. It certainly seemed to be up to me to make some sort of a play, and to make it quick, while I had the chance.

"There were three or four pretty good men around at these games, and a lot of others not so good, but I wasn't particularly afraid of any of them. I didn't have any great reputation then, to speak of; I'd only turned pro a little while before; and I'd grown a mustache, and no one knew me by sight or name. But I had been training all summer, and I was right at the stage where any athlete, amateur or pro, has the chance of his life to make a killing; when he knows just how good he is, and nobody else in the world except himself does know. Well, I worked things about as well as I could. I went into two good-sized meets, under the name of Alan Stewart, and never won so much as a third place. I managed to finish just short of the money in every event I entered, and then, afterward, I mixed with the betting crowd, and took pains to do a lot of cheap talking. I told them that when I was really in form I was the greatest athlete who ever wore a shoe, and that as soon as I got some money from home I was willing to back up what I said.

"Well, I contrived to make the crowd pretty tired. One of the leading gamblers, a shrewd, wiry little chap, called me down one day in front of the whole bunch. 'Young man,' he said, 'you talk a good deal, and it wearies me. Don't you think, if you kept that mouth of yours shut until you'd earned a dollar to bet on yourself, it would be a good thing for every one, and make the town a pleasanter place to live in?' That pleased the boys, but I pretended to get mad over it, and shook my fist in his face. 'You think,' I said, 'that you can insult me, because you've got money and I haven't; but you just wait; I've wired home to San Francisco for some cash and I'll have it for the Atlasville meet, and then my money'll talk as good as anybody else's.' That didn't rattle him a mite. 'Well,' he came back, 'if it talks half as loud as you do they'll know you're betting, away over in China,' and that pleased the crowd more than ever. So, altogether, I had no trouble in making a reputation as a conceited young fool--I've thought sometimes, since then, that wasn't such a strange thing, after all--and I kept under cover, and lay low for Atlasville.

"It was a nice affair all right. There was a local weight man, a fellow named Brown, who was really good; and Harry King, the high jumper, who was making a regular circuit of the western meets, so altogether it was a pretty classy field, and I had every chance in the world to back my good opinion of myself. It was an old game, of course, but I worked it for all it was worth. As I say, when it's win out or bust, a man's wits are apt to move quicker than they do other times. Among my different bluffs, I struck up a great friendship with a fellow whom I knew to be hand and glove with the betting crowd. I was sure he'd keep them posted on everything that happened, so I made him my confidential friend--had him come out to watch me practice, and told him what a wonder I was, and how I was going to get square with the betting gang for giving me the laugh, and all that sort of thing. Only everything that he saw me do, and everything I told him I could do, was on sort of a mark-down scale. I told him, for instance, that I was going to put the shot forty feet, and high jump five feet, eight, and do the other events in proportion, and that I knew the rest of the men couldn't come near those marks; and all the time I could see how he was jollying me along, and laughing at me up his sleeve, for he knew, of course, just what the other chaps could do, on a pinch, and it was bully fun for him to hear me go on about wiring for money and betting on myself, and cleaning out the crowd, and such talk as that, when he supposed, all the time, that separating me from my roll was just like taking candy from a child.

"So the time went by. Presently my money arrived, or I pretended to have it arrive--as a matter of fact, I fished it out of my inside pocket; and then I went out on a hunt for my gambling friends. I couldn't get quite the odds I wanted--I still had to make a bluff at being awfully confident of myself--but I did pretty well, on the whole, for there were so many of them anxious to get a chance at me that it wasn't a hard job, after all. I put the bulk of the money on the shot and the high jump--I happened to be right at my best in both of those events just then--but I had five or ten dollars on about everything, and some of it at mighty long odds. Well, the day came. I shall never forget it, one of those perfect autumn days, warm without being hot, cool without being cold, if that doesn't sound like a fool way of trying to describe it, and the whole county was at the games. Oh, what wouldn't I have given for a thousand dollars, to keep company with my two hundred, but I didn't know a soul in the place, and I wasn't looking for any free advertising, either. So I let it go at the two hundred.

"I've had days before and since when I've felt good, but that day--well, I was fit to compete for my life. I began the fun with the hammer and broad jump; I kept it up with the pole vault, the caber and the fifty-six; and I finished it with the high jump and the shot-put. I'll never forget the look on my gambler's face when I got down to work on my first try in the shot, and the man at the other end of the tape called out, 'Forty-five eight and a half.' It was a study. And the high jump. They couldn't believe, out that way, that there was a man on earth who could trim Harry King. And he was jumping good, too. We kept together up to six feet, but at six, one and a half, he failed and I got over, on my second try.

"Well, I raked in my prize money, and my bets--I'd cleaned up between seven and eight hundred dollars, all told--and the next day I started east. I was feeling pretty good till I'd got about ten miles from town, and then I took the local paper out of my pocket and started to read the sporting news. Right there was where my good opinion of myself experienced a shock. For what should I find but a very nice write-up on Mr. Alan Stewart, describing him as the most promising young athlete yet seen in the West, and going on to say that as a matter of local pride, it would be an interesting thing to see Mr. Stewart matched for a series of events with Mr. Duncan McDonald, the eastern champion. Just at first I laughed, and then I stopped and began to think. And the more I thought, the less I seemed to fancy myself. I never did a thing like that again, and I can tell you, boys, once more, the pro game in athletics is no good."

His audience had sat listening with the keenest interest. There was a little pause and then Allen spoke. "Well," he said, "it was the same principle, of course, as the man with the cow. But, somehow, I don't think that was such a terrible thing to do. You weren't deceiving innocent people. You were up against a crowd of gamblers who wouldn't have had any scruples about doing you out of your money, and you relieved them of theirs, instead. And I think," he added, "that the part about matching you against McDonald was great. I call that really humorous."

McDonald nodded assent. "It did have kind of a funny side," he admitted. "And I don't mean I felt ashamed of myself because I considered it really a wicked thing to do, because I didn't. But look here--well, it's hard to express--those two medals I gave you boys to-day were won when I was an amateur, good and straight. There's no taint to them. I was in the game then for the fun of it. And I certainly liked athletics. I don't believe any man who ever lived liked them better than I did. And so, to get mixed up in the pro game, well, I felt the way I did once about a man I knew--a big, fine-looking chap, brave as a lion--who served in the British army. He got into trouble, no matter how, and disappeared, and I never heard of him again for years, until a friend of mine ran across him down in South America--a soldier of fortune, waiting for some little tuppenny rebellion to come along, to put a job in his way. Well, you know, that seemed bad to me--I didn't like to hear it--and so, about myself, I felt as if getting into this betting game, and all that, I was kind of disgracing my colors--you know what I mean--"

The boys nodded in quick sympathy. McDonald rose. "Well, I'm getting to be a regular old woman," he said apologetically. "My tongue's running away with me. Let's step over to the field and try a little athletics, for a change. Here's my outfit, in here."

He threw open a closet door, disclosing upon the floor three or four shots, two hammers, a fifty-six pound weight, several pairs of spiked shoes--clear evidence that he still retained, as he had said, his native love of the game. "Now, then," he said, "if one of you will take a shot, I'll take the light hammer, and Randall here can pick out a pair of shoes; then we'll be all right to start. Hullo, here's Joe."

As he spoke, the door opened, and a little boy of nine or ten, dark and swarthy, with big, wide-open, black eyes, peered into the room; then, seeing the visitors, promptly dodged out again. McDonald laughed. "That's the little fellow you heard yelling for help that night," he explained. "No one seemed to want him, and his father hasn't been heard from since, so I've kind of adopted him, for the present. He's a good little chap, and smart as a steel-trap. But shy as a squirrel when he sees strangers around."

Once arrived at the field, McDonald proceeded to put Dick through his paces. He watched him high-jump with great approval. "Good, man, good!" he cried. "You've got an elegant spring, and a very nice style, besides. I'll have you jumping fine, by next May." But over Dick's shot-putting he was not so enthusiastic, and at the hammer-throwing he shook his head. "No, no," he cried, "you haven't got the first principles. You stand wrong. Your weight is wrong. You swing wrong. You do everything wrong. Here, let me show you. I wish I dared throw, myself, but I suppose I'd rip my shoulder open. Now look--"

For ten minutes he explained, illustrated, had Dick throw, again and again. And finally he good-humoredly gave it up. "I can show you," he said. "But you've thrown the wrong way so long that it's going to be a job. Let the hammer go, for the next month or two, and when spring comes we'll go at it. I'll have you so you'll be throwing a hundred and seventy feet. No reason in the world why you shouldn't. It's like all the other things. It's knack--knack--knack--that counts. You've got weight and size enough to throw it, and when I get the double turn drilled into you we'll surprise some of these boys from the other schools. You see if we don't."

The afternoon shadows were lengthening across the fields as the boys started on their homeward way. And all through the tramp their tongues wagged ceaselessly of their new friend, his accomplishments, his interest, the medals he had given his rescuers, and most of all, how much his knowledge might mean to them, and to their chances in carrying off in triumph the coveted cup. Truly, it had been an eventful day.

CHAPTER VI

[A QUESTION OF RIGHT AND WRONG]

An air of gloom hung over the breakfast-room. Search as one might, up and down the long tables, it would have been hard to find one smiling countenance. Most of the boys were eating absent-mindedly, as if they had small relish for their food; their foreheads were wrinkled and knotted, as if their thoughts were far away. To any one at all acquainted with school affairs, the trouble was not far to seek. The first day of the mid tear examinations was at hand.

Of all these troubled faces, perhaps Dave Ellis' was the most moody and depressed. English Thirteen--how he dreaded it! He had sat up almost all night, in defiance of the rules, stealthily flashing an electric bull's-eye on his notes, and now, with aching head and jaded nerves, he was paying the penalty. His brain was in confusion. Names of books and authors sang themselves over and over in his mind. Now an absurd, annoying jingle, "Fielding, Smollett, Richardson; Fielding Smollett, Richardson;" and then, no sooner had he managed to stop the monotonous refrain than off it went again, "Dickens, Trollope, Thackeray; Dickens, Trollope, Thackeray." He groaned, turned desperately to his cup of coffee, gulped down half of it at once, scalded himself, and then--it was all of no avail--the tune began once more. Suddenly, and without warning, he thought of another name, and to his horror, everything connected with it had gone wholly from his mind. He glanced despairingly across the table at Allen. "Harry," he cried, "for goodness' sake, what school did Jane Austen belong to? And what did she write?"

Allen gazed gravely back at him. "Jane Austen?" he repeated. "Why, she was the head of the Romantic school. She wrote The Maniac's Deed, and Tracked to his Doom, and The Bandit's Revenge. She's been called the founder of the Modern Romance--Old Sleuth, you know, and Nick Carter--"

Ellis had sat listening, his mouth a little open, his eyes troubled, his whole expression a study in amazed bewilderment. Two or three of the boys snickered, and at once he came to his senses. "Oh, shut up, Harry," he cried, "that's an awfully dirty trick--to jolly a fellow that way. If you felt as rotten as I do--"

Allen relented. "Well, excuse me, Dave," he said, "but you know what she wrote, just as well as I do, if you'd only stop to think. She was the great realist. Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, all that list."

Ellis' face cleared. "Oh, yes," he said hastily, "of course. Mansfield Park, Emma, and some kind of an Abbey; I've got 'em all in my notes. But what if it had come on the exam? I never would have remembered it in the world. Confound English Thirteen. I'm going to flunk; I know I am."

With a sigh he returned to his half-finished breakfast. Then, looking around him, "Pass the salt, Randall," he said, none too pleasantly.

On Dick, himself in none too amiable a frame of mind, the tone jarred. He paused, his hand on the salt-cellar. "Did I hear you say 'please?'" he questioned.

Ellis' face flushed. "Oh, don't be a fool," he cried, "if you had the things to bother you that I have, you wouldn't be so particular. Please--please--please--as many times as you like, only pass it, anyway."

Dick complied. "Well, you needn't make such a row about your hard times," he retorted. "I can't see that you're any worse off than any one else. These confounded mid-years. They put us all in the same boat."

Ellis scowled. "Oh, you don't know everything," he grumbled. "I guess if you--"

He pulled himself up sharply, and went on with his breakfast. Five minutes later, as they filed out of the hall, Allen drew Dick to one side. "Say," he whispered, "what's our friend Dave got on his mind? He's awfully down in the mouth lately. Has he ever tried to borrow any money of you?"

Dick looked at his friend in some surprise. "Why, yes," he answered rather unwillingly, "he has. I told him I was sorry, but I didn't have any I could spare. Why, has he tried you, too?"

Allen nodded. "Sure," he answered briefly, "and Steve Lindsay, and Ned Brewster. I guess that's where the trouble is. He must be in some sort of a money scrape, and that and the mid-years together have got him feeling pretty blue. Anyway, it looks like that to me."

Half an hour later the unfortunates who took English Thirteen assembled in the upper hall. It was Dick's first examination of importance since he had been in the school, and he felt extremely nervous. His mouth was dry; his heart was pounding against his ribs. To divert his mind he looked around the room to see where his friends were seated. Brewster and Putnam were far away, across the room. Lindsay was three seats to his right. Dave Ellis was in the next seat, on his left, and Allen was stationed directly behind Ellis.

The nine o'clock bell rang, and Mr. Fenton mounted the platform. "Now, boys," he said cheerfully, "just a word, before we begin. This paper, for the period which it covers, is fully as hard as the average of the college entrance examinations. Yet, as a test, it is a perfectly fair one, in every way; an honest attempt to find out how much you know of the course. There are no catch questions, or anything of that sort. So go to work in good earnest. Read the paper through from beginning to end before you touch pencil to paper; don't lose your heads; take your time in thinking out your answers. And if there are questions which you can't answer, they will at least show you where your weak points are, before the final examinations next spring."

A minute later, the last paper had been distributed. Dick read the questions through, slowly and deliberately, as the master had suggested, and then drew a long breath of relief. It was a "fair" paper, as Mr. Fenton had said; none too easy, but to a boy who had taken an interest in the course, and had kept up with references and outside reading, one almost certain to be passed, and to be attacked with real interest and enthusiasm. Allen and he had prepared for the examination together, and Dick saw more than one question where his classmate's devotion to his "old poets," as Jim Putnam called them, was now to serve him in good stead. For the better part of an hour, he wrote steadily; and then, with the easier questions out of the way, used greater deliberation in answering those which remained.

Once or twice, as Dick glanced up from his work, he noticed, half abstractedly, that Ellis, on his left, was sitting always in the same position, gazing straight before him at his paper, without writing a word. And then, a little later, as he was about to begin on the question next the last, a faint cough from his neighbor, three or four times repeated, attracted his attention. He looked up from his book, and the next instant a little ball of paper came spinning along the bench, so well aimed that it stopped just at the left of his examination book, lying almost within his grasp. Dick hesitated for a moment, leaned forward a trifle, unfolded the pellet, and read. At the top, three times underlined, were the words, "Help, please," and then, underneath, "Who wrote Barry Lyndon? When was Fielding born? Did Trollope write The Moonstone?" Below each question Ellis had left a little space for the answer.

Dick felt himself flush, almost as if he himself had been detected in something wrong. With a quick movement, he thrust the telltale slip into his pocket; then waiting until he caught Ellis' eye, he frowned slightly, shook his head in decided negative, and bent again to his task.

He finished the paper some twenty minutes before the time had expired, re-read his answers with care, and made up his mind that no matter what his mark would be, he had at least done as well as he could. He sat back in his chair, and looked around him. Most of the boys were still hard at work. And then, as his glance fell upon his neighbor, he gave an involuntary start of surprise. Ellis was writing busily, as if his very life depended on it, yet even as Dick looked, he saw him pause, and tug gently at his left sleeve with the fingers of his right hand. Gradually, he pulled a long slip of paper into view, studied it carefully for a moment, then relaxed his hold, and the paper, evidently fastened to an elastic of some sort, slid smoothly back again out of sight. Dick looked quickly away, a feeling of disgust overcoming him. He had heard of such things, but this was the first time he had seen actual cheating taking place before his very eyes. Ten minutes later the bell clanged, papers and books were gathered up, and the test was over.

The mid-years lasted for a week; at the end of that time the results were made known. Dick did fully as well as he had expected. Out of a total of seven subjects, he had one A, three B's, two C's, and one D. Harry Allen topped the list with five A's and two B's; Brewster did a trifle better than Dick; Putnam and Lindsay not quite so well. But the surprise of the whole affair was Ellis' good showing. It was nothing brilliant, compared with the records of the really fine scholars in the class, but he did far better than any one had supposed he would do, and in those subjects where memory played an important part, his marks were fully equal to the average. Thus all doubts of his being eligible for the spring games were removed, and Brewster, as captain of the track team, heaved a sigh of relief that this anxiety was off his mind.

Dick found himself unable to share in Brewster's pleasure. The thought of that strip of paper, and those cautious fingers pulling it gently downward, rankled in his mind. He wondered what a fellow ought to do in such a case. He ought not to tell tales, of course; that wasn't right; and yet--it was such a downright, dirty trick on Ellis' part--such a sailing under false colors--

And then, one morning, he found his perplexities increased. In the excitement of the mid-years, he had forgotten another matter of importance, and now, on the bulletin in the hall, appeared the notice that in a fortnight the election for class president would be held. Only two names were put in nomination--those of Dave Ellis and of Harry Allen--and suddenly Dick felt his doubts increase. Ought he to keep silence, after all? It was a mean thing to tell on a fellow--he had always known that--but on the other hand, where could you draw the line. If he saw a man commit a murder, he would certainly tell the authorities. There was a duty in both directions, it seemed. And so he thought and thought, until finally, on one rainy afternoon, he gathered his four most intimate friends--Allen, Putnam, Brewster and Lindsay--together in his room, and proceeded to unburden his mind.

"Look here, you chaps," he began, "I want your advice. This is my first year in the school, and the last thing I want to do is to butt in, or to make a nuisance of myself. But I'm in a mix-up about this business of class president, and I want to put the thing up to you fellows, and see what you think of it. Of course, I'm with Harry, as you all know, just as the rest of you are, but we're not the school--I'm afraid, this time, we're not even a majority of the school--and I suppose the chances are all in favor of Dave's getting it."

Allen nodded. "Sure thing," he replied, "I think I know the sentiment pretty well. There are forty-two fellows in the class, who are entitled to vote, and I should say that just about twenty-five were for Dave, and seventeen were for me. Of course you never can tell, for sure, until the last vote is counted, but I guess that's a pretty fair estimate. What do you fellows say?" and he turned to Putnam, Lindsay and Brewster.

"That's about it, I think," Putnam answered, and the others nodded assent.

"Well, then," Dick continued, "here's the question. In the first place, Dave Ellis isn't a fit fellow to be president of the class. I know it, for a fact. A class president is supposed to represent the school; it's really the highest honor the class can give; and the fellow we elect, whatever else people might find to say about him, ought at least to be square. Now, I'll admit that I'm prejudiced against Dave, because he rather rubbed it into me when I came here first, and it didn't make things any too agreeable, for a while. But that's got nothing at all to do with what I'm telling you now. This is something more than prejudice. Dave isn't on the square, and I can prove it. He cheated in the English Thirteen exam."

There was a chorus of surprised ejaculation. Allen alone said nothing. And then Brewster asked, "How, Dick? Are you sure? That's a pretty serious charge to make against a fellow, if you can't back it up."

But Dick seemed in nowise disposed to retract what he had said. "Oh, I can back it up, all right," he answered. "First, he threw me a note, asking for help. And after that I saw him pull a paper out of his sleeve--you know the kind I mean, the ones they fasten to an elastic--and he was cribbing his answers from that. I saw him as plainly as I ever saw anything in my life. I'd swear to it, on my oath. There's no doubt of it at all."

There was a long silence. Then Dick spoke again. "Well," he asked, "what ought I to do? What ought we to do, rather? Because it's up to you fellows now, just as much as it is to me. You represent the element that stands right back of Mr. Fenton here in the school. What's the best way to act? We can't go to Mr. Fenton, of course; that would be a kid trick; worse than what Dave did. But oughtn't we to tell the fellows? Isn't it only fair, if they want to elect him president, to let them know first what kind of fellow they're picking out to represent the class? Or ought we to go to Dave himself, before we do anything else, and tell him that if he'll withdraw from the election, and promise not to cheat again, we'll keep our mouths shut on the whole thing? I don't know. I've thought about it a lot. People always tell you to do what's right, but they forget to explain how you're going to know what is right, and what's wrong. So I've come to you fellows to help me out. Now what do you say?"

There was a little silence before Brewster spoke out impulsively, "I vote we tell the whole school. It isn't right that a thing like that should happen, and a fellow get away with it. It's a downright dirty trick, I think. I move we tell the whole crowd, right away."

Putnam shook his head. "No," he objected; "that would be foolish. It's the worst mistake you can make to blaze ahead too quick, before you've figured out the things that may happen. Suppose Dave denies the whole business, what then?"

Dick's cheeks flamed. "Why, Jim," he cried; "you don't think I'm lying, do you? You don't mean to say you doubt my word?"

Putnam smiled. "Of course I don't, Dick," he answered. "I know you too well for that. But I was thinking of what I've heard my father say, when he's been talking about his law cases. 'Put yourself in the other fellow's place,' is his great expression, 'and see what you'd do then. That will help you in working up your side of the argument.' And that's a good idea, isn't it, Harry?"

Allen nodded. "Sure," he replied; "they do something like that in literary criticism. 'Playing the devil's advocate,' they call it. Which means thinking up all the possible objections any one might make, and then going ahead and demolishing them. Yes, that's a good principle to go on."

"Well, then," continued Putnam, "here's what occurs to me. Suppose we do as Ned says, and spread the story through the school. Some one of Dave's friends will come running to him with it right away, and what's Dave going to do then? What's to prevent him from saying that Dick is lying--that Dick's a friend of Harry's, and that this is all a dodge to get Harry elected? And if he does do that, then how does Dick stand? Dave's got an awful following here in the school, and there are some of the fellows, I'm afraid, who wouldn't care a great deal whether he cheated or not. They might consider it was rather a brave thing to try a dodge like that, and carry it through without the master seeing him. And even the decent fellows, who wouldn't stand for such a thing--what are they going to believe? It's Dave's word against Dick's and if they believe Dave, it puts Dick in an awful hole. They're going to say, 'Here's a new boy in the school, who's trying to make all the trouble he can. And he picks out the best athlete we've got, and tries to blackmail him. That's an awfully mean trick, and we'll see that we make the school too hot to hold him?' What do you say to that, Dick?"

Dick looked a little staggered. "Well, I hadn't thought of anything like that," he reluctantly admitted. "I hated to mix up in this thing anyway; yet it didn't seem right to let it slide, without saying a word. And if you go through the world on your principle, Jim, you'll always be keeping quiet, unless you're sure you can prove what you set out to prove. And there are times, I should think, even when you know you're going down to defeat, where you would have to speak out, just because it's the right thing to do. At least, I should think that was what Mr. Fenton would say."

Lindsay, usually a boy of the fewest possible words, spoke up quickly. "You're right, Dick," he said. "This is too important a thing for us to let go. Whether you get into trouble or not, isn't the point. It's a question of our duty to the school. Let's get Dave in here, now, and see how he acts. He may get scared, and own up to everything. If he doesn't, then we can make up our minds what we ought to do next. What say, Harry?"

Allen had been unusually silent, although listening with the keenest interest to all that was being said. Now he nodded. "I think that's a good idea," he said.

Lindsay rose. "Any objection?" he asked of the room in general. No one answered, and he went out, and a few moments later returned, bringing Ellis with him.

If the boy who was about to be accused had any suspicions of what was going to take place, he concealed them admirably. "Hullo, fellows," he said; "what's this gathering for? Track team, or crew?"

Lindsay, acting as spokesman, wasted no time in beating about the bush. "It's neither, Dave," he said at once, "it's a meeting on the class presidency."

Ellis smiled. "Rather an Allen crowd, I guess," he remarked. "I don't see what you want me for. I'm going to vote for myself, I'll tell you that now. So Harry needn't waste any politeness on me; he can vote for himself, too, and then we'll be square."

He had thrown himself back into a chair, perhaps a little too elaborately at his ease. Lindsay spoke again. "We're not here in Harry's interests, Dave," he said quietly, "we're here in the interests of the school. We believe you have the better chance of being elected president, but there's a matter that we should like to have explained. We want the president of the class to be a fellow above suspicion in every way, and we want to ask you whether it is true that you were seen to cheat in the examination in English Thirteen?"

Ellis looked at him with well-assumed indignation. "I? Cheat?" he echoed; "well, I guess not. Who the devil dares to say such a thing as that about me? I'll punch his head for him."

Lindsay turned to Randall. "Fire away, Dick," he said.

Dick did not flinch, but looked Ellis squarely in the eye. "I was telling these fellows, Dave," he said, "that I didn't think you were the man to represent the class as president. I've told no one else, but I've told them, in confidence, what you did in the English Thirteen exam. That you first asked me for help, and then cribbed from that paper up your sleeve--"

He got no further. Ellis leaped to his feet, his face white with wrath. "You liar!" he cried.

Dick in his turn started from his seat, his face as angry as Ellis' own. "Hold on," he cried sternly. "I don't like that word, Dave. You'd better take that back."

Ellis sneered. "Not by a long shot," he answered, "that's what you are. And how you've got the nerve to start a story like that--"

Dick drew a little piece of paper from his pocket, and handed it to the boy he was accusing. "You didn't pass me that in the exam?" he demanded.

Ellis' denial was almost too ready. "Of course I didn't," he flung back, "that's not my writing. I never saw the paper before. I never cheated in an examination in my life. You're playing dirty politics, Randall, to help Allen; that's what you're doing. But you can go ahead. It won't hurt me. I'll tell the story myself, to every boy in the school, and they can judge who's lying, and who isn't. You'd like to see me in a scrape, I guess, so you might have a chance at the Pentathlon, with me out of it. Oh, I'm on to you and your schemes--"