[“Like a white streak, Perry breasted the string”]

THE
PURPLE PENNANT

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “THE SECRET PLAY,” “THE LUCKY SEVENTH,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY

NORMAN P. ROCKWELL

NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1916

Copyright, 1916, by

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE PURPLE PENNANT

CHAPTER I
FUDGE IS INTERRUPTED

“‘Keys,’” murmured Fudge Shaw dreamily, “‘please’—‘knees’—‘breeze’—I’ve used that—‘pease’—‘sneeze’—Oh, piffle!” His inspired gaze returned to the tablet before him and he read aloud the lines inscribed thereon:

“O Beauteous Spring, thou art, I ween,

The best of all the Seasons,

Because you clothe the Earth with green

And for numerous other reasons.

“You make the birds sing in the trees,

The April breeze to blow,

The Sun to shine——”

“‘The Sun to shine——,’” he muttered raptly, “‘The Sun to shine’; ‘squeeze’—‘tease’—‘fleas’—— Gee, I wish I hadn’t tried to rhyme all the lines. Now, let’s see: ‘You make the birds——’”

“O Fudge! Fudge Shaw!”

Fudge raised his head and peered through the young leaves of the apple-tree in which he was perched, along the side yard to where, leaning over the fence, was a lad of about Fudge’s age. The visitor alternately directed his gaze toward the tree and the house, for it was Sunday afternoon and Perry Hull was doubtful of the propriety of hailing his friend in week-day manner.

“Hello, Perry, come on in!” called Fudge. And thereupon he detached the “Ode to Spring” from the tablet, hastily folded it and put it in his pocket. When Perry climbed the ladder which led to the platform some eight feet above the ground Fudge was in the act of closing a Latin book with a tired air.

“What are you doing?” asked Perry. He was a nice-looking chap of fifteen, with steady dark-brown eyes, hair a shade or two lighter and a capable and alert countenance. He swung himself lithely over the rail instead of crawling under, as was Fudge’s custom, and seated himself on the narrow bench beyond the books.

“Sort of studying,” answered Fudge, ostentatiously shoving the books further away and scowling distastefully at them. “Where have you been?”

“Just moseying around. Peach of a day, isn’t it?”

It was. It had rained until nearly dinner time, and grass and leaves were still beaded with moisture which an ardent April sun was doing its best to burn away. It was the first spring-like day in over a week of typical April weather during which Clearfield had remained under gray skies. Fudge assented to Perry’s observation, but it was to be seen that his thoughts were elsewhere. His lips moved soundlessly. Perry viewed him with surprise and curiosity, but before he could demand an explanation of his host’s abstraction Fudge burst forth triumphantly.

“‘B-b-bees!’” exclaimed Fudge. (Excitement always caused him to stammer, a fact which his friends were aware of and frequently made use of for their entertainment.) Perry involuntarily ducked his head and looked around.

“Where?” he asked apprehensively.

“Nowhere.” Fudge chuckled. “I was just thinking of something.”

“Huh!” Perry settled back again. “You’re crazy, I guess. Better come for a walk and you’ll feel better.”

“Can’t.” Fudge looked gloomily at the books. “Got to study.”

“Then I’ll beat it.”

“Hold on, can’t you? You don’t have to go yet. I—there isn’t such an awful hurry.” The truth was that Fudge was not an enthusiastic pedestrian, a fact due partly to his physical formation and partly to a disposition contemplative rather than active. Nature had endowed Fudge—his real name, by the way, was William—with a rotund body and capable but rather short legs. Walking for the mere sake of locomotion didn’t appeal to him. He would have denied indignantly that he was lazy, and, to do him justice, he wasn’t. With Fudge it was less a matter of laziness than discrimination. Give him something to do that interested him—such as playing baseball or football—and Fudge would willingly, enthusiastically work his short legs for all that was in them, but this thing of deliberately tiring oneself out with no sensible end in view—well, Fudge couldn’t see it! He had a round face from which two big blue eyes viewed the world with a constant expression of surprise. His hair was sandy-red, and he was fifteen, almost sixteen, years old.

“It’s too nice a day to sit around and do nothing,” objected Perry. “Why don’t you get your studying done earlier?”

“I meant to, but I had some writing to do.” Fudge looked important. Perry smiled slightly. “I finished that story I told you about.”

“Did you?” Perry strove to make his question sound interested. “Are you going to have it printed?”

“Maybe,” replied the other carelessly. “It’s a pippin, all right, Perry! It’s nearly fourteen thousand words long! What do you know about that, son? Maybe I’ll send it to the Reporter and let them publish it. Or maybe I’ll send it to one of the big New York magazines. I haven’t decided yet. Dick says I ought to have it typewritten; that the editors won’t read it unless it is. But it costs like anything. Morris Brent has a typewriter and he said I could borrow it, but I never wrote on one of the things and I suppose it would take me a month to do it, eh? Seems to me if the editors want good stories they can’t afford to be so plaguey particular. Besides, my writing’s pretty easy reading just as soon as you get used to it.”

“You might typewrite the first two or three sheets,” suggested Perry, with a chuckle, “and then perhaps the editor would be so anxious to know how it ended he’d keep right on. What are you going to call it, Fudge?”

Fudge shook his head. “I’ve got two or three good titles. ‘The Middleton Mystery’ is one of them. Then there’s ‘Young Sleuth’s Greatest Case.’ I guess that’s too long, eh?”

“I like the first one better.”

“Yes. Then I thought of ‘Tracked by Anarchists.’ How’s that sound to you?”

“‘The Meredith Mystery’ is the best,” replied Perry judicially.

“‘Middleton,’” corrected Fudge. “Yep, I guess it’ll be that. I told that fellow Potter about it and he said if I’d let him take it he’d see about getting it published in the Reporter. He’s a sort of an editor, you know. But I guess the Reporter isn’t much of a paper, and a writer who’s just starting out has to be careful not to cheapen himself, you see.”

“Will he pay you for it?” asked Perry.

“He didn’t say. I don’t suppose so. Lots of folks don’t get paid for their first things, though. Look at—look at Scott; and—and Thackeray, and—lots of ’em! You don’t suppose they got paid at first, do you?”

“Didn’t they?” asked Perry in some surprise.

“Oh, maybe Thackeray got a few dollars,” hedged Fudge, “but what was that? Look what he used to get for his novels afterwards!”

Perry obligingly appeared deeply impressed, although he secretly wondered what Thackeray did get afterwards. However, he forebore to ask, which was just as well, I fancy. Instead, tiring of Fudge’s literary affairs, he observed: “Well, I hope they print it for you, anyway. And maybe they’ll take another one and pay for that. Say, aren’t you going out for baseball, Fudge?”

“Oh, I’m going out, I guess, but it won’t do any good. I don’t intend to sit around on the bench half the spring and then get fired. The only place I’d stand any chance of is the outfield, and I suppose I don’t hit well enough to make it. You going to try?”

Perry shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I can’t play much. Warner Jones told me the other day that if I’d come out he’d give me a good chance. I suppose he thinks I can play baseball because I was on the Eleven.”

“Well, gee, if you could get to first you’d steal all the other bases, I’ll bet,” said Fudge admiringly. “You sure can run, Perry!”

“Y-yes, and that makes me think that maybe I could do something on the Track Team. What do you think, Fudge?”

“Bully scheme! Go out for the sprints! Ever try the hundred?”

“No, I’ve never run on the track at all. How fast ought I to run the hundred yards, Fudge, to have a show?”

“Oh, anything under eleven seconds would do, I suppose. Maybe ten and four-fifths. Know what you can do it in?”

“No, I never ran it. I’d like to try, though.”

“Why don’t you? Say, I’ve got a stop-watch in the house. You wait here and I’ll get it and we’ll go over to the track and——”

“Pshaw, I couldn’t run in these clothes!”

“Well, you can take your coat and vest off, can’t you? And put on a pair of sneakers? Of course, you can’t run as fast, but you can show what you can do. Perry, I’ll just bet you anything you’ve got the making of a fine little sprinter! You wait here; I won’t be a minute.”

“But it’s Sunday, Fudge, and the field will be locked, and—and you’ve got your lessons——”

“They can wait,” replied Fudge, dropping to the ground and making off toward the side door. “We’ll try the two-twenty, too, Perry!”

He disappeared and a door slammed. Perry frowned in the direction of the house. “Silly chump!” he muttered. Then he smiled. After all, why not? He did want to know if he could run, and, if they could get into the field, which wasn’t likely, since it was Sunday and the gates would be locked, it would be rather fun to try it! He wondered just how fast ten and four-fifths seconds was. He wished he hadn’t done so much walking since dinner, for he was conscious that his legs were a bit tired. At that moment in his reflections there came a subdued whistle from the house and Fudge waved to him.

“Come on,” he called in a cautious whisper. “I’ve got it. And the sneakers, too.” He glanced a trifle apprehensively over his shoulder while he awaited Perry’s arrival and when the latter had joined him he led the way along the side path in a quiet and unostentatious manner suggesting a desire to depart unobserved. Once out of sight of the house, however, his former enthusiasm returned. “We’ll climb over the fence,” he announced. “I know a place where it isn’t hard. Of course, we ought to have a pistol to start with, but I guess it will do if I just say ‘Go!’” He stopped indecisively. “Gordon has a revolver,” he said thoughtfully. “We might borrow it. Only, maybe he isn’t home. I haven’t seen him all day.”

“Never mind, we don’t need it,” said Perry, pulling him along. “He’d probably want to go along with us, Fudge, and I don’t want any audience. I dare say I won’t be able to run fast at all.”

“Well, you mustn’t expect too much the first time,” warned the other. “A chap’s got to be in condition, you know. You’ll have to train and—and all that. Ever do any hurdling?”

“No, and I don’t think I could.”

“It isn’t hard once you’ve caught the knack of it. I was only thinking that if you had plenty of steam you might try sprints and hurdles both. All we’d have to do would be to set the hurdles up. I know where they’re kept. Then——”

“Now, look here,” laughed Perry, “I’m willing to make a fool of myself trying the hundred-yard dash, Fudge, but I’m not going to keep you entertained all the rest of the afternoon.”

“All right, we’ll just try the hundred and the two-twenty.”

“No, we won’t either. We’ll just try the hundred. Will those shoes fit me? And oughtn’t they to have spikes?”

“Sure, they ought, but they haven’t. We’ll have to make allowance for that, I guess. And they’ll have to fit you because they’re all we’ve got. I guess you wear about the same size that I do. Here we are! Now we’ll go around to the Louise Street side; there’s a place there we can climb easily.”

CHAPTER II
THE TRY-OUT

The High School Athletic Field—it was officially known as Brent Field—occupied two whole blocks in the newer part of town. The school had used it for a number of years, but only last summer, through the generosity of Mr. Jonathan Brent, Clearfield’s richest and most prominent citizen, had it come into actual possession of the field. The gift had been as welcome as unexpected and had saved the school from the difficult task of finding a new location for its athletic activities. But, unfortunately, the possession of a large tract of ground in the best residential part of the town was proving to have its drawbacks. The taxes were fairly large, repairs to stands and fences required a constant outlay, the field itself, while level enough, was far from smooth, and the cinder track, a make-shift affair at the beginning, stood badly in need of reconstruction. Add to these expenses the minor ones of water rent, insurance on buildings and care-taking and you will see that the Athletic Association had something to think about.

The town folks always spoke of it as “the town,” although it was, as a matter of fact, a city and boasted of over seventeen thousand inhabitants—supported the High School athletic events, notably football and baseball, generously enough, but it was already evident to those in charge that the receipts from gridiron and diamond attractions would barely keep the field as it was and would not provide money for improvements. There had been some talk of an endowment fund from Mr. Brent, but whether that gentleman had ever said anything to warrant the rumor or whether it had been started by someone more hopeful than veracious was a matter for speculation. At any rate, no endowment fund had so far materialized and the Athletic Committee’s finances were at a low ebb. Two sections of grandstand had been replaced in the fall, and that improvement promised to be the last for some time, unless, as seemed improbable, the Committee evolved some plan whereby to replenish its treasury. Various schemes had been suggested, such as a public canvass of the town and school. To this, however, Mr. Grayson, the Principal, had objected. It was not, he declared, right to ask the citizens to contribute funds for such a purpose. Nor would he allow a petition to the Board of Education. In fact, Mr. Grayson as good as said that now that the school had been generously presented with an athletic field it was up to the school to look after it. Raising money amongst the students he had no objection to, but the amount obtainable in that manner was too small to make it worth while. The plan of raising the price of admission to baseball and football from twenty-five cents to fifty was favored by some, while others feared that it would keep so many away from the contests that there would be no profit in it. In short, the Committee was facing a difficult problem and with no solution in sight. And the field, from its patched, rickety, high board fence to grandstands and dressing-rooms, loudly demanded succor. Fudge voiced the general complaint when, having without difficulty mounted the fence and dropped to the soggy turf inside, followed more lithely by Perry Hull, he viewed the cinder track with disfavor. The recent rain had flooded it from side to side, and, since it was lower than the ground about it and had been put down with little or no provision for drainage, inch-deep puddles still lingered in the numerous depressions.

“We can’t practice here,” said Perry.

“Wouldn’t that agonize you?” demanded Fudge. “Gee, what’s the good of having an athletic field if you can’t keep it up? This thing is g-g-going to be a regular w-w-white elephant!”

“It looks pretty soppy, doesn’t it?” asked Perry. “I guess we’d better wait until it’s drier. I don’t mind running, but I wasn’t counting on having to swim!”

“Maybe it’s better on the straightaway,” responded Fudge more cheerfully. “We’ll go over and see.”

As luck had it, it was drier on the far side of the field, and Fudge advanced the plea that by keeping close to the outer board Perry could get along without splashing much. Perry, however, ruefully considered his Sunday trousers and made objections.

“But it isn’t mud,” urged Fudge. “It’s just a little water. That won’t hurt your trousers a bit. And you can reef them up some, too. Be a sport, Perry! Gee, I’d do it in a minute if I could!”

“Guess that’s about what I’ll do it in,” said the other. “Well, all right. Here goes. Give me the sneakers.”

“Here they are. Guess we’d better go down to the seats and change them, though. It’s too damp to sit down here.”

So they walked to the grandstand at the turn and Perry pulled off his boots and tried the sneakers on. They were a little too large, but he thought they would do. Fudge suggested stuffing some paper in the toes, but as there was no paper handy that plan was abandoned. Perry’s hat, coat and vest were laid beside his boots and he turned up the bottoms of his trousers. Then they walked along the track, skirting puddles or jumping over them. Fortunately, they had the field to themselves, thanks to locked gates, something Perry was thankful for when Fudge, discouraging his desire to have the event over with at once, insisted that he should prance up and down the track and warm up.

“You can’t run decently until you’ve got your legs warm and your muscles limber,” declared Fudge wisely. “And you’d better try a few starts, too.”

So, protestingly, Perry danced around where he could find a dry stretch, lifting his knees high in the manner illustrated by Fudge, and then allowed the latter to show him how to crouch for the start.

“Put your right foot up to the line,” instructed Fudge. “Here, I’ll scratch a line across for you. There. Now put your foot up to that—your right foot, silly! That’s your left! Now put your left knee alongside it and your hands down. That’s it, only you want to dig a bit of a hole back there for your left foot, so you’ll get away quick. Just scrape out the cinders a little. All right. Now when I say ‘Set,’ you come up and lean forward until the weight comes on your front foot and hands; most on your foot; your hands are just to steady yourself with. That’s the trick. Now then; ‘On your mark!’ Wait! I didn’t say ‘Set!’”

“Oh, well, cut out the trimmings,” grumbled Perry. “I can’t stay like this forever. Besides, I’d rather start on the other foot, anyway.”

“All right; some fellows do,” replied Fudge, untroubled, neglecting to explain that he had made a mistake. Perry made the change and expressed his satisfaction.

“That’s more like it. Say, how do you happen to know so much about it, Fudge?”

“Observation, son. Now, all right? Ready to try it? Set!... Go!”

Perry went, but he stumbled for the first three or four steps and lost his stride completely.

“You had your weight on your hands instead of your feet,” commented the instructor. “Try it again.”

He tried it many times, at last becoming quite interested in the problem of getting away quickly and steadily, and finally Fudge declared himself satisfied. “Now I’ll stand back here a ways where I can start you and at the same time see when you cross the line down there. Of course, we ought to have another fellow here to help, but I guess I can manage all right.” He set his stop-watch, composed his features into a stern frown and retired some twenty yards back from the track and half that distance nearer the finish line. “On your mark!” called Fudge. “Set!... Go!”

Perry sped from the mark only to hear Fudge’s arresting voice. “Sorry, Perry, but I forgot to start the watch that time. Try it again.”

“That’s a fine trick! I had a bully getaway,” complained the sprinter. “Make it good this time, Fudge; I’m getting dog-tired!”

“I will. Now, then! [On your mark!... Set!... Go!]”

[“‘On your mark!... Set!... Go!’”]

Off leaped Perry again, not quite so nicely this time, and down the wet path he sped, splashing through the puddles, head back, legs twinkling. And, as though trying to make pace for him, Fudge raced along on the turf in a valiant endeavor to judge the finish. Perry’s Sunday trousers made a gray streak across the line, Fudge pressed convulsively on the stem of the watch and the trial was over!

“Wh-what was it?” inquired Perry breathlessly as he walked back. Fudge was staring puzzledly at the dial.

“I made it twelve seconds,” he responded dubiously.

“Twelve! And you said I’d ought to do it under eleven!” Perry viewed him discouragedly.

“Well, maybe I didn’t snap it just when I should have,” said the timer. “It’s hard to see unless you’re right at the line.”

“You must have! I’ll bet anything I did it better than twelve. Don’t you think I did?”

“Well, it looked to me as if you were going pretty fast,” answered Fudge cautiously. “But those trousers, and not having any spikes, and the track being so wet—Gee, but you did get splashed, didn’t you?”

“I should say so,” replied Perry, observing his trousers disgustedly. “The water even went into my face! Say, let’s try it again, Fudge, and you stand here at the finish.”

“All right, but how’ll I start you?”

“Wave a handkerchief or something?”

“I’ve got it. I’ll clap a couple of sticks together.” So Fudge set out to find his sticks while Perry, rather winded, seated himself on the stand. Fudge finally came back with the required articles and Perry declared himself rested and ready for another trial. “I’ll clap the sticks together first for you to get set and then for the start. Like this.” Fudge illustrated. “Suppose you can hear it?”

“Sure.” Perry proceeded back to the beginning of the straightaway and Fudge stationed himself at the finish, scuffling a line across the track for his better guidance. Then, while the sprinter was getting his crouch, he experimented with slapping the sticks and snapping the watch at the same instant, a rather difficult proceeding.

“All ready!” shouted Perry, poised on finger-tips and knee.

“All right!” called Fudge in response. He examined his watch, fixed a finger over the stem, took a deep breath and clapped the sticks. Perry set. Another clap and a simultaneous jab at the watch, and Perry was racing down the track. Fudge’s eyes took one fleeting look at the runner and then fixed themselves strainedly on the line he had drawn across the cinders. Nearer and nearer came the scrunch of the flying sneakers, there was a sudden blur of gray in Fudge’s vision and he snapped the watch. Perry turned and trotted anxiously back.

“Well?” he asked.

“Better,” replied Fudge. “Of course, the track’s awfully slow——”

“How much? Let’s see?”

Fudge yielded the watch and Perry examined it. “Eleven and two-fifths!” he shouted protestingly. “Say, this thing’s crazy! I know mighty well I didn’t run nearly so fast as I did the first time!”

“I didn’t snap it soon enough the other time,” explained Fudge. “Honest, Perry, eleven and two-fifths isn’t half bad. Why, look at the slow track and your long trousers——”

“Yes, and they weigh a ton, they’re so wet,” grumbled Perry. “And so do these shoes. I’m going to try it some time when the track’s dry and I’ve got regular running things on. I suppose eleven and two-fifths isn’t terribly bad, considering!”

“Bad! It’s mighty good,” said Fudge warmly. “Why, look here, Perry, if you can do it in that time to-day you can do it nearly a second faster on a dry track and—and all! You see if you can’t. I’ll bet you you’ll be a regular sprinter by the time we meet Springdale!”

“Honest, Fudge?”

“Honest to goodness! To-morrow you put your name down for the Track Team and get yourself some running things. I’ll go along with you if you like. I know just what you ought to have.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll really have any show for the team,” said Perry modestly. “But it’ll be pretty good fun. Say, Fudge, I didn’t know I could run as fast as I did that first time. It seemed to me I was going like the very dickens! It—it’s mighty interesting, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied Fudge, as Perry donned his things. “You don’t want to try the two-twenty or the hurdles, do you?”

“I should say not! I’m tuckered out. I’m going to try the two-twenty some day, though. I don’t think I’d care about hurdling.”

“You can’t tell,” murmured Fudge thoughtfully.

Later, when they had once more surmounted the fence and were heading toward B Street, Fudge, who had said little for many minutes, observed: “I wonder, Perry, if a fellow wouldn’t have more fun with the Track Team than with the Nine. I’ve a good mind to go in for it.”

“Why don’t you?” asked Perry, encouragingly eager. “What would you try? Running or—or what?” His gaze unconsciously strayed over his friend’s rotund figure.

“N-no,” replied Fudge hesitantly. “I don’t think so. I might go in for the mile, maybe. I don’t know yet. I’m just thinking of it. I’d have to study a bit. Perhaps the weights would be my line. Ever put the shot?” Perry shook his head. “Neither have I, but I’ll bet I could. All it takes is practice. Say, wouldn’t it be funny if you and I both made the team?”

“It would be dandy,” declared Perry. “Do you suppose there’d be any chance of it?”

“Why not?” asked Fudge cheerfully.

CHAPTER III
THE SHADOW ON THE CURTAIN

The two boys parted at Main and B Streets, Fudge to loiter thoughtfully southward under the budding maples and Perry to continue briskly on along the wider thoroughfare to where, almost at the corner of G Street, a small yellow house stood in a diminutive yard behind a decaying picket fence. Over the gate, which had stood open ever since Perry had grown too old to enjoy swinging on it, was a square lantern supported on an iron arch. At night a dim light burned in it, calling the passer’s attention to the lettering on the front:

No. 7—Dr. Hull—Office.

Beside the front door a second sign proclaimed the house to be the abode of Matthew P. Hull, M. D.

Nearby was an old-fashioned bell-pull and, just below it, a more modern button. Above the latter were the words “Night Bell.” The house looked homelike and scrupulously clean, but evidences of disrepair were abundant. The bases of the four round pillars supporting the roof of the porch which ran across the front were rotting, the steps creaked ominously under Perry’s feet and the faded yellow paint was blistered and cracked.

Dr. Hull only rented the house, and the owner, since the retail business district had almost surrounded it and he expected to soon sell, was extremely chary of repairs. Perry’s father had lived there so long that he hated the thought of moving. He had grown very fond of the place, a fondness shared to a lesser extent by Mrs. Hull and scarcely at all by Perry. But Dr. Hull’s motives in remaining there were not wholly sentimental. He had slowly and arduously accumulated a fair practice and, now that the town was over-supplied with physicians, he feared that a change of location would lose him his clients. Dr. Hull was not an old man, but he was forty-odd and rather of the old-style, and shook his head over the pushing methods of the newcomers. Perry assured him that it would be a good thing if he did lose some of his present practice, since half of it brought him little or no money, and that in a better location he could secure a better class of patients. But Perry wasn’t very certain of this, while his mother, who sighed secretly for a home where the plaster didn’t crumble nor the floors creak, had even less faith in the Doctor’s ability to begin over again.

Perry glanced through the open door of the tiny waiting room on the left as he hung up his cap and, finding it empty and the further door ajar, knew that his father was out. He went on up the stairs, which complained at almost every footfall, and stole noiselessly down the narrow hall to his own room. His mother’s door was closed and this was the hour when, on Sundays, she enjoyed what she termed “forty winks.” Perry’s room was small and lighted by three narrow windows set close together. While they admitted light they afforded but little view, for beyond the shallow back-yard loomed the side wall of a five-storied brick building which fronted on G Street. Directly on a level with Perry’s windows was Curry’s Glove factory, occupying the second floor of the building. Below was a bakery. Above were offices; a dentist’s, a lawyer’s, and several that were empty or changed tenants so frequently that Perry couldn’t keep track of them. In winter the light that came through the three windows was faint and brief, but at other seasons the sunlight managed somehow to find its way there. This afternoon a golden ray still lingered on the table, falling athwart the strapped pile of school books and spilling over to the stained green felt.

Perry seated himself at the table, put an elbow beside the pile of books and, cupping chin in hand, gazed thoughtfully down into the yard. There was a lean and struggling lilac bush against one high fence and its green leaves were already unfolding. That, reflected the boy, meant that spring was really here again at last. It was already nearly the middle of April. Then came May and June, and then the end of school. He sighed contentedly at the thought. Not that he didn’t get as much pleasure out of school as most fellows, but there comes a time, when buds are swelling and robins are hopping and breezes blow warmly, when the idea of spending six hours of the finest part of the day indoors becomes extremely distasteful. And that time had arrived.

Perry turned to glance with sudden hostility at the piled-up books. What good did it do a fellow, anyway, to learn a lot of Latin and algebra and physics and—and all the rest of the stuff? If he only knew what he was going to be when he grew up it might save a lot of useless trouble! Until a year ago he had intended to follow in his father’s footsteps, but of late the profession of medicine had failed to hold his enthusiasm. It seemed to him that doctors had to work very hard and long for terribly scant returns in the way of either money or fame. No, he wouldn’t be a doctor. Lawyers had a far better time of it; so did bankers and—and almost everyone. Sometimes he thought that engineering was the profession for him. He would go to Boston or New York and enter a technical school and learn civil or mining engineering. Mining engineers especially had a fine, adventurous life of it. And he wouldn’t have to spend all the rest of his life in Clearfield then.

Clearfield was all right, of course; Perry had been born in it and was loyal to it; but there was a whole big lot of the world that he’d like to see! He got up and pulled an atlas from the lower shelf of his book-case and spread it open. Colorado! Arizona! Nevada! Those were names for you! And look at all the territory out there that didn’t have a mark on it! Prairies and deserts and plateaus! Miles and miles and miles of them without a town or a railroad or anything! Gee, it would be great to live in that part of the world, he told himself. Adventures would be thick as blueberries out there. Back here nothing ever happened to a fellow. He wondered if it would be possible to persuade his father to move West, to some one of those fascinating towns with the highly romantic names; like Manzanola or Cotopaxi or Painted Rock. His thoughts were far afield now and, while his gaze was fixed on the lilac bush below, his eyes saw wonderful scenes that were very, very foreign to Clearfield. The sunlight stole away from the windows and the shadows gathered in the little yard. The room grew dark.

Just how long Perry would have sat there and dreamed of far-spread prairies and dawn-flushed deserts and awesome cañons had not an interruption occurred, there’s no saying. Probably, though, until his mother summoned him to the Sunday night supper. And that, since it was a frugal repast of cold dishes and awaited the Doctor’s presence, might not have been announced until seven o’clock. What did rouse him from his dreaming was the sudden appearance of a light in one of the third floor windows of the brick building. It shone for a moment only, for a hand almost immediately pulled down a shade, but its rays were bright enough to interrupt the boy’s visions and bring his thoughts confusedly back.

When you’ve been picturing yourself a cowboy on the Western plains, a cowboy with a picturesque broad-brimmed sombrero, leather chaps, a flannel shirt and a handkerchief knotted about your neck, it is naturally a bit surprising to suddenly see just such a vision before your eyes. And that’s what happened to Perry. No sooner was the shade drawn at the opposite window than upon it appeared the silhouette of as cowboyish a cowboy as ever rode through sage-brush! Evidently the light was in the center of the room and the occupant was standing between light and window, standing so that for a brief moment his figure was thrown in sharp relief against the shade, and Perry, staring unbelievingly, saw the black shadow of a broad felt hat whose crown was dented to a pyramid shape, a face with clean-cut features and a generous mustache and, behind the neck, the knot of a handkerchief! Doubtless the flannel shirt was there, too, and, perhaps, the leather cuffs properly decorated with porcupine quills, but Perry couldn’t be sure of this, for before he had time to look below the knotted bandana the silhouette wavered, lengthened oddly and faded from sight, leaving Perry for an instant doubtful of his vision!

“Now what do you know about that?” he murmured. “A regular cowboy, by ginger! What’s he doing over there, I wonder. And here I was thinking about him! Anyway, about cowboys! Gee, that’s certainly funny! I wish I could have seen if he wore a revolver on his hip! Maybe he’ll come back.”

But he didn’t show himself again, although Perry sat on in the darkness of his little room for the better part of a half-hour, staring eagerly and fascinatedly at the lighted window across the twilight. The shade still made a yellowish oblong in the surrounding gloom of the otherwise blank wall when his mother’s voice came to him from below summoning him to supper and he left his vigil unwillingly and went downstairs.

Dr. Hull had returned and supper was waiting on the red cloth that always adorned the table on Sunday nights. Perry was so full of his strange coincidence that he hardly waited for the Doctor to finish saying grace before he told about the vision. Rather to his disappointment, neither his father nor mother showed much interest, but perhaps that was because he neglected to tell them that he had been thinking of cowboys at the time. There was no special reason why he should have told them other than that he suspected his mother of a lack of sympathy on the subject of cowboys and the Wild West.

“I guess,” said the Doctor, helping to the cold roast lamb and having quite an exciting chase along the back of the platter in pursuit of a runaway sprig of parsley, “I guess your cowboy would have looked like most anyone else if you’d had a look at him. Shadows play queer tricks, Perry.”

Dr. Hull was tall and thin, and he stooped quite perceptibly. Perhaps the stoop came from carrying his black bag about day after day, for the Doctor had never attained to the dignity of a carriage. When he had to have one he hired it from Stewart, the liveryman. He had a kindly face, but he usually looked tired and had a disconcerting habit of dropping off to sleep in the middle of a conversation or, not infrequently, half-way through a meal. Perry was not unlike his father as to features. He had the same rather short and very straight nose and the same nice mouth, but he had obtained his brown eyes from his mother. Dr. Hull’s eyes were pale blue-gray and he had a fashion of keeping them only a little more than half open, which added to his appearance of weariness. He always dressed in a suit of dark clothes which looked black without actually being black. For years he had had his suits made for him by the same unstylish little tailor who dwelt, like a spider in a hole, under the Union Restaurant on Common Street. Whether the suits, one of which was made every spring, all came off the same bolt of cloth, I can’t say, but it’s a fact that Mrs. Hull had to study long to make out which was this year’s suit and which last’s. On Sunday evenings, however, the Doctor donned a faded and dearly-loved house-jacket of black velveteen with frayed silk frogs, for on Sunday evenings he kept no consultation hours and made no calls if he could possibly help it.

In spite of Perry’s efforts, the cowboy was soon abandoned as a subject for conversation. The Doctor was satisfied that Perry had imagined the likeness and Mrs. Hull couldn’t see why a cowboy hadn’t as much right in the neighboring building as anyone. Perry’s explanations failed to convince her of the incongruity of a cowboy in Clearfield, for she replied mildly that she quite distinctly remembered having seen at least a half-dozen cowboys going along Main Street a year or two before, the time the circus was in town!

“Maybe,” chuckled the Doctor, “this cowboy got left behind then!”

Perry refused to accept the explanation, and as soon as supper was over he hurried upstairs again. But the light across the back-yard was out and he returned disappointedly to the sitting-room, convinced that the mystery would never be explained. His father had settled himself in the green rep easy chair, with his feet on a foot-rest, and was smoking his big meerschaum pipe that had a bowl shaped like a skull. The Doctor had had that pipe since his student days, and Perry suspected that, next to his mother and himself, it was the most prized of the Doctor’s possessions. The Sunday papers lay spread across his knees, but he wasn’t reading, and Perry seized on the opportunity presented to broach the matter of going in for the Track Team. There had been some difficulty in the fall in persuading his parents to consent to his participation in football, and he wasn’t sure that they would look any more kindly on other athletic endeavors. His mother was still busy in the kitchen, for he could hear the dishes rattling, and he was glad of it; it was his mother who looked with most disfavor on such things.

“Dad, I’m going to join the Track Team and try sprinting,” announced Perry carelessly.

The Doctor brought his thoughts back with a visible effort.

“Eh?” he asked. “Join what?”

“The Track Team, sir. At school. I think I can sprint a little and I’d like to try it. Maybe I won’t be good enough, but Fudge Shaw says I am, and——”

“Sprinting, eh?” The Doctor removed his pipe and rubbed the bowl carefully with the purple silk handkerchief that reposed in an inner pocket of his house-jacket. “Think you’re strong enough for that, do you?”

“Why, yes, sir! I tried it to-day and didn’t have any trouble. And the track was awfully wet, too.”

“To-day?” The Doctor’s brows went up. “Sunday?”

Perry hastened to explain and was cheered by a slight smile which hovered under his father’s drooping mustache when he pictured Fudge trying to be at both ends of the hundred-yards at once. “You see, dad, I can’t play baseball well enough, and I’d like to do something. I ought to anyway, just to keep in training for football next autumn. I wouldn’t wonder if I got to be regular quarter-back next season.”

“Sprinting,” observed the Doctor, tucking his handkerchief out of sight again, “makes big demands on the heart muscles, Perry. I’ve no reason for supposing that your heart isn’t as strong as the average, but I recall in my college days a case where a boy over-worked himself in a race, the quarter-mile, I think it was, and never was good for much afterwards. He was in my class, and his name was—dear, dear, now what was it? Well, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, that’s what you’ll have to guard against, Perry.”

“But if I began mighty easy, the way you do, and worked up to it, sir——”

“Oh, I dare say it won’t hurt you. Exercise in moderation is always beneficial. It’s putting sudden demands on yourself that does the damage. With proper training, going at it slowly, day by day, you know—well, we’ll see what your mother says.”

Perry frowned and moved impatiently on the couch. “Yes, sir, but you know mother always finds objections to my doing things like that. You’d think I was a regular invalid! Other fellows run and jump and play football and their folks don’t think anything of it. But mother——”

“Come, come, Perry! That’ll do, son. Your mother is naturally anxious about you. You see, there’s only one of you, and we—well, we don’t want any harm to come to you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Perry, more meekly. “Only I thought if you’d say it was all right, before she comes in——”

The Doctor chuckled. “Oh, that’s your little game, is it? No, no, we’ll talk it over with your mother. She’s sensible, Perry, and I dare say she won’t make any objections; that is, if you promise to be careful.”

“Yes, sir. Why, there’s a regular trainer, you know, and the fellows have to do just as he tells them to.”

“Who is the trainer?”

“‘Skeet’ Presser, sir. He’s——”

“Skeet?”

“That’s what they call him. He’s small and skinny, sort of like a mosquito. I guess that’s why. I don’t know what his real name is. He used to be a runner; a jim-dandy, too, they say. He’s trainer at the Y. M. C. A. I guess he’s considered pretty good. And very careful, sir.” Perry added that as a happy afterthought.

The Doctor smiled. “I guess we ought to make a diplomat out of you, son, instead of a doctor.”

“I don’t think I’ll be a doctor, dad.”

“You don’t? I thought you did.”

“I used to, but I—I’ve sort of changed my mind.”

“Diplomats do that, too, I believe. Well, I dare say you’re right about it. It doesn’t look as if I’d have much of a practice to hand over to you, anyway. It’s getting so nowadays about every second case is a charity case. About all you get is gratitude, and not always that. Here’s your mother now. Mother, this boy wants to go in for athletics, he tells me. Wants to run races and capture silver mugs. Or maybe they’re pewter. What do you say to it?”

“Gracious, what for?” ejaculated Mrs. Hull.

Perry stated his case again while his mother took the green tobacco jar from the mantel and placed it within the Doctor’s reach, plumped up a pillow on the couch, picked a thread from the worn red carpet and finally, with a little sigh, seated herself in the small walnut rocker that was her especial property. When Perry had finished, his mother looked across at the Doctor.

“What does your father think?” she asked.

“Oh, I think it won’t do him any harm,” was the reply from the Doctor. “Might be good for him, in fact. I tell him he must be careful not to attempt too much at first, that’s all. Running is good exercise if it isn’t overdone.”

“Well, it seems to me,” observed Mrs. Hull, “that if he can play football and not get maimed for life, a little running can’t hurt him. How far would it be, Perry?”

“Oh, only about from here to the corner and back.”

“Well, I don’t see much sense in it, but if you want to do it I haven’t any objection. It doesn’t seem as if much could happen to you just running to G Street and back!”

The Doctor chuckled. “It might be good practice when it comes to running errands, mother. Maybe he’ll be able to get to the grocery and back the same afternoon!”

“Well,” laughed Perry, “you see, dad, when you’re running on the track you don’t meet fellows who want you to stop and play marbles with them!”

CHAPTER IV
THE ODE TO SPRING

With the advent of that first warm spring-like weather the High School athletic activities began in earnest. During March the baseball candidates had practiced to some extent indoors and occasionally on the field, but not a great deal had been accomplished. The “cage” in the basement of the school building was neither large nor light, while cold weather, with rain and wet ground, had made outdoor work far from satisfactory. Of the Baseball Team, Clearfield had high hopes this spring. There was a wealth of material left from the successful Nine of the previous spring, including two first-class pitchers, while the captain, Warner Jones, was a good leader as well as a brainy player. Then too, and in the judgment of the school this promised undoubted success, the coaching had been placed in the hands of Dick Lovering. Dick had proven his ability as a baseball coach the summer before and had subsequently piloted the football team to victory in the fall, thus winning an admiration and gratitude almost embarrassing to him.

Dick, who had to swing about on crutches where other fellows went on two good legs, came out of school Monday afternoon in company with Lansing White and crossed over to Linden Street where a small blue runabout car stood at the curb. Dick was tall, with dark hair and eyes. Without being especially handsome, his rather lean face was attractive and he had a smile that won friends on the instant. Dick was seventeen and a senior. Lansing, or Lanny, White was a year younger, and a good deal of a contrast to his companion. Lanny fairly radiated health and strength and high spirits. You’re not to conclude that Dick suggested ill-health or that he was low-spirited, for that would be far from the mark. There was possibly no more cheerful boy in Clearfield than Richard Lovering, in spite of his infirmity. But Lanny, with his flaxen hair and dark eyes—a combination as odd as it was attractive—and his sun-browned skin and his slimly muscular figure, looked the athlete he was, every inch of him. Lanny was a “three-letter man” at the High School; had captained the football team, caught on the nine and was a sprinter of ability. And, which was no small attainment, he possessed more friends than any other fellow in school. Lanny couldn’t help making friends; he appeared to do it without conscious effort; there had never been on his part any seeking for popularity.

Lanny cranked the car and seated himself beside Dick. Fully half the students were journeying toward the field, either to take part in practice or to watch it, and the two boys in the runabout answered many hails until they had distanced the pedestrians.

“This,” said Lanny, as they circumspectly crossed the car-tracks and turned into Main Street, “is just the sort of weather the doctor ordered. If it keeps up we’ll really get started.”

“This is April, though,” replied Dick, “and everyone knows April!”

“Oh, we’ll have more showers, but once the field gets dried out decently they don’t matter. I suppose it’ll be pretty squishy out there to-day. What we ought to do, Dick, is have the whole field rolled right now while it’s still soft. It’s awfully rough in right field, and even the infield isn’t what you’d call a billiard table.”

“Wish we could, Lanny. But I guess if we get the base paths fixed up we’ll get all that’s coming to us this spring. Too bad we haven’t a little money on hand.”

“Oh, I know we can’t look to the Athletic Association for much. I was only wondering if we couldn’t get it done somehow ourselves. If we knew someone who had a steam roller we might borrow it!”

“The town has a couple,” laughed Dick, “but I’m afraid they wouldn’t loan them.”

“Why not? Say, that’s an idea, Dick! Who do you borrow town property from, anyway? The Mayor?”

“Street Department, I guess. Tell Way to go and see them, why don’t you?”

“Way” was Curtis Wayland, manager of the baseball team. Lanny smiled. “Joking aside,” he said, “they might do it, mightn’t they? Don’t they ever loan things?”

“Maybe, but you’d have to have the engineer or chauffeur or whatever they call him to run it for you, and that would be a difficulty.”

“Pshaw, anyone could run a steam roller! You could, anyway.”

“Can’t you see me?” chuckled Dick. “Suppose, though, I got nabbed for exceeding the speed limit? I guess, Lanny, if that field gets rolled this spring it will be done by old-fashioned man-power. We might borrow a roller somewhere and get a lot of the fellows out and have them take turns pushing it.”

“It would take a week of Sundays,” replied Lanny discouragingly. “You wait. I’m not finished with that other scheme yet.”

“Borrowing a roller from the town, you mean? Well, I’ve no objection, but don’t ask me to run it. I’d be sure to put it through the fence or something; and goodness knows we need all the fence we’ve got!”

“Yes, it’ll be a miracle if it doesn’t fall down if anyone hits a ball against it!”

“If it happens in the Springdale game you’ll hear no complaint from me,” said Dick, adding hurriedly, “That is, if it’s one of our team who does it!”

“Ever think of putting a sign on the fence in center field?” asked Lanny. “‘Hit This Sign and Get Ten Dollars,’ or something of that sort, you know. It might increase the team’s average a lot, Dick.”

“You’re full of schemes to-day, aren’t you? Does that fence look to you as if it would stand being hit very often?” They had turned into A Street and the block-long expanse of sagging ten-foot fence stretched beside them. “I’ve about concluded that being presented with an athletic field is like getting a white elephant in your stocking at Christmas!”

“Gee, this field is two white elephants and a pink hippopotamus,” replied Lanny as he jumped out in front of the players’ gate. Dick turned off the engine and thoughtfully removed the plug from the dash coil, thus foiling youngsters with experimental desires. His crutches were beside him on the running-board, and, lifting them from the wire clips that held them there, he deftly swung himself from the car and passed through the gate. They were the first ones to arrive, but before they had returned to the dressing-room under the nearer grandstand after a pessimistic examination of the playing field, others had begun to dribble in and a handful of youths were arranging themselves comfortably on the seats behind first base. But if the audience expected anything of a spectacular nature this afternoon they were disappointed, for the practice was of the most elementary character.

There was a half-hour at the net with Tom Nostrand and Tom Haley pitching straight balls to the batters and then another half-hour of fielding, Bert Cable, last year’s captain and now a sort of self-appointed assistant coach, hitting fungoes to outfielders, and Curtis Wayland, manager of the team, batting to the infield. The forty or fifty onlookers in the stands soon lost interest when it was evident that Coach Lovering had no intention of staging any sort of a contest, and by ones and twos they took their departure. Even had they all gone, however, the field would have been far from empty, for there were nearly as many team candidates as spectators to-day. More than forty ambitious youths had responded to the call and it required all the ingenuity of Dick Lovering and Captain Warner Jones to give each one a chance. The problem was finally solved by sending a bunch of tyros into extreme left field, under charge of Manager Wayland, where they fielded slow grounders and pop-flies and tested their throwing arms.

It was while chasing a ball that had got by him that Way noticed a fluttering sheet of paper near the cinder track. It had been creased and folded, but now lay flat open, challenging curiosity. Way picked it up and glanced at it as he returned to his place. It held all sorts of scrawls and scribbles, but the words “William Butler Shaw,” and the letters “W. B. S.,” variously arranged and entwined, were frequently repeated. Occupying the upper part of the sheet were six or seven lines of what, since the last words rhymed with each other, Way concluded to be poetry. Since many of the words had been scored out and superseded by others, and since the writing was none too legible in any case, Way had to postpone the reading of the complete poem. He stuffed it in his pocket, with a chuckle, and went back to amusing his awkward squad.

Fudge Shaw sat on the bench between Felker and Grover and awaited his turn in the outfield. Fudge had played in center some, but he was not quite Varsity material, so to speak, and his hopes of making even the second team, which would be formed presently, from what coach and captain rejected, were not strong. Still, Fudge “liked to stick around where things were doing,” as he expressed it, and he accepted his impending fate with philosophy. Besides, he had more than half made up his mind to cast his lot with the Track Team this spring. He was discussing the gentle art of putting the twelve-pound shot with Guy Felker when Dick summoned the outfield trio in and sent Fudge and two others to take their places. Fudge trotted out to center and set about his task of pulling down Bert Cable’s flies. Perhaps his mind was too full of shot-putting to allow him to give the needed attention to the work at hand. At all events, he managed to judge his first ball so badly that it went six feet over his head and was fielded in by one of Way’s squad. Way was laughing when Fudge turned toward him after throwing the ball to the batter.

“A fellow needs a pair of smoked glasses out here,” called Fudge extenuatingly. This, in view of the fact that the sun was behind Fudge’s right shoulder, was a lamentably poor excuse. Possibly he realized it, for he added: “My eyes have been awfully weak lately.”

Way, meeting the ball gently with his bat and causing a wild commotion amongst his fielders, nodded soberly. “And for many other reasons,” he called across.

“Eh?” asked Fudge puzzled. But there was no time for more just then as Bert Cable, observing his inattention, meanly shot a long low fly into left field, and Fudge, starting late, had to run half-way to the fence in order to attempt the catch. Of course he missed it and then, when he had chased it down, made matters worse by throwing at least twelve feet to the left of Cable on the return. The ex-captain glared contemptuously and shouted some scathing remark that Fudge didn’t hear. After that, he got along fairly well, sustaining a bruised finger, however, as a memento of the day’s activities. When practice was over he trudged back to the dressing-room and got into his street clothes. Fortunately, most of the new fellows had dressed at home and so it was possible to find room in which to squirm out of things without collisions. While Fudge was lacing his shoes he observed that Way and his particular crony, Will Scott, who played third base, were unusually hilarious in a far corner of the room.

But Fudge was unsuspicious, and presently he found himself walking home with the pair.

“Say, this is certainly peachy weather, isn’t it?” inquired Will as they turned into B Street. “Aren’t you crazy about spring, Way?”

“Am I? Well, rather! O beauteous spring!”

“So am I. You know it makes the birds sing in the trees.”

“Sure. And it makes the April breeze to blow.”

“What’s wrong with you chaps?” asked Fudge perplexedly. The strange words struck him as dimly familiar but he didn’t yet connect them with their source.

“Fudge,” replied Way sadly, “I fear you have no poetry in your soul. Doesn’t the spring awaken—er—awaken feelings in your breast? Don’t you feel the—the appeal of the sunshine and the singing birds and all that?”

“You’re batty,” said Fudge disgustedly.

“Now for my part,” said Will Scott, “spring art, I ween, the best of all the seasons.”

“Now you’re saying something,” declared Way enthusiastically. “It clothes the earth with green——”

“And for numerous other reasons,” added Will gravely.

A great light broke on Fudge and his rotund cheeks took on a vivid tinge. “W-w-what you s-s-silly chumps think you’re up to?” he demanded. “W-w-where did you g-g-g-get that st-t-t-tuff?”

“Stuff!” exclaimed Way protestingly. “That’s poetry, Fudge. Gen-oo-ine poetry. Want to hear it all?”

“No, I don’t!”

But Will had already started declaiming and Way chimed in:

“O Beauteous Spring, thou art, I ween,

The best of all the Seasons,

Because you clothe the Earth with green

And for numerous other reasons!”

“I hope you ch-ch-choke!” groaned Fudge. “W-w-where’d you get it? Who t-t-told you——”

“Fudge,” replied Way, laughingly, “you shouldn’t leave your poetic effusions around the landscape if you don’t want them read.” He pulled the sheet of paper from his pocket and flaunted it temptingly just out of reach. “‘You make the birds sing in the trees——’”

“‘The April breeze to blow,’” continued Will.

“‘The sun to shine——’ What’s the rest of it, Fudge? Say, it’s corking! It’s got a swing to it that’s simply immense!”

“And then the sentiment, the poetic feeling!” elaborated Will. “How do you do it, Fudge?”

“Aw, q-q-quit it, fellows, and g-g-g-give me that!” begged Fudge shame-facedly. “I just did it for f-f-fun. It d-d-dropped out of my p-p-p——”

But “pocket” was too much for Fudge in his present state of mind, and he gave up the effort and tried to get the sheet of paper away. He succeeded finally, by the time they had reached Lafayette Street, where their ways parted, and tore it to small bits and dropped it into someone’s hedge. Way and Will departed joyfully, and until they were out of earshot Fudge could hear them declaiming the “Ode to Spring.” He went home a prey to a deep depression. He feared that he had by no means heard the last of the unfortunate poetical effort. And, as the future proved, his fears were far from groundless.

CHAPTER V
PERRY REMEMBERS

Fudge had an engagement to go to the moving pictures that evening with Perry Hull. They put on the new reels on Mondays and Fudge was a devoted “first-nighter.” Very shortly after supper was over he picked up a book and carelessly strolled toward the hall.

“Where are you going, William?” asked his mother.

“Over to the library,” replied Fudge, making a strong display of the book in his hand.

“Well, don’t stay late. Haven’t you any studying to do to-night?”

“No’m, not much. I’ll do it when I come back.”

“Seems to me,” said Mrs. Shaw doubtfully, “it would be better to do your studying first.”

“I don’t feel like studying so soon after supper,” returned Fudge plaintively. “I won’t be gone very long—I guess.”

“Very well, dear. Close the door after you. It’s downright chilly again to-night.”

“Yes’m.” Fudge slipped his cap to the back of his round head and opened the side door. There he hesitated. Of course, he was going to the library, although he didn’t especially want to, for it was many blocks out of his way, but he meant to make his visit to that place as short as possible in order to call for Perry and reach the theater early enough not to miss a single feature of the evening’s program. And he was practically telling a lie. Fudge didn’t like that. He felt decidedly uneasy as he stood with the door knob in hand. The trouble was that his mother didn’t look kindly on moving pictures. She didn’t consider them harmful, but she did think them a waste of time, and was firmly convinced that once a month was quite often enough for Fudge to indulge his passion for that form of entertainment. Fudge had a severe struggle out there in the hallway, and I like to think that he would have eventually decided to make known his principal destination had not Mrs. Shaw unfortunately interrupted his cogitations.

“William, have you gone?”

“No’m.”

“Well, don’t hold the door open, please. I feel a draft on my feet.”

“Yes’m.” Fudge slowly closed the door, with himself on the outside. The die was cast. He tried to comfort himself with the assurance that if his mother hadn’t spoken just when she did he would have asked permission to go to the “movies.” It wasn’t his fault. He passed out of the yard whistling blithely enough, but before he had reached the corner the whistle had died away. He wished he had told the whole truth. He was more than half inclined to go back, but it was getting later every minute and he had to walk eight blocks to the library and five back to the theater, and it would take him several minutes to exchange his book, and Perry might not be ready——

Fudge was so intent on all this that he passed the front of the Merrick house, on the corner, without, as usual, announcing his transit with a certain peculiar whistle common to him and his friends. He walked hurriedly, determinedly, trying to keep his thoughts on the pleasure in store, hoping they’d have a rattling good melodrama on the bill to-night and would present less of the “sentimental rot” than was their custom. But Conscience stalked at Fudge’s side, and the further he got from home the more uncomfortable he felt in his mind; and his thoughts refused to stay placed on the “movies.” But while he paused in crossing G Street to let one of the big yellow cars trundle past him a splendid idea came to him. He would telephone! There was a booth in the library, and if he had a nickel—quick examination of his change showed that he was possessed of eleven cents beyond the sum required to purchase admission to the theater. With a load off his mind, he hurried on faster than ever, ran across the library grounds with no heed to the “Keep off the Grass” signs and simply hurtled through the swinging green doors.

It was the work of only a minute or two to seize a book from the rack on the counter—it happened to be a treatise on the Early Italian Painters, but Fudge didn’t care—and make the exchange. The assistant librarian looked somewhat surprised at Fudge’s choice, but secretly hoped that it indicated a departure from the sensational fiction usually selected by the boy, and passed the volume across to him at last with an approving smile. Fudge was too impatient to see the smile, however. The book once in his possession, he hurried to the telephone booth in the outer hall and demanded his number. Then a perfectly good five-cent piece dropped forever out of his possession and he heard his mother’s voice at the other end of the line.

“This is Fudge. Say, Ma, I thought—I’m at the library, Ma, and I got the book I wanted, and I thought, seeing it’s so early—say, Ma, may I go to the movies for a little while?”

“You intended to go all the time, didn’t you, William?” came his mother’s voice.

“Yes’m, but——”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

That was something of a poser. “Well, I meant to, but—but you said not to keep the door open and—and——” Fudge’s voice dwindled into silence.

“Why do you tell me now?”

Gee, but she certainly could ask a lot of hard questions, he reflected. “I thought maybe—oh, I don’t know, Ma. May I? Just for a little while? I’m going with Perry—if you say I can.”

“I’d rather you told me in the first place, William, but telling me now shows that you know you did wrong. You mustn’t tell lies, William, and when you said you were going to the library——”

“Yes’m, I know!” Fudge was shifting impatiently from one foot to the other, his eyes fixed on the library clock, seen through an oval pane in one of the green baize doors. “I—I’m sorry. Honest, I am. That’s why I telephoned, Ma.”

“If I let you go to-night you won’t ask to go again next week?”

“No’m,” replied Fudge dejectedly.

“Very well, then you may go. And you needn’t leave before it’s over, William, because if you don’t go next week you might as well see all you can this time.”

“Yes’m! Thanks! Good-by!”

Fudge knew a short cut from Ivy Street to G Street, and that saved nearly a minute even though it necessitated climbing a high fence and trespassing on someone’s premises. He reached Perry’s and, to his vast relief, found that youth awaiting him at the gate. Perry was slightly surprised to be hailed from the direction opposite to that in which he was looking, but joined Fudge at the corner and, in response to the latter’s earnest and somewhat breathless appeal to “Get a move on,” accompanied him rapidly along the next block. Just as they came into sight of the brilliantly illumined front of the moving picture house, eight o’clock began to sound on the City Hall bell and Fudge broke into a run.

“Come on!” he panted. “We’ll be late!”

They weren’t, though. The orchestra was still dolefully tuning up as they found seats. The orchestra consisted principally of a pianist, although four other musicians were arranged lonesomely on either side. The two boys were obliged to sit well over toward the left of the house and when the orchestra began the overture Fudge’s gaze, attracted to the performers, stopped interestedly at the pianist. “Say, Perry,” he said, “they’ve got a new guy at the piano. See?”

Perry looked and nodded. Then he took a second look and frowned puzzledly. “Who is he?” he asked.

“I don’t know. But the other fellow was short and fat. Say, I hope they have a good melodrama, don’t you?”

“Yes, one of those Western plays, eh?” Perry’s gaze went back to the man at the piano. There was something about him that awakened recollection. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of twenty-six or -seven, with clear-cut and very good-looking features, and a luxuriant mustache, as Perry could see when he turned to smile at one of the violinists. He played the piano as though he thoroughly enjoyed it, swaying a little from the hips and sometimes emphasizing with a sudden swift bend of his head.

“He can play all around the other guy,” said Fudge in low and admiring whispers. “Wish I could play a piano like that. I’ll bet he can ‘rag’ like anything!”

At that moment the house darkened and the program commenced with the customary weekly review. Fudge sat through some ten minutes of that patiently, and was only slightly bored when a rustic comedy was unrolled before him, but when the next film developed into what he disdainfully called “one of those mushy things,” gloom began to settle over his spirits. He squirmed impatiently in his seat and muttered protestingly. A sharp-faced, elderly lady next to him audibly requested him to “sit still, for Mercy’s sake!” Fudge did the best he could and virtue was rewarded after a while. “Royston of the Rangers,” announced the film. Fudge sat up, devoured the cast that followed and, while the orchestra burst into a jovial two-step, nudged Perry ecstatically.

“Here’s your Western play,” he whispered.

Perry nodded. Then the first scene swept on the screen and Fudge was happy. It was a quickly-moving, breath-taking drama, and the hero, a Texas Ranger, bore a charmed life if anyone ever did. He simply had to. If he hadn’t he’d have been dead before the film had unrolled a hundred feet! Perry enjoyed that play even more than Fudge, perhaps, for he was still enthralled by yesterday’s dreams. There were rangers and cowboys and Mexicans and a sheriff’s posse and many other picturesque persons, and “battle, murder and sudden death” was the order of the day. During a running fight between galloping rangers and a band of Mexican desperados Fudge almost squirmed off his chair to the floor. After that there was a really funny “comic” and that, in turn, was followed by another melodrama which, if not as hair-raising as the first, brought much satisfaction to Fudge. On the whole, it was a pretty good show. Fudge acknowledged it as he and Perry wormed their way out through the loitering audience at the end of the performance.

They discussed it as they made their way along to Castle’s Drug Store where Perry was to treat to sodas. For Fudge at least half the fun was found in talking the show over afterwards. He was a severe critic, and if the manager of the theater could have heard his remarks about the “mushy” film he might have been moved to exclude such features thereafter. When they had had their sodas and had turned back toward Perry’s house, Perry suddenly stood stock-still on the sidewalk and ejaculated: “Gee, I know where I saw him!”

“Saw who?” demanded Fudge. “Come on, you chump.”

“Why, the fellow who played the piano. I’ll bet you anything he’s the cowboy!”

“You try cold water,” said Fudge soothingly. “Just wet a towel and put it around your head——”

“No, listen, will you, Fudge? I want to tell you.” So Perry recounted the odd coincidence of the preceding evening, ending with: “And I’ll bet you anything you like that’s the same fellow who was playing the piano there to-night. I recognized him, I tell you, only I couldn’t think at first.”

“Well, he didn’t look like a cowboy to-night,” replied Fudge dubiously. “Besides, what would he be doing here? This isn’t any place for cowboys. I guess you kind of imagined that part of it. Maybe he had on a felt hat; I don’t say he didn’t; but I guess you imagined the rest of it. It—it’s psychological, Perry. You were thinking about cowboys and such things and then this fellow appeared at the window and you thought he was dressed like one.”

“No, I didn’t. I tell you I could see the handkerchief around his neck and—and everything! I don’t say he really is a cowboy, but I know mighty well he was dressed like one. And I know he’s the fellow we saw playing the piano.”

“Oh, shucks, cowboys don’t play pianos, Perry. Besides, what does it matter anyway?”

“Nothing, I suppose, only—only it’s sort of funny. I’d like to know why he was got up like a cowboy.”

“Why don’t you ask him? Tell you what we’ll do, Perry, we’ll go up there to-morrow after the show’s over and lay in wait for him.”

“Up to his room? I wonder if he has an office. Maybe he gives lessons, Fudge.”

“What sort of lessons?”

“Piano lessons. Why would he have an office?”

“Search me. But we’ll find out. We’ll put ‘Young Sleuth’ on his trail. Maybe there’s a mystery about him. I’ll drop around after practice to-morrow and we’ll trail him down. Say, what about the Track Team? Thought you were going to join.”

“I was. Only—oh, I got to thinking maybe I couldn’t run very fast, after all.”

“Piffle! We’ll have another trial, then. I’ll get Gordon to hold the watch at the start and I’ll time you at the finish. What do you say? Want to try it to-morrow?”

“No, I’d feel like a fool,” muttered Perry. “Maybe I’ll register to-morrow, anyway. I dare say it won’t do any harm even if I find I can’t sprint much. What about you and putting the shot?”

“I’m going to try for it, I guess. Baseball’s no good for me. They won’t even give me a place on the Second, I suppose. Guess I’ll talk to Felker about it to-morrow. You’re silly if you don’t have a try at it, Perry. You’ve got the making of a dandy sprinter; you mark my words!”

“If you’ll register for the team, I will,” said Perry.

“All right! It’s a bargain!”

CHAPTER VI
THE FALSE MUSTACHE

“Well?” asked Lanny.

Curtis Wayland shook his head and smiled. “He thought I was fooling at first. Then he thought I was crazy. After that he just pitied me for not having any sense.”

“I’ve pitied you all my life for that,” laughed Lanny. “But what did he say?”

“Said in order for him to let us have the use of town property he’d have to introduce a bill or something in the Council and have it passed and signed by the Mayor and sworn to by the Attorney and sealed by the Sealer and—and——”

“And stamped by the stamper?” suggested Dick Lovering helpfully.

“Cut out the comedy stuff,” said Lanny. “He just won’t do it, eh?”

“That’s what I gathered,” Way assented dryly. “And if, in my official capacity of——”

“Or incapacity,” interpolated Lanny sweetly.

Way scowled fearsomely. “If in my capacity of manager of this team,” he resumed with dignity, “I’m required to go on any more idiotic errands like that I’m going to resign. I may be crazy and foolish, but I hate to have folks mention it.”

“We’re all touchy on our weak points,” said Lanny kindly. “Well, I suppose you did the best you could, Way, but I’m blessed if I see how it would hurt them to let us use their old road roller.”

“He also dropped some careless remark about the expense of running it,” observed Way, “from which I gathered that, even if he did let us take it, he meant to sock us about fifteen dollars a day!”

“Who is he?” Dick asked.

“He’s Chairman or something of the Street Department.”

“Superintendent of Streets,” corrected Way. “I saw it on the door.”

“I mean,” explained Dick, “what’s his name?”

“Oh, Burns. He’s Ned Burns’ father.”

“Uncle,” corrected Way.

“Could Burns have done anything with him, do you suppose?” Dick asked thoughtfully.

“I don’t believe so. The man is deficient in public spirit and lacking in—in charitable impulse, or something.” Lanny frowned intently at Way until the latter said:

“Out with it! What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing much. Only—well, that field certainly needs a good rolling.”

“It certainly does,” assented Way. “But if you’re hinting for me to go back and talk to that man again——”

“I’m not. The time for asking has passed. We gave them a chance to be nice about it and they wouldn’t. Now it’s up to us.”

“Right-o, old son! What are we going to do about it?”

Lanny smiled mysteriously. “You just hold your horses and see,” he replied. “I guess the crowd’s here, Dick. Shall we start things up?”

“Yes, let’s get at it. Hello, Fudge!”

“Hello, fellers! Say, Dick, I’m quitting.”

“Quitting? Oh, baseball, you mean. What’s the trouble?”

“Oh, I’m not good enough and there’s no use my hanging around, I guess. I’m going out for the Track Team to-morrow. I thought I’d let you know.”

“Thanks. Well, I’m sorry, Fudge, but you’re right about it. You aren’t quite ready for the team yet. Maybe next year——”

“That’s what I thought. Lanny’ll be gone then and maybe I’ll catch for you.”

“That’s nice of you,” laughed Lanny. “I was worried about what was going to happen after I’d left. Meanwhile, though, Fudge, what particular stunt are you going to do on the Track Team?”

“Weights, I guess. Perry Hull’s going out for the team and he dared me to. Think I could put the shot, Dick?”

“I really don’t know, Fudge. It wouldn’t take you long to find out, though. You’re pretty strong, aren’t you?”

“I guess so,” replied Fudge quite modestly. “Anyway, Felker’s yelling for fellows to join and I thought there wouldn’t be any harm in trying.”

“‘And for many other reasons,’” murmured Way. The others smiled, and Fudge, with an embarrassed and reproachful glance, hurried away to where Perry was awaiting him in the stand.

“Fellows who read other fellows’ things that aren’t meant for them to read are pretty low-down, I think,” he ruminated. “And I’ll tell him so, too, if he doesn’t let up.”

“Don’t you love spring?” asked Perry as Fudge joined him. “It makes——”

Fudge turned upon him belligerently. “Here, don’t you start that too!” he exclaimed warmly.

“Start what?” gasped Perry. “I only said——”

“I heard what you said! Cut it out!”

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Perry. “Can’t I say that I like spring if I want to?”

“And what else were you going to say?” demanded Fudge sternly.

“That it makes you feel nice and lazy,” replied the other in hurt tones.

“Oh! Nothing about—about the birds singing or the April breeze?”

Perry viewed his friend in genuine alarm. “Honest, Fudge, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Aren’t you well?”

“Then you haven’t heard it.” Fudge sighed. “Sorry I bit your head off.”

“Heard what?” asked Perry in pardonable curiosity.

Fudge hesitated and tried to retreat, but Perry insisted on being informed, and finally Fudge told about the “Ode to Spring” and the fun the fellows were having with him. “I get it on all sides,” he said mournfully. “Tappen passed me a note in Latin class this morning; wanted to know what the other reasons were. Half the fellows in school are on to it and I don’t hear anything else. I’m sick of it!”

Perry’s eyes twinkled, but he expressed proper sympathy, and Fudge finally consented to forget his grievance and lend a critical eye to the doings of the baseball candidates. They didn’t remain until practice was over, however, for, in his capacity of “Young Sleuth,” Fudge was determined to unravel the mystery of the cowboy-pianist, as he called the subject for investigation. The afternoon performance at the moving picture theater was over about half-past four or quarter to five, and a few minutes after four the two boys left the field and went back to town. Fudge explained the method of operation on the way.

“We’ll wait outside the theater,” he said. “I’ll be looking in a window and you can be on the other side of the street. He mustn’t see us, you know.”

“Why?” asked Perry.

“Because he might suspect.”

“Suspect what?”

“Why, that we were on his track,” explained Fudge a trifle impatiently. “You don’t suppose detectives let the folks they are shadowing know it, do you?”

“I don’t see what harm it would do if he saw us. There isn’t anything for him to get excited about, is there?”

“You can’t tell. I’ve been thinking a lot about this chap, Perry, and the more I—the more I study the case the less I like it.” Fudge frowned intensely. “There’s something mighty suspicious about him, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d done something.”

“What do you mean, done something?”

“Why, committed some crime. Maybe he’s sort of hiding out here. No one would think of looking for him in a movie theater, would they?”

“Maybe not, but if they went to the theater they’d be pretty certain to see him, wouldn’t they?”

“Huh! He’s probably disguised. I’ll bet that mustache of his is a fake one.”

“It didn’t look so,” Perry objected. “What sort of—of crime do you suppose he committed, Fudge?”

“Well, he’s pretty slick-looking. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be a safe-breaker. Maybe he’s looking for a chance to crack a safe here in Clearfield; sort of studying the lay of the land, you know, and seeing where there’s a good chance to get a lot of money. We might go over to the police station, Perry, and see if there’s a description of him there. I’ll bet you he’s wanted somewhere for something all right!”

“Oh, get out, Fudge! The fellow’s a dandy-looking chap. And even if he had done something and I knew it, I wouldn’t go and tell on him.”

“Well, I didn’t say I would, did I? B-b-but there’s no harm in finding out, is there?”

Whether Fudge’s watch was slow or whether, absorbed in their conversation, they consumed more time than they realized on the way, the City Hall clock proclaimed twenty-two minutes to five when they reached the Common and, to Fudge’s intense disgust, the theater was out. The ticket-seller had departed from his glass hutch between the two doors and the latter were closed. Fudge scowled his displeasure.

“He’s made his getaway,” he said, “but he can’t escape us long. The Hand of the Law——” He paused, his attention attracted by one of the colorful posters adorning the entrance. “Say, Perry, that’s where the Mexican tries to throw her off the cliff. Remember? I’d like to see that again. It’s a corker! Gee, why didn’t we think to come here this afternoon?”

“I’d rather wait until Thursday and see some new ones,” replied Perry. “Come over to the house for a while, Fudge.”

“Aren’t you going on with this?” asked Fudge surprisedly.

“Well, he’s gone, hasn’t he?”

“That doesn’t keep us from having a look at his hiding place, does it? We’ll go around there and reconnoiter. Come on.”

But Perry held back.

“I wouldn’t want him to think we were snooping on him, Fudge.”

“He won’t know. We’ll just track him to his lair but we won’t let on we’re after him. It’s a good idea to know where to find him in case we want him. And we’d ought to find out whether there’s more than one way for him to get in and out.”

“I know there is. There’s a front door and a back. The back door lets out into that little alley next to Cosgrove’s store on Common Street.”

“Cosgrove’s? Ha!” Fudge stopped abruptly and tried to look as much like his favorite hero, “Young Sleuth,” as possible. “That’s it, then!”

“What’s it?” asked Perry impatiently.

“It’s Cosgrove’s he’s after. Don’t you see?” Cosgrove’s was the principal jewelry store in Clearfield. “That’s why he rented a room in that block, Perry. All he’s got to do is to go out the back way to the alley and there he is!”

“You’re crazy,” laughed Perry. “You don’t know that the man’s a—a criminal, do you?”

“Well, it looks mighty like it,” asserted Fudge, shaking his head in a very satisfied way. “Everything points to it. We’ll have a look at the alley first, I guess.”

The entrance was only a half-block distant and Perry followed his enthusiastic friend up its narrow length until it stopped at a board fence beyond which was the back yard of the next house to the Hulls’. On the way Fudge paid much attention to the three barred windows of Cosgrove’s store.

“See if you see signs of a file,” he whispered to Perry. “That’s what he’d probably do; come down here at night and file the bars away. Maybe we’d better go into the store and see where the safe is located.”

“If you don’t stop tugging at those bars we’ll get pinched,” objected Perry. He was losing his interest in the affair and had begun to think Fudge’s sleuthing rather tiresome. Besides, it was getting sort of dark in the little alley and he had already collided painfully with an ash-barrel. He was relieved when Fudge finally satisfied himself that so far, at least, the bars of the jewelry store windows had not been tampered with. Fudge was evidently disappointed and not a little surprised. He did a good deal of muttering as he went on to the end of the alley. There he stared across the fence.

“Whose house is that?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Judge Folwell’s. No one lives in it now, though.”

“Hm,” said Fudge. “Your house is over there, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That’s the roof.”

“Has your father got a safe?”

“No, he hasn’t. For the love of mud, Fudge, come on home.”

“Wait a minute.” Fudge turned to the back of the brick block. “What’s on the first floor here?”

“Ginter’s Bakery.”

“Then this door opens into that?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so. What difference does it make?”

“It makes a lot of difference,” replied Fudge with much dignity. “If it does, he’d have to pass through the bakery to get out this way, wouldn’t he? And someone would be likely to see him. What we’ve got to find out is whether it does or doesn’t.” Fudge walked up the two stone steps and tried the latch. The door opened easily. Inside was silence and darkness. Fudge hesitated. “Maybe,” he murmured, “we’d better try the front way first.”

They did, Perry, for one, retracing his steps through the darkening alley with relief. At the main entrance of the building on G Street they climbed two flights of stairs, Fudge cautioning his companion against making too much noise, and, with assumed carelessness, loitered down the hall to the last door on the right. There were some five or six offices on each side and several of them appeared to be unoccupied at present. Nor was there anything about the door they sought to suggest that the room behind it was the refuge of a desperate criminal or, for that matter, anyone else. The door was closed and bore no sign. The two boys halted at a discreet distance and studied it.

“Wonder if he’s in there now,” whispered Fudge.

“Probably,” replied Perry uneasily. The hall was silent and shadows lurked in the corners. From the floor below came the faint ticking of a typewriter, but that was all the sound that reached them until an automobile horn screeched outside. Perry jumped nervously.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s beat it. He might come out and——”

At that moment footsteps sounded on the lower flight. Perry tugged at Fudge’s arm. “Come on, can’t you?” he urged. But Fudge was listening intently to the approaching steps. The person, whoever he was, tramped along the hall below and began the ascent of the next flight. Perry looked about for concealment. A few yards away a half-open door showed an empty and dusty interior. Perry slid through and Fudge followed, closing the door softly all but a few inches. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and approached along the corridor, passed and kept on toward the back of the building. Cautiously the two boys peered out. It was the cowboy-pianist. He paused at the last portal, produced a key, inserted it in the lock and opened the door. And as he passed from sight he raised a hand and removed the luxuriant brown mustache from his upper lip!

CHAPTER VII
FUDGE REVOLTS

The boys crept quietly down the stairs and out into the street. It was not until they had turned the corner that Fudge broke the silence.

“What do you know about that?” he murmured awedly.

“Looks as though you were right,” returned Perry admiringly. “He was disguised, all right.”

“I—I’ve got to think this over,” said Fudge. He was plainly bewildered. They paused at Perry’s gate and he declined an invitation to enter, with a shake of his head. “I guess,” he muttered, “there’s more in this than I thought. You saw him take it off, didn’t you?”

“Of course!”

Fudge sighed relievedly. Perhaps he had doubted the evidences of his senses. “Well, I’ll think it over, and to-morrow——”

“What?” asked Perry interestedly.

“We’ll see,” was Fudge’s cryptic and unsatisfactory reply. “So long. And not a word of this to a living soul, Perry!”

“All right. But, say, Fudge”—Perry dropped his voice—“do you really think he’s a—a criminal?”

“What else can he be? Folks don’t wear false mustaches for nothing, do they?”

“N-no, but he might be doing it for—for a sort of joke,” returned the other lamely.

Fudge sniffed. “Joke! I’ll bet the joke will be on him before I’m—before we’re done with him! You leave it to me. Night!”

Fudge strode off in the twilight. There was something very stealthy and even somber in his departure. Perry, watching a bit admiringly, saw the careful manner in which the amateur detective discounted surprise by keeping close to the fence and peering cautiously at each tree as he approached it. At last Fudge melted mysteriously into the distant shadows down the street, and Perry, somewhat thrilled with the afternoon’s adventure, hurried upstairs and glanced toward the window in the brick building. There was a light behind the lowered shade, but, although he kept watch for nearly a half-hour, nothing came into view.

He wondered what was going on behind that window, and imagined all sorts of deliciously exciting things. Perhaps the mysterious cowboy pianist was studying a plan of Cosgrove’s jewelry store, or perhaps he was bending over a fascinating assortment of jimmies and files and—yes, there’d be an acetylene torch for burning a hole in the steel safe, and there’d be dynamite or nitro-glycerine or something equally useful to a safe-breaker! If only he might somehow get a momentary peek into that room over there! He was so full of his interesting neighbor that he ate almost no supper and incurred the anxious displeasure of his mother.

“Aren’t you feeling well, Perry?” she asked.

“No’m—I mean, yes’m!”

“I think, Father, you’d better have a look at him after supper. His face looks feverish to me.”

“I’m all right, honest, Ma! I—I just ain’t hungry.”

“Don’t say ‘ain’t,’ Perry. Have you been eating this afternoon?”

“No’m.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” said the Doctor. “These first spring days are likely to interfere with one’s appetite. Have you started that sprinting yet? Been doing too much running to-day?”

“No, sir, we don’t start until to-morrow. Dad, did you ever see a burglar?”

“I suppose so. I don’t recollect. Have you seen one around?”

Perry almost changed color. “No, sir—that is—I just wondered whether they wore false mustaches.”

“Now, Perry Hull, what sort of nonsense have you been reading?” inquired his mother. “Some of the books you get out of the library aren’t fit for any boy; all about fighting and Indians and—and now it’s burglars, I dare say! I don’t see when you have time for reading, anyway, with all those lessons to study. Your report card last month wasn’t anything to boast of, either.”

“It was all right except math.,” defended Perry. “Gee, if you think my card was punk, you ought to see some of them!”

“I didn’t say anything about ‘punk,’” retorted Mrs. Hull with dignity. “And I’d like to know where you get all the horrid words you use lately. I dare say it’s that Shaw boy. He looks rather common, I think.”

“There, there, Mother, don’t scold him any more,” said the Doctor soothingly. “Slang’s harmless enough. Have a slice of lamb, son?”

Perry dutifully passed his plate and consumed the lamb, not because he had any appetite for it but in order to allay his mother’s suspicions of illness. There were some especially nasty bottles in the Doctor’s office and Perry had long ago vowed never to be ill again! After supper he excused himself early and retired to his room to study. Mrs. Hull smiled commendingly. It was evident to her that her remarks had borne fruit. But Perry didn’t get very much studying done, because he spent much of the evening peeking cautiously around the corner of his window shade. Of course he realized that the safe-breaker would be at the theater in his assumed rôle of pianist, but it had occurred to Perry that possibly he had an accomplice. But the opposite window remained dark all the evening, or at least until after Perry, ready for bed, had sent a final look across the starlit gloom. What happened subsequently he didn’t know, but he dreamed the wildest, most extravagant dreams in which he was at one moment participating in furious deeds of crime and the next, aligned on the side of Justice, was heroically pursuing a whole horde of criminals across the roofs of the city. That the criminals were under the able and even brilliant leadership of Fudge Shaw did not strike him as the least bit incongruous—until the next morning!

When he finally tumbled out of bed, after reviewing his dreams, or as much as he could recall of them, he went first to the window and looked across the back yard. His heart leaped into his throat at what he saw. The last window on the third floor of the brick building was wide-open and there, in plain view of all the world, sat the safe-breaker! A small table was pulled in front of the casement and the safe-breaker was seated at it. On the table were a cup and saucer, some dishes and a newspaper. Perry gazed fascinatedly. The safe-breaker alternately read the paper and ate his breakfast. Perry couldn’t be quite certain, but it appeared that the breakfast consisted of sausage and rolls and coffee. Whatever it was, the man ate with evident enjoyment, slowly, perusing the morning news between mouthfuls. There was no mustache to-day. Instead, the safe-breaker’s face was clean-shaven and undeniably good-looking in a rugged way. He had a rather large nose and a generous mouth and lean cheeks and a very determined-looking chin. His hair was brown, with some glints of red in it where the sunlight touched it. He was attired in quite ordinary clothes, so far as the observer could see, but wore no coat; perhaps because the morning was delightfully warm and the sunlight shone in at his window. Fortunately for Perry, the man never once glanced his way. If he had he might easily have seen a boy in blue pajamas staring fascinatedly across at him with very wide, round eyes. In which case doubtless he would have suspected that he was under surveillance!

Perry was still looking when his mother’s voice summoned him to action. Regretfully he withdrew his gaze and hurried off to the bathroom. When he returned the safe-breaker was still there, but he had finished his breakfast and was smoking a short pipe, still busy with the paper, and so Perry was obliged to leave him, and when he had finished his own repast and raced upstairs again the opposite window was empty. Perry set off to school fairly weighted down with the startling news he had to tell Fudge Shaw, and hoping beyond everything that he would be fortunate enough to meet with that youth before the bell rang. He wasn’t, however, and not until the noon hour did he find a chance to unburden himself. Then, while he and Fudge, together with some two hundred other boys—not to mention an even larger number of girls—sat on the coping around the school grounds and ate their luncheons, he eagerly, almost breathlessly, recounted the story of what he had seen.

Fudge was plainly impressed, and he asked any number of searching and seemingly purposeless questions, but in the end he appeared a little disappointed. “It doesn’t seem,” he said, “that he’d show himself like that if he’s what we think he is. Unless, of course, he’s doing it for a bluff; to avert suspicion, you know.”

Perry nodded.

“He doesn’t look much like a criminal,” he said doubtfully. “He’s sort of nice-looking, Fudge.”

“Lots of the best of ’em are,” was the sententious reply. “Look at—oh, lots of ’em! Remember the crook in that movie play last month, the fellow who forged things?”

“Jim the Penman? Yes, but he was only an actor, Fudge.”

“Makes no difference. Those plays are true to life, Perry. That’s why they got that good-looking chap to act that part, don’t you see? That’s one of the most suspicious things about this fellow. He’s too good-looking, too innocent, don’t you see? He’s probably an awfully clever cracksman, Perry.”

“Maybe,” replied the other hopefully. “What do you suppose he was so interested in the paper for?”

Fudge frowned thoughtfully as he conveyed the last morsel of a generous sandwich to his mouth. “You can’t tell. Maybe he was looking to see if the police were on his track. Or maybe——”

But the bell cut short further speculation and, agreeing to meet after school, they went back to the drudgery of learning. Perry had not had time to ask Fudge what plan of procedure the latter had decided on, a fact which interfered sadly with his work during the final session. As it developed later, however, Fudge had not decided on the best manner in which to continue the relentless pursuit of the criminal. As they made their way to the athletic field Fudge talked a great deal on the subject but, to Perry’s disappointment, didn’t seem to arrive anywhere. It would be necessary, thought Fudge, to do a good deal of watching before they could obtain enough evidence in the case. What they ought to do, he declared, was to shadow the safe-breaker and never let him out of their sight. But this, as Perry pointed out, was rather impractical, considering that they had to spend most of the day in school. Whereupon Fudge reminded him that Saturday was coming.

“We’ll have the whole day then. The only thing I’m afraid of is that he will pull it off before that and make his getaway. And, of course, if we want to get the reward we’ve got to collar him before that.”

“Reward?” echoed Perry. “What reward?”

“Why, the reward for his apprehension.”

“How do you know there’s any reward?”

“I don’t know it, but it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that there is one? If that fellow’s wanted somewhere there’s sure to be a reward out for him, and a description and all. I wish I knew how much it is!”

“How much do you suppose?” asked Perry.

“Oh, maybe five hundred dollars, maybe a thousand. It depends, you see, on how much swag he got away with on his last job. Maybe he killed someone. You can’t tell. Burglars are desperate folks when they’re interrupted.”

“I don’t think he’d kill anyone,” said Perry. “He doesn’t look that sort.”

Fudge, though, shook his head unconvincedly. “You can’t tell,” he said. “Anyway, if he has, the reward’s bound to be bigger. You keep your eyes peeled, Perry, and watch that window closely. I wouldn’t be surprised if you discovered something mighty important in the next day or two. He must be getting pretty nearly ready to do something.”

“You don’t think, then, he has an accomplice?” asked Perry.

“No, I don’t. He sort of looks like a man who’d work on his own hook. It’s lots safer, you see, and he has a pretty wise face.”

There, for the time being, the subject had to be abandoned, for they had reached the field and confidential conversation was no longer possible.

Not only the baseball candidates were out to-day but some forty-odd aspirants for positions on the Track Team. These were clustered at the further side of the inclosure where the coach and trainer, “Skeet” Presser, were, rather dubiously it seemed, looking them over. Guy Felker, eighteen years of age and a senior, was captain this year, and Arthur Beaton was manager. Beaton was checking off the candidates from a list he held and Captain Felker was inquiring of no one in particular “where the rest of them were.” Sixty-four names had gone down on the notice-board in the school corridor and only forty-four had shown up. “Skeet” explained the absence of a number of the delinquents by reminding Guy that fellows couldn’t practice baseball and report for track work both. Guy consented to become slightly mollified, and, Manager Beaton having completed his checking, the coach and trainer took charge.

“Skeet” was a slight, wiry man of some thirty years, with a homely, good-natured countenance and a pair of very sharp and shrewd black eyes. He had been in his time a professional one- and two-miler of prominence, but of late years had made a business of training. He was regularly employed by the Clearfield Young Men’s Christian Association, but his duties there did not occupy all his time and for three seasons he had coached and trained the High School athletes, and with a fair measure of success, since during his régime Clearfield had once won overwhelmingly from her rival, Springdale, had once been beaten decisively and had once lost the meeting by a bare three points. This year, if Guy Felker could have his way, the purple of Clearfield was to wave in gorgeous triumph over the blue of Springdale.

The trouble was, however, that after the last defeat by her rival Clearfield High School had rather lost enthusiasm for track and field sports. The pendulum swung far over toward baseball, and this spring it had been more than usually difficult to persuade fellows to come out for the Track Team. Felker had posted notice after notice calling for volunteers before his insistence had stirred up any response. Of course there was a nucleus in the hold-overs from last season, but they were not many and new material was badly needed if the Purple was to make a real showing against the Blue. Within the last week the list on the notice-board had grown encouragingly in length, though, and with a half-hundred candidates to choose from it would seem that coach and captain should have been encouraged. Unfortunately, though, a good half of the aspirants were youngsters whose chances of making good were decidedly slim, and “Skeet” and Guy Felker both realized that if, after the final weeding out, they had twenty-five fellows to build the team with they might consider themselves extremely fortunate.

At least half of the candidates who reported this afternoon were in street togs. Those who were not were taken by Guy for a slow run out into the country and the others were dismissed with instructions to report to-morrow dressed for work. Of the former were Fudge and Perry, and it was their fortune to amble over the better part of two miles at the tail-end of a strung-out procession of runners. Perry was in the rear because Fudge was. Fudge was there because running was not a strong point with him. If it hadn’t been for the occasional rests allowed by the captain, Fudge would have dropped out, discouraged and winded, long before they got back to the field. As it was, however, he managed to remain within sight of the leaders. Once when, having trotted up a hill, he subsided on a convenient ledge to regain his breath, he voiced a protest.

“Gee,” panted Fudge, “I don’t see any good in running all over the landscape like this when you’re going to be a shot-putter! If I’d known they were going to spring this on me I wouldn’t have signed for the team!”

“I guess maybe it’s good for you,” replied Perry, “whether you’re going to throw weights or run or jump. Hadn’t we better start along again? The others are nearly a quarter of a mile away now.”

Fudge lifted a dejected head and viewed the situation. His face brightened. “They’re going around the hill, Perry,” he said. “That’s all right. We’ll just trot down this side and pick ’em up again at the road.”

Perry wanted to demur at that, but Fudge’s discomfort was so real that he had to sympathize, and so they cut off to the right and reached the bottom of the hill shortly after the first runners had passed. There were many knowing grins as the two boys trotted out from the fringe of trees.

“Did you lose your way?” asked one chap solicitously.

“No, I lost my breath,” replied Fudge. “Had to stop and look for it.”

“‘And for numerous other reasons,’” remarked a voice behind him.

Fudge glanced back with a scowl, but every face in sight was guileless and innocent.

Later, when they were making their way home from the field, Fudge pulled his feet after him wearily and groaned every few yards.

“I’ll be as stiff as a crutch to-morrow,” he sighed pessimistically. “F-f-for two cents I’d tell Guy to find someone else to put his old shot for him. I d-d-didn’t agree to be a b-b-b-blooming slave!”

Still, he managed to drag himself around to Perry’s after supper and until it was time for the theater to open they watched the window across the yard. But they saw nothing, not even a light. Fudge feared that their quarry had flown and accused Perry of scaring him away. “He probably saw you watching him and has skipped out. Bet we’ll never see him again!”

“But I’m quite sure he didn’t see me,” expostulated the other. “He didn’t look up once.”

“That’s what you think. He must have seen you. Well, there goes five hundred dollars!”

“You don’t even know there was any reward for him, so what’s the good of grouching about it?”

But Fudge refused to cheer up and presently took his departure gloomily. It is very easy to be a pessimist when one is weary, and Fudge was very weary indeed!

CHAPTER VIII
LANNY STUDIES STEAM ENGINEERING

They were putting down a two-block stretch of new macadam on the Lafayette Street extension. A bed of cracked stone, freshly sprinkled, was receiving the weighty attention of the town’s biggest steam roller as Lanny White strolled around the corner. Chug-chug-chug! Scrunch-scrunch-scrunch! Lanny paused, hands in pockets, and looked on. Back and forth went the roller, the engineer skillfully edging it toward the center of the road at the end of each trip. Further down the street, where the workmen were tearing up the old dirt surface, a second and much smaller roller stood idle, its boiler simmering and purring. Lanny smiled.

“Me for the little one,” he muttered, as he walked toward the smaller roller. The engineer was a huge, good-natured looking Irishman with a bristling red mustache, so large that he quite dwarfed the machine. He had a bunch of dirty cotton waste in his hand and, apparently for the want of something better to do, was rubbing it here and there about the engine. He looked up as Lanny came to a stop alongside, met Lanny’s smile and smiled back. Then he absent-mindedly mopped his face with the bunch of waste, without, however, appreciable effect, and leaned against the roller.

“Gettin’ warm,” he volunteered.

Lanny nodded, casting his eyes interestedly over the engine.

“I should think that would be a pretty warm job in hot weather,” he observed conversationally.

“’Tis so. Put eighty or ninety pounds o’ shtame in her an’ she throws out the hate somethin’ fierce.”

“She’s smaller than the other one, isn’t she?”

“Yep. We use this one for the sidewalk work gin’rally. But she’s good for tearin’ up when she’s the spikes in her.”

“Spikes?” asked Lanny.

“Thim things.” The man picked up a steel spike some eight inches long from the floor and showed Lanny how it was fixed in one of the numerous holes bored in the surface of the roller. After that Lanny’s curiosity led to all sorts of questions. At the engineer’s invitation he mounted the platform and, under instruction, moved the roller backwards and forwards and altered its course by the steering wheel and peered into the glowing furnace under the boiler and listened to an exposition on the subject of getting up steam and the purposes of the steam and water gauges. The engineer was a willing teacher and Lanny an apt pupil, and they both enjoyed themselves.

“And what do you do with it at night?” asked Lanny innocently. “Do you leave it here and put the fire out?”

“Lave it here, yes, but I don’t put the fire out, lad. I just bank it down, d’you see, an’ thin in the mornin’ I just rake her out a bit and throw some more coal in and there she is.”

“Oh, I see. And how much steam does she have to have to work on?”

“Depends. Sixty pounds’ll carry her along on a level strate, but you have to give her more on a grade.”

“It’s quite interesting,” said Lanny. “And thanks for explaining it to me.”

“Sure, that’s all right,” replied the other good-naturedly. “Maybe, though, you’ll be afther my job first thing I know.” He winked humorously.

Lanny smiled and shook his head. “I guess I’d be afraid to try to run one of those alone,” he said. “It looks pretty difficult. How was it, now, I started it before?”

“Wid this.” The engineer tugged gently at the lever. “Try it again if you like.”

So Lanny stepped back on the platform and rolled the machine a few yards up the road and back again and seemed quite pleased and proud. Nevertheless he still denied that he would have the courage to try to do it alone. “I guess I’d better start in and work up,” he said smilingly. “Maybe I could get the job of night watchman for a beginning. I suppose there is a watchman, isn’t there?”

“There’s two or three of thim.”

Lanny tried not to let his disappointment show. “That’s what I’ll do then,” he laughed. “And if I get cold I’ll sit here by your boiler.”

“Oh, there’s no watchman on this job,” said the other carelessly. “We just put the lanterns up. That’s enough. It’s only where there’s a good dale of travelin’ that they do be havin’ the watchman on the job. Well, here’s where we get busy. Come along, you ould teakettle. The boss wants you. So long, lad.”

The little roller rumbled off up the road and Lanny, whistling softly, wandered back the way he had come, stopping here and there to watch operations. But once around the corner he no longer dawdled. He set out at his best pace instead, went a block westward and one northward and presently reached his destination, a house at the corner of Troutman and B Streets. Dick Lovering’s blue runabout was in front of the gate and Dick himself was sitting on the porch with Gordon Merrick. Gordon was a clean-cut, live-looking boy of sixteen, a clever first-baseman and an equally clever left end. He and Dick were close friends. They had evidently been awaiting Lanny’s appearance, for they spied him the moment he came into sight and before he had reached the gate Gordon called eagerly: “All right, Lanny?”

“Fine! I’m the best little chauffeur in the Street Department!”

“Better not talk so loudly,” cautioned Dick. “Do you have to have a license to run it?”

Lanny chuckled. “I guess so, but I’ve lost mine. Say, fellows, it’s dead easy!” He seated himself on the top step and fanned himself with his cap. April was surprising Clearfield with a week of abnormally warm weather and this Saturday morning was the warmest of all. “The chap was awfully decent to me. It seems rather a shame to take him in the way I did. He let me get on it and run it and showed me all about it. Why, all you have to do——” And thereupon Lanny went into technical details with enthusiasm and explained until Gordon shut him off.

“That’ll be about all, Lanny,” said Gordon. “As you’re going to attend to the chauffeuring we don’t need to know all the secrets. All we want to know is, can it be done?”

“Of course! I’m telling you——”

“You’re spouting a lot of rot about steam pressure and gauges,” interrupted Gordon firmly. “That’s your business, not ours. We’re only passengers and——”

“Leave me out,” laughed Dick. “I refuse to ride on anything that Lanny’s running, even a street roller.”

“There won’t any of you ride,” said Lanny. “You’ll walk. And one of you had better go ahead and carry a lantern in case we meet anything on the way.”

“Oh, shucks, it’s got a whistle, hasn’t it?”

“Maybe, but I’m not going to blow it if it has, you silly idiot!”

“Much obliged! Well, do we do it to-night or do we not?”

“We do. The journey will start at nine sharp.”

“Hadn’t we better wait until later?” asked Dick. “We don’t want to run into the Superintendent of Streets or the fellow you were talking to.”

“There’s no one out that way at night. There are only four or five houses around there, anyway. We can take it to that first new cross street, whatever its name is, and then back by Common Street to the field. We won’t meet a soul. Besides, it’s going to take some time to go all over that ground with the thing. It’s slower than Dick’s runabout!”

“Cast no aspersions on Eli,” warned Dick. “We might have a race, you and I, eh? You in your—what make is it, by the way?”

Lanny chuckled. “Well, it’s not very big,” he said, “and so I guess maybe it’s a Ford!”

“Who’s going along with us?” Gordon asked.

“Just Way. Seeing that he’s manager——”

“Yes, and we may need someone along whose dad has a little money in case we get caught! Will you fellows come here, then, about nine?”

“You’d better leave me out of it,” said Dick. “I’m willing to share the responsibility but I wouldn’t be any use to you. I’m an awful blunderer when I try to stump around in the dark.”

“You could go in Eli,” said Gordon, “and take me along.”

“Nothing doing! You’ll walk ahead and lug the lantern,” declared Lanny. “There’s no reason why Dick should bother to come. Besides, if there did happen to be any trouble about it afterwards, he’d be much better out of it. A football coach isn’t much use if he’s serving a year or two in prison.”

“What do you suppose they would do to us if they found out?” asked Gordon thoughtfully.

“Oh, who cares?” Lanny laughed gaily. “After all, we aren’t stealing the thing; we’re just borrowing it.”

“I guess Ned Burns would intercede with his stern uncle if we were found out,” said Dick. “It might be a good idea to take Ned along!” he added with a laugh.

“Ned nothing!” Gordon’s tone was contemptuous. “Ned would get in front of the old thing and get flattened out, like as not. Something would happen to him surely. He can’t walk around the corner without breaking a leg!”

“What’s the matter with him now?” asked Lanny interestedly. “Some fellow told me he was laid up again.”

“Didn’t you hear? Why, he was standing on a crossing on Common Street one day last week and an automobile came along and ran over his foot! Everyone around declared that the chap in the auto blew his horn loud enough to wake the dead. But it didn’t wake Ned!”

“Hurt him much?” asked Lanny, laughing.

“Broke a bone in one toe, they say. Honest, I saw Ned walk along G Street one day last winter and run into exactly three hydrants! He’s a wonder!”

“He certainly is! And I guess we’d better leave Ned at home. Three of us are enough, anyway. What time does the moon show up to-night?”

“It hasn’t told me,” replied Gordon gravely.

“Well, we’ll need it to see what we’re doing. About ten, though, I think. Is that twelve o’clock striking? Gee, I must run along. I promised my mother I’d dig up a flower bed this morning. See you later, fellows.”

“Wait a second and I’ll drop you around there,” said Dick, reaching for his crutches. “By the way, Gordie, if you see Way tell him not to forget to stop and get half a dozen new balls. I told him yesterday, but he’s likely to forget it. And don’t you forget that practice is at two-thirty to-day!”

“Ay, ay, sir! Can we have a game to-day, Dick?”

“Yes, but I want a good hour’s work beforehand. Turn her over, will you, Lanny? I’m going to have a self-starter put on her some day if I can find the money.”

Eli Yale, that being the full name of the blue runabout, rolled out of sight up B Street toward Lanny’s home and Gordon, reminded by Lanny’s remark of his own duties in the way of gardening, descended the porch and passed around the side of the house toward the shed in search of a spade. As he came in sight of the apple tree in the next yard he glanced inquiringly toward the platform. It was, however, empty.

“I wonder,” muttered Gordon, “where Fudge is keeping himself. I haven’t seen him around for almost a week.”

Could he have caught sight of his neighbor at that moment he would probably have been somewhat surprised.

CHAPTER IX
THE NEW SIGN

“Quit wobbling!” hissed Fudge.

“All right, but hurry up,” returned Perry in a hoarse whisper. “See anything?”

“N-no, nothing much. There’s a table—what’s that?”

Fudge stopped abruptly and listened. Footfalls sounded in the hall below and, releasing his clutch on the ledge of the transom, Fudge wriggled from Perry’s supporting arms and descended to the floor.

“Someone’s coming!” he whispered. “Beat it!”

They “beat it” into the empty room across the corridor just as the intruder’s head came into sight above the landing. Fudge, watching through the crack of the partly-open door, beheld a man in overalls carrying a square of black tin. He passed on to the door they had just retreated from, set down his box, pushed a battered derby hat to the back of his head and regarded the portal thoughtfully. Finally he produced an awl, a screwdriver and some screws from different pockets and proceeded to attach the square of tin to the middle panel. The conspirators watched with vast curiosity. There was printing on the tin, but not until the man had completed his task and gone were they able to read it. Then they stole out and regarded the sign interestedly. This is what they saw:

MYRON ADDICKS,

CIVIL ENGINEER

They viewed each other questioningly and doubtfully.

“Civil Engineer,” mused Fudge. “That’s a funny game. Of course, that isn’t his real name.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Perry uneasily. “He might come back.”

They went down the stairs and emerged on the sidewalk after Fudge had peered cautiously from the doorway. “I suppose,” muttered Fudge, “we oughtn’t to be seen together. He may be watching from across the street somewhere.” He viewed the windows of the opposite stores and houses suspiciously but without result. In another minute they were seated on Perry’s front steps.

“What did you see through the transom?” asked Perry.

“Nothing much. There’s a cot bed in one corner with a screen around it, and a table with a lot of books and things on it, and a funny table with a sloping top, and a little table near the window, and two or three chairs——” Fudge paused, searching his memory. “That’s all, I guess. There’s a closet in the corner across from the bed, though. And, oh, yes, there was a trunk near the door. I could just see the edge of it. I’ll bet if we could get a look in that trunk we’d find evidence enough, all right!”

“But—but if he’s really a civil engineer,” objected Perry, “maybe we’re all wrong about him.”

Fudge jeered. “What would a civil engineer be doing playing a piano in a movie theater? And why would he wear a false mustache? Or dress up like a cowboy? He’s no more of a civil engineer than I am!”

“Myron’s an unusual name,” mused Perry.

“You wouldn’t expect him to call himself John Smith, would you? Folks would suspect right away that it was a—an assumed name. He’s foxy, that chap. I’ll just bet you anything that he’s a regular top-notcher! And I’ll bet there’s a whaling big reward out for him, too!”

“Well, I don’t see that we’ve found out very much to-day,” said Perry. “We’ve been after him ever since half-past eight, and all we know is that he calls himself ‘Myron Addicks, Civil Engineer’ and has a trunk and a bed and three tables in his room.”

“That’s a whole lot,” replied Fudge emphatically. “That sign proves that he’s a faker, doesn’t it?”

“Well, it doesn’t exactly prove it,” returned the other.

“Of course it does! You don’t suppose anyone really ever had such a name as ‘Myron Addicks,’ do you? And I guess you never saw a civil engineer playing a piano in a theater, did you? And what about the disguise?”

There was no getting around the disguise, and Perry hedged. “Well, anyway, we’ve got to find out more than we have yet, Fudge.”

“Oh, we’ll find things out all right. And I guess we’ve got plenty of time. That sign shows that he means to hang around here awhile, you see. If he was going to crack a safe within a few days he wouldn’t go to all that trouble. I guess he’s about as slick as they make them. Say, what time is it? I’ve got to get home!”

“About half-past twelve. Do we have to do any more shadowing this afternoon?”

Fudge shook his head. “No, he’ll be in the theater from two to half-past four. Anyway, I’ve got to think over the new evidence before we go on. We—we’ve got to proceed very carefully. If he should suspect anything—well, it might go hard with us.”

“I wish,” said Perry dubiously, “we could find out if there really is a reward out for him. Only, if there was, I don’t suppose we could get it.”

“Why couldn’t we?” demanded Fudge warmly. “All we’d have to do would be to go to the police and say: ‘Come across with the reward and we’ll lead you to your man!’ That’s all we’d have to do. Of course I could go to the police station and ask what rewards are out, but, you see, that might make them suspicious. All they’d have to do would be to shadow us and find out about him and—bing!—good-night, reward!” Fudge shook his head. “We won’t give them any chance to do us out of it. Well, so long. Going out to the field this afternoon?”

“Are you?”

Fudge nodded. “Guess so. Come on and watch practice. Maybe they’ll have a game to-day. Stop for me about two, will you?”

Perry agreed and Fudge took himself off, for once neglecting to proceed along the street with his usual caution. If an enemy had been lurking behind one of the maple trees, Fudge would have stood a poor chance of escape! Perry dragged his tired feet into the house and up the stairs, reflecting that this game of shadowing was far more wearying than the long, slow runs that had fallen to his lot the last three days. He was very thankful that work for the track candidates was to be omitted this afternoon.

However, he felt better after dinner and sitting in the sun on the stand with Fudge and watching baseball practice was not a very wearing occupation. Dick Lovering put the fellows through a good hour of batting and fielding and then picked two teams from the more promising material and let them play five innings. Tom Haley was in the box for the First Team and Tom Nostrand pitched for the Second. The First was made up about as everyone expected it would be, with Captain Jones at shortstop, Lanny catching, Gordon Merrick on first, Harry Bryan on second, Will Scott on third, George Cotner in left field, Pete Farrar in center and Joe Browne in right. Bert Cable umpired. A hundred or more fellows had come out to the field to look on, attracted by the rumor of a line-up, and they were rewarded by a very scrappy, hard-fought contest. There were many errors, but, as they were fairly apportioned to each team, they added to rather than detracted from the interest.

The Scrubs tied the score up in the third when Lanny, seeking to kill off a runner at second, threw the ball two yards to the left of base and two tallies came in. At four runs each the game went into the last of the fourth inning. Then an error by the Second Team’s first-baseman, followed by a wild throw to third by catcher, brought Gordon Merrick in and placed the First Team in the lead. And there it stayed, for, although the Second started a rally in their half of the fifth and managed to get men on first and second bases with but one out, Tom Haley settled down and fanned the next batsman and brought the game to an end by causing his rival in the points, Tom Nostrand, to pop up an easy fly to Warner Jones.

Before Fudge and Perry were out of sight of the field Dick’s runabout sped past with Gordon Merrick beside the driver and Curtis Wayland perched on the floor with his knees doubled up under his chin. The occupants of the car waved and Way shouted something that Perry didn’t catch.

“What did he say?” Perry asked as the car sped around the corner.

“I don’t know,” muttered Fudge. “He’s a fresh kid, anyway.”

Fudge, however, was not quite truthful, for Way’s remark had reached him very clearly.

“I thought,” said Perry innocently, “he said something about the springs.”

Fudge viewed him suspiciously, but, discovering his countenance apparently free of guile, only grunted.

In the runabout the three boys were discussing the afternoon’s performance. “It didn’t go badly for a first game,” hazarded Way. “But wasn’t that a weird peg of Lanny’s?”

“There were several weird things about that game,” said Gordon. “My hitting was one of them. We’ll have to do better next Saturday if we’re going to beat Norrisville.”

“Who said we were going to?” asked Dick mildly.

Gordon laughed. “Well, then, give them a fight,” he corrected.

“Oh, we’ll do that, I guess,” Dick replied. “Another week of practice will make a difference. We’ll get rid of some of the crowd about Wednesday and then we’ll have room to turn around out there. Warner thinks we ought to keep two full nines for the First, but I don’t see the use of it if we have the Second to play with. What do you think?”

“No use at all,” said Way. “Just a lot of soreheads sitting around on the bench and kicking because they can’t play every minute. Besides, there aren’t enough good ball players in the lot to make three teams.”

“No, I don’t think there are. That’s what I told Warner. He wanted to pick out eighteen or twenty and then make up the Second from what was left.”

“A peach of a Second it would be,” jeered Gordon.

“I guess we’ll stick to last year’s idea,” continued the coach, “and keep about sixteen fellows, including pitchers. I wish, by the way, we had another good twirler. We’ll have to find one somewhere.”

“Joe Browne can pitch a little, Dick,” Way suggested. “You might see what you can do with him. He hasn’t got much, I guess, but a pretty fair straight ball and a sort of out-curve, but he might learn.”

“All right, we’ll see what we can do with him. A player who can work in the field and the box too is a pretty handy chap to have around. If he can do well enough to start some of the early games we won’t have to keep more than fifteen players. Here you are, Way. Everything all right for to-night?”

“I guess so. Lanny’s going to leave the big gate open so we can get the thing in. I hope he doesn’t forget it. I’ll call him up at supper time and find out. Sure you don’t want to come along, Dick?”

“Quite sure. I’d only be in the way. And you’ll have plenty without me. Good luck to you. Don’t get caught!”

“If we do we’ll get you to bail us out,” laughed Way, as he swung the gate to behind him. “Nine o’clock sharp, Gordon!”

Gordon nodded and the car went on again. “I’m rather afraid you’ll get nabbed,” remarked Dick. “But I don’t suppose anyone would be nasty about it. If I were you fellows I’d cut and run, Gordie, if anything happened.”

“I suppose we will,” Gordon replied. “If we do I hope Lanny will turn off the engine before he jumps!”

“Well, drop around in the morning and let me hear about it,” said the other as Gordon jumped out at his gate. “If I don’t see an announcement of your arrest in the paper I’ll take it that you got through all right.”

“You won’t see any announcement of my arrest,” laughed Gordon. “I can run faster than any cop on the force, Dick!”

“Well, see that you do! So long!”

CHAPTER X
THE BORROWED ROLLER

Some twelve years before a large tract of marsh and meadow lying west of the town and southeast of the river where it turns toward the sea had been purchased by Mr. Jonathan Brent. At the time no one conceived that any of the land except possibly a few blocks just beyond A Street would ever be marketable as residence lots. But Mr. Brent had gradually filled in, driving back the twisting creeks that meandered about the land, until many acres had been redeemed. Several new streets were laid out and Mr. Brent, retaining for his own occupancy a full block between Sawyer and Troutman Streets, had built himself a very handsome residence. “Brentwood” was quite the finest mansion in Clearfield. When finished it was two blocks beyond the westernmost house in town, but it did not remain so long. Brent’s Addition proved popular and many citizens bought lots there and built, in some cases abandoning homes in the middle of town that were already being elbowed by business blocks. Between Main and Common Streets, three blocks north of “Brentwood,” two squares had been left undivided and this ground was now the High School Athletic Field. West of that, building had not progressed to any great extent as yet, although a few houses were scattered about the recently-made area. It was in this locality at about half-past nine that Saturday night Lanny, Gordon, Way and one other found the street rollers.

The fourth member of the expedition was Morris Brent. Morris, it seemed, had recalled the fact that he had left a tennis racket and some balls on the court at the side of the house and had gone out to bring them in. On his return he had chanced to look toward the front gate and had glimpsed the three figures going west along Troutman Street. There was nothing extraordinary about that, but Morris had been impressed with a certain stealthiness displayed by the trio, and had also caught sight of a tow head under the dim light of a street lamp. Thereupon Morris had abandoned racket and balls on the front steps and hastened after the conspirators, finding that his surmise as to the identity of the light-haired youth was correct. His advent was welcomed, the purpose of the expedition explained to him and the trio became a quartette.

Save Morris not a person was glimpsed from Gordon’s house to their destination. The only person they were likely to meet was the policeman on that beat, and, since he had to cover a deal of territory, and was known to have a partiality for the better lighted district nearest town, the boys considered their chances of evading him were excellent. Making certain that there was no watchman about, they approached the smaller of the two rollers and considered it. It would have to be turned around and run back a half-block to the next street, north two blocks and then east to the Common Street side of the athletic field. The first difficulty that presented itself was that, contrary to the statement of the engineer, the fire under the boiler was not banked. In fact, there was very little fire there. This was explained by Morris. Being Saturday, he said, the engineers had left their fires to go out so they would not have to tend them until Monday morning.

“Isn’t that the dickens?” asked Lanny. He lifted down a red lantern that hung from the engine and dubiously examined the steam gauge. “About ten pounds,” he muttered. “She won’t stir a step on that!”

“Guess, then, we’d better try it some other time,” said Way.

“No, sir, we’re going to do it to-night,” responded Lanny, after a moment’s consideration. “If we wait until the first of the week the field may dry off, and we want to roll it while it’s still moist. The only thing to do is to get this fire going and make steam. It’ll take some time, but we can do it.”

“Easy,” agreed Morris. Being newly admitted to the conspiracy, Morris was filled with enthusiasm. “Set the lantern down, Lanny, and I’ll shovel some coal on.”

“All right. I’ll rake it a bit first, though.” This was done and then, from the bin, Morris got several shovelfuls of soft coal and sprinkled it gingerly over the dying fire. Drafts were opened and the quartette sat down to wait. Fortunately, the night was fairly warm, otherwise the ensuing period might have been distinctly unpleasant, for this newer part of Brent’s Addition was beautifully level, and what breeze was stirring came across the land unimpeded by anything larger than the two-inch shade trees along the incipient sidewalks. They talked in low tones, keeping a careful watch meanwhile for the policeman. The last street light was at the end of the block and so, save for the lanterns left by the workmen, they were in the darkness. Lanny, though, pointed to the sky back of the town. “The moon’s coming up,” he said, “and I’d like mighty well to be inside the field before it gets in its work.”

“Same here,” agreed Gordon. The next instant he uttered a cautioning “S-s-sh!” and flattened himself out against the side of the roller. Half a block away the officer on the beat had suddenly emerged from the shadows and was standing under the light, gazing, as it seemed to the boys, most interestedly toward them. There was a minute of suspense. “Think he saw us?” whispered Gordon.

“Search me,” said Lanny. “I wish we’d had the sense to put the lantern back on the other side where we got it. Here he comes!”

The officer had begun a slow but determined approach.

“Keep in the shadows,” advised Lanny, “and beat it back to the other roller! Don’t let him see you!”

Silently, like four indistinct shadows, the boys slipped from their places and, keeping as best they could the dark bulk of the roller between them and the approaching policeman, scuttled up the road to where the larger machine stood. There was one doubtful moment when the light of the red lantern fell upon them just before they dodged behind the big roller.

“He will see the fire and know that something’s up,” whispered Way. “Let’s skip, fellows!”

“Hold on a minute,” advised Lanny. “Maybe he won’t. Wait and see.”

They peered anxiously around the edges of the big wheel behind which they were hidden. The policeman was dimly visible as he walked about the smaller roller. Finally he stopped and swung his stick a moment, picked up the red lantern and set it in the road beside the machine and, at last, slowly ambled back along the street. Breathlessly and hopefully they watched him reach the corner and disappear without a backward look. For a long two minutes after that they listened to the sound of his footsteps dying away on the new granolithic sidewalk. Then:

“Saved!” murmured Morris dramatically.

“Come on,” said Lanny. “We’ll have to get that old shebang going even if we have to push it! The moon will be up in a few minutes.”

When they got back there was an encouraging purring sound from the engine and, without disturbing the lantern, Lanny borrowed a match from Morris and read the gauge. “Forty-something,” he muttered as the light flickered out. “We’ll try her, anyway. Sneak back there to the corner, Gordon, and see if you can hear or see anything of the cop. And hurry back. I’ll get her swung around, anyway.”

Gordon scouted off and Lanny, while the other two boys held their breath anxiously, pulled a lever here, pushed something there and turned the wheel. There was a hiss, a jar, a clank and a rumble and the roller slowly moved away from the curbing.

“She starts, she moves, she seems to feel

The thrill of life along her keel!”

murmured Morris poetically as Lanny sought excitedly for the reversing lever in the darkness. The roller stopped suddenly and as suddenly began to back. Way, who had followed close behind, had just time to jump aside with a suppressed yelp before the ponderous machine struck the curb with an alarming jolt.

“Keep her head down!” exclaimed Morris. “Don’t let her throw you, Lanny!”

“Give me that lantern up here,” panted the amateur engineer. “I can’t see what I’m doing.”

Way handed the lantern to him and he hung it on a projection in front of him. After that progress was less erratic. It required much maneuvering to get the roller headed the other way, but Lanny at last accomplished the difficult feat. Gordon returned to report that all was quiet. More coal was put into the furnace and the journey begun. Lanny’s plan to have someone walk ahead with a lantern was abandoned. Instead the light was put out and Lanny trusted to the faint radiance of the moon which was not yet quite above the house-tops. The corner was negotiated without difficulty and the Flying Juggernaut, as Gordon dubbed the machine, swung into a smooth, newly-surfaced street over which she moved easily if not silently. Gordon and Morris strode ahead to watch for obstructions and give warning while Way, as a sort of rear guard, remained behind in case pursuit appeared from that direction.

What each of the four marveled at was why the entire town did not turn out to discover the reason for the appalling noise! Perhaps the sound of the steam roller’s passage was not as deafening as they imagined, but to them it seemed that the thumping and rattling and groaning could easily be heard on the other side of town! If it was, though, nothing came of it. Slowly but with a sort of blind inexorability quite awesome the Juggernaut proceeded on her way. Lanny, his hand on the lever that would bring her to a stop, stood at his post like a hero, ready, however, to cut and run at the first alarm. It seemed the better part of an hour to him before the two blocks were traversed and Morris came back to announce that Common Street was reached. Over went the wheel and the Flying Juggernaut, grazing the curbing with a nerve-destroying rasp of steel against stone, turned toward the side entrance of the field. On the left now were several houses. Lights shone from windows. The boys held their breath as the last leg of the journey began. Suppose that, hearing the noise and viewing the unusual sight of a steam roller parading through the street at half-past ten o’clock, some busy-body should telephone to the police station! Morris didn’t like to think of it, and so, naturally, he mentioned it to Gordon. Gordon assured him that the contingency had already occurred to him and that if he saw a front door open he meant to disappear from the scene with unprecedented celerity, or words to that effect!

But the suspense ended at last, for there, on the right, a break in the shadowed darkness of the high fence, was the open gate. Lanny swung the roller far to the left and turned toward the entrance. Then, however, a problem confronted them, which was how to get it over the curbing! They hadn’t planned for that. The sidewalk was a good six inches above the street level, and, bringing the Juggernaut to a stop—the sudden silence was absolutely uncanny!—Lanny invited ideas. Morris offered the desperate plan of backing the roller to the far side of the street and putting on all steam. “Sort of lift her over, Lanny,” he urged. Lanny told him he was an idiot; that this thing was a steam roller and not a horse. In the end Morris, Way and Gordon went inside to look for planks or beams to lay along the curb, while Lanny, not too contented with his task, remained to guard the roller. They were gone a long time, or so, at least, it seemed to the engineer, but returned at last with enough lumber of varying lengths and thicknesses to answer the purpose. In the light of the inquiring moon, which was now sailing well above the tree-tops, they snuggled the planks and joists against the curbing, forming an abrupt but practical runway, and, giving the Juggernaut all the steam there was, Lanny persuaded her to take the incline and to roll majestically through the gate and into the field. No sooner was she inside than Gordon swung the gate shut and secured it, and four boys, with one accord, drew four long, deep-drawn breaths of relief!

CHAPTER XI
GORDON DESERTS HIS POST

After that they listened cautiously, but heard only the soft sizzling of the engine which had a contented sound as though the Flying Juggernaut was quite as rejoiced at the successful outcome of the venture as they were! More coal was put on, the grate was raked and Lanny contentedly announced that there was a sixty-pound head of steam on. By this time the field was bathed in moonlight save where the stands cast their black shadows, and the task remaining could not fail for lack of light. Forward moved the Juggernaut and there began the work of smoothing out the inequalities of Brent Field. Perhaps had Lanny realized the size of the task he would never have ventured on it. Back and forth, commencing at the infield end, rumbled and clanked the roller, each time covering some four feet of sward and gravel. An hour passed and they were still only as far as first and third base. Gordon voiced doubts.

“At this rate, Lanny, we won’t reach the fence back there before breakfast time. Can’t you make her go any faster?”

“No, I can’t,” replied the engineer shortly, “and if you don’t like the way I’m doing this suppose you take a whack at it yourself.”

“No, thanks. I’d probably run her right through the stand over there. I’m not criticising your handling of the thing, Lanny, but it’s getting a bit chilly and I’m sleepy and——”

“Go on home then. I guess I can do this all right alone.”

“Well, don’t be grouchy,” said Way. “After all, you’re the only one of us who’s getting any fun out of it. Just walking back and forth like this isn’t awfully exciting. Gee, I wish I had my sweater!”

“Tell you what,” said Morris. “I’ll beat it down town and get some hot coffee!”

“Oh, noble youth!” applauded Gordon. “Get a gallon of it, Morris! And some sandwiches——”

“Or hot-dogs,” interpolated Way.

“With plenty of mustard!”

“Who’s got any money? I don’t think I’ve got more than fifteen or twenty cents. Dig down, fellows.”

They “dug” and a minute later Morris was on his way with the sufficient sum of eighty cents jingling in his pocket. Cheered by the anticipation of hot coffee and food, the others were restored to good humor. Lanny said he guessed the old concern would get along just as fast if they all got on it. They tried it and could see no difference in the rate of progress, and being near the boiler was a lot warmer than walking along in the little breeze that had come up with the moon. At Gordon’s suggestion, Lanny instructed him in running the machine and, after a few trips back and forth, he took Lanny’s place at the throttle while the latter was glad to get down and stretch his legs. They completed the diamond and started on the outfield. Lanny declared that the work was a huge success, that the ground where they had rolled was as hard and level as a billiard table.

“Of course,” he added, “it would be a lot better if we could go over it two or three times.”

“Maybe,” said Gordon hurriedly, “but we’re not going over it two or three times, you simple idiot! Once is enough. My folks hate to have me late for breakfast!”

“One good thing,” said Way, “is that to-morrow—no, to-day—is Sunday and we have breakfast later.”

“So do we,” replied Gordon, “but I’m wondering if I can sneak in without being caught. Wish I’d thought to unlock the porch window. I supposed we’d be all done with this by twelve!”

“If we get it done by four we’ll be lucky, I guess,” said Lanny. “There comes Morris.”

“I could only get a quart,” panted Morris as he came up. “The chap in the lunch wagon was afraid he’d run short if he gave me any more. Here are some paper cups; got those at the drug store. And here’s your grub; eight ham and three hot-dog sandwiches.”

“Three?” ejaculated Gordon.

“Yes, I ate one on the way. Stop your old pushcart till we feed.”

“Better keep her going,” said Lanny. “We can eat en voyage.”

“Didn’t get any of that,” replied Morris flippantly. “They were all out of it. Hold your cup, Way. Is it hot? I came back as fast as I could, but——”

“Don’t you worry,” sputtered Way. “It’s hot enough to scald you. Good, too! M-mm!”

For several minutes conversation ceased and only the rumble and clank of the roller broke the silence. Then, when the last crumb was gone and the paper cups had been added to the flames, there were four contented grunts. “That’s better,” said Lanny. “I’m good for all night now. Let me have her, Gordon.”

“Wait a bit. I’m having too good a time. What time is it?”

“About quarter to one,” answered Way, studying the face of his watch in the moonlight.

“That’s not so bad. How much more have we got, Lanny?”

“I’d say we’d done just about half,” was the reply. “Better stop her and coal up a little.”

“No stops this trip,” answered Gordon. “Coal ahead. I’ll get over here.”

“What’s the matter with letting me work her a bit?” asked Morris, when the door was shut again. “Seeing that I saved your lives——”

“Morris, old pal,” replied Gordon, gravely, “this requires science and experience. I’d let you take her in a minute, but if anything happened to her I’d be held responsible. You can be fireman, though, and shovel coal.”

“Next time you can get your own coffee,” grumbled Morris. “I had just enough money, by the way, to pay the lunch wagon chap, but I had to charge the drinking cups to you, Gordon.”

“That’s more than I could do at Castle’s,” laughed Gordon. “Whoa! Gee, I didn’t know that track was so close!”

“Get out of there before you go through the fence,” said Lanny, pushing him aside. “Do you suppose we’d ought to roll the track, too, fellows?”

A chorus of “No’s” answered him. “Wouldn’t do the least bit of good,” added Way. “The track’s in rotten shape anyhow. I don’t see why we have to have the old thing. It’s only in the way. If you have to go back for a long fly it’s a safe bet you fall over the rim. What we ought to do is sod it over and——”

“Tell that to Guy Felker,” advised Gordon. “Have you done any work with the team yet, Lanny?”

“I’ve had a couple of trials just to see what I could do. Guy is after me to give him three afternoons a week. I suppose I’ll have to pretty soon.”

“Oh, bother the Track Team,” said Way. “It won’t amount to anything and you’ll lose baseball practice. Cut it out this year, Lanny.”

“Not much! If it came to a show-down I’d rather run the hundred and two-twenty than play ball. And don’t you be mistaken about the team being no good. We’re going to have a mighty good team this year and we’re going to simply run away from Springdale. You wait and see.”

“What of it if we do?” grumbled Way. “Who cares?”

“Most everyone except you, you old pudding-head,” responded Gordon. “Want me to take her awhile now, Lanny?”

“No, thank you kindly. Guy’s having a pretty hard time to get fellows interested in the track, and that’s a fact, but he’s going to win out all right. Don’t go around talking like that, Way, because it isn’t fair. Just because you don’t care for track sports, you needn’t discourage other fellows.”

“Oh, I haven’t said anything to discourage anyone. For that matter, if Guy wants to get a team together I wish him luck. But I don’t think there’s room for football and baseball and track, too. We ought to—to concentrate.”

“Rot! Let’s beat Springdale at every old thing we can. Them’s my sentiments,” announced Morris. “If we could do ’em up at tiddley-winks I’d be in favor of starting a team!”

“And I suppose you’d play left wink on it,” laughed Way.

It was well after three o’clock before the Flying Juggernaut completed her last trip across the field and the moon was well down toward the west. Four very tired boys—and sleepy, too, now that the effects of the coffee were working off—rolled across to the gate, unbarred it, rolled through, closed it behind them, and set off again along Common Street. Somehow they cared less about discovery now and didn’t even take the trouble to lower their voices as they rumbled past the darkened houses. Morris announced that they had made a mistake in the name of the steam roller; that its right name was “Reverberating Reginald.” The others were too sleepy to argue about it, however.

Gordon, who had taken Lanny’s place at the wheel, turned into the cross street and headed Reginald toward his berth. They didn’t take the precaution to send scouters ahead now, and perhaps it wasn’t worth while since the street lay plainly before them for several blocks. And perhaps what happened would have happened just the same. Lanny always insisted that it wouldn’t, but never could prove his point. At all events, what did happen was this:

Just as they had trundled over the crossing at Main Street a voice reached them above the noise of the roller and a figure suddenly stepped into the road a few yards ahead. One very startled glance at the figure was sufficient. With a fine unanimity four forms detached themselves from the sheltering gloom of the steam roller and fled back along the road. Possibly the policeman was so surprised at the sudden result of his challenge that pursuit did not occur to him, or, possibly, the continued stately advance of the steam roller in his direction disconcerted him. At all events the boys became mere flying shapes in the distance before the officer took action. When he did he stepped nimbly out of the path of the roller and remarked stentoriously as it rumbled by:

“Hi, there! What’s this? Where you goin’ with that roller, hey?”

As there was no response he went after it, discovering to his surprise that the reason he had received no reply was that there was no one there to offer it! What occurred subsequently would have hugely diverted a spectator had there been one, which there wasn’t. On and on went the roller, moving further and further toward the sidewalk, and on and on trotted the policeman, making ineffectual efforts to board it. He had a very healthy respect for engines and wasn’t at all certain that this one might not resent his company. At last, however, desperation gave him courage and he stumbled onto the platform and began to pull, push or twist every movable thing he could lay hands on. The results were disconcerting. A cloud of white steam burst forth from somewhere with an alarming rush and hiss, a shrill, excruciating whistle shattered the night and a tiny stream of very hot water sprayed down his sleeve! But the roller kept right on rolling, majestically, remorselessly!

The policeman gave up in despair and rapped loudly with his club for assistance. At that moment the roller, heedless of his appeal, reached the intersection of Lafayette Street and, no longer restrained by the curbing against which it had been grinding, angled purposefully across and collided violently with a lamp-post. The lamp-post gave appreciably under the unexpected assault and the light flared wildly and expired. The steam roller, although its further progress was barred, kept on revolving its big wheels and the policeman, picking himself up, rescued his helmet from the coal-box and hurried from the scene.

CHAPTER XII
ON DICK’S PORCH

“After that,” said Gordon, “I don’t know just what did happen. I was too busy getting away from there to look back. I cut across an open field and got into the shadow of the fence on Louise Street and pretty soon Way came along. Where Lanny and Morris got to I don’t know. Maybe they’re still running!”

It was Sunday morning and Gordon and Dick were seated on the latter’s porch. Dick, who had listened to his friend’s narration with much amusement, laughed again.

“And you forgot to turn off the steam before you jumped, eh?”

“No, I didn’t exactly forget to,” replied Gordon judicially. “I thought of it, all right, but I couldn’t locate the throttle thing. You see, it all happened so suddenly that there wasn’t time to do much but run. That silly cop must have been standing in front of the little shed the contractors put up out there last year and we never suspected he was anywhere around until he jumped out on us about twenty feet ahead. He shouldn’t have done that. He might have caused us heart-failure.”

“Haven’t you been over yet to see what happened to the roller?” Dick asked.

“I have not,” was the emphatic reply. “Maybe this afternoon I’ll sort of happen out there, but it might look suspicious if I went this morning. I suppose there’ll be a dickens of a row about it. There wasn’t anything in the paper, was there?” Gordon glanced at the Sunday Reporter on Dick’s knees.

“No, but I suppose the paper was out before it happened. Do you think the policeman recognized any of you?”

“I don’t know. He might. We didn’t give him much chance, but, still, it was broad moonlight. Gee, I’d like to know what happened to that roller!”

“Call up the police station and ask,” suggested Dick gravely.

“Yes, I will!” But Gordon’s tone contradicted the statement. “Guess I’ll call up Lanny and see if he got home. I had a fine time getting in. There wasn’t a window unlatched and I had to squirm through the coal hole. I made a horrible noise when I dropped, too. I thought the coal would never get through sliding!”

“Did you get caught?”

Gordon shook his head doubtfully. “I guess mother knows, all right, but I don’t think dad does. Anyway, he didn’t say anything. It was fierce having to get up at eight o’clock! I felt like a—a——”

“You still look like it,” laughed Dick. “Well, anyway, you got the job done, and that’s something, even if you do go to jail for a while!”

“What do you suppose they’ll do?” asked Gordon uneasily.

“Oh, I don’t believe they’ll be hard on you. Maybe a small fine and a month in jail.”

“Quit your kidding! If I go to jail I’ll see that you come, too.”

“I’ve always understood that there was honor even amongst thieves,” responded the other, “but I see that I was—hello, see who’s here!”

It was Lanny who closed the gate behind him and walked up the short path with a weary grin on his face. “Good morning,” he said, as he sank to the top step and leaned his head against the pillar. “Also good-night.” He closed his eyes and snored loudly.

“What became of you?” asked Gordon.

“What became of me?” Lanny opened his eyes protestingly. “When do you mean?”

“Last night, of course. Where did you run to?”

“Last night? Run? I don’t understand you. I went to bed quite early last night and slept very nicely. Once I thought I heard a noise, a sort of jarring, rumbling noise, but I paid no attention to it. What a beautiful morning it is! ‘O Beauteous Spring, thou art——’” His head settled back against the pillar again.

The others laughed, and Dick remarked soberly: “I suppose you’ve heard that they got Morris?”

Lanny opened his eyes once more and winked gravely. “I just had him on the phone a few minutes ago.” He smiled wanly. “He couldn’t get in the house when he got back and had to sleep out in the stable in a carriage.”

“How about you?” asked Gordon.

Lanny waved a hand carelessly. “No trouble at all. Merely shinned up a water-spout and got in the linen closet window. Then I fell over a carpet-sweeper and went to bed. I shall insist on having a latch-key after this.”

“But where the dickens did you and Morris run to?” insisted Gordon. “I never saw you once after I turned into the field.”

“By that time I was shinning up the spout,” replied Lanny. “You see, I had a fine start on you, Gordie. I don’t know just what my time was for the distance, but I’ll bet it was mighty good. I’m pretty sure that I did the first two-twenty yards in something under twenty seconds! As for Morris, I never saw him. He says he fell over something and lay in the grass for about half an hour and then went home by way of the river. Something of a detour, that!”

“Well, tell me one thing, Lanny,” said Dick. “Did the rolling do the field any good?”

Lanny became almost animated. “It certainly did! Want to go over and have a look at it?” Dick shook his head. “Well, it made a lot of difference. Of course, as I told the others, it ought to have been gone over two or three times to get it in real good shape, but it’s at least a hundred per cent. better than it was before. I was afraid it might be too dry, but it wasn’t. That old roller just squashed it right down in great style. I think we broke the board around the track in a few places, but it was pretty rotten anyway.”

“That’s good; I mean about the field. As I just said to Gordie, if you fellows have got to go to jail it’s sort of a satisfaction that you accomplished something. I’ll send you fruit and old magazines now and then, and a month will soon pass.”

“Is that really and truly so? Your kindness——”

“And I told him,” interrupted Gordon, “that if we went to jail I’d see that he went along.”

“Naturally.” Lanny hugged his knees and smiled pleasantly at Dick. “We couldn’t be happy without you, Dickums. Yes, you’ll have to go along even if it’s necessary for us to swear that you were the ring-leader. I’d be sorry for your folks, Dick, but——” Lanny shook his head inexorably. Then: “By the by, what about Way?”

“I left him at the corner of Common Street,” replied Gordon. “I guess he managed all right.”

“He ought to have; he’s the manager,” said Lanny, with a yawn. “My word, fellows, but I’m sleepy! And I had to pretend to be Little Bright-Eyes at breakfast, too. I know I’ll fall asleep in church and snore!”

“Do you think that cop recognized us, Lanny?” Gordon asked.

“Don’t ask me. If he did we’ll know about it soon enough. Look here, whose idea was it, anyway? Who got us into this scrape?”

“Of course, you didn’t,” answered Gordon gravely, “and I’m certain I didn’t. I guess it was Dick, wasn’t it?”

Lanny seemed about to assent until Dick reached for a crutch. Then: “No, I don’t think it was Dick,” he replied. “You have only to look at his innocent countenance to know that he would never do such a thing. Guess it was Morris. He isn’t here, and, besides, his dad’s got enough influence and coin to buy him off. I’m certain it was Morris.”

“So it was; I remember now. Another time we’ll know better than to listen to his evil suggestions.” And Gordon sighed deeply.

“He’s older than we are, too, which makes it more—more deplorable.”

“You have a wonderful command of the English language this morning,” laughed Dick. “I’d love to listen to you some time when you’re feeling fresh and quite wide-awake!”

“Thank you for those few kind words,” responded Lanny gratefully. “I shan’t attempt to conceal from you the fact that I am slightly drowsy to-day. Well, I’ve got to go back and report for church parade. You coming, Gordie?”

“I suppose so.” Gordon got up with a sigh.

“Come around after dinner,” suggested Dick, “and we’ll get in Eli and take a ride. We might roll around to the scene of the late unpleasantness and see what finally happened to that roller!”

“All right,” Lanny agreed, “only don’t display too great an interest in the thing when you get there. Let us be—er—circumspect.”

“I don’t like the sound of that word,” murmured Gordon; “that is, the first and last syllables! Change it to ‘cautious,’ Lanny.”

“Very well, let us be cautious. Farewell, Dickums!”

Their visit in the runabout to Brent’s Addition that afternoon proved unsatisfactory. The steam roller, looking as innocent as you like, was back where they had found it and there was nothing to tell what had happened subsequent to their hurried departure. It was not until Monday morning that they had their curiosity satisfied, and then it was the Reporter that did it. The Reporter had chosen to treat the story with humor, heading it

ROAD ROLLER RUNS AMUCK!

It told how Officer Suggs, while patrolling his lonely beat on the outskirts of our fair city, had had his attention attracted by mysterious sounds on Aspen Avenue. The intrepid guardian of the law had thereupon concealed himself in ambush just in time to behold, coming toward him, one of the Street Department’s steam rollers. Ordered to stop and give an account of itself, the roller had promptly attacked the officer. The latter, with rare presence of mind, leaped to a place of safety and the roller, emitting a roar of rage and disappointment, tried to escape. Then followed a vivid account of the pursuit, the disorderly conduct of the roller, the wanton attack on the lamp-post and the final subjugation and arrest of the marauder, an arrest not consummated until several members of the police force and employees of the Street Department had been hurried to the scene. It made a good story and at least five of the Reporter’s readers enjoyed it vastly. To their relief the paper ended with the encouraging statement that “so far the police are unable to offer any satisfactory explanation of the affair. Superintendent Burns, of the Street Department, hints that some person or persons unknown had a hand in the matter, but to the Reporter it looks like a remarkable case of inanimate depravity.”

And that ended the matter, save that eventually the true story leaked out, as such things will, and became generally known throughout the school. Whether it ever reached the ears of Superintendent Burns is not known. If it did he took no action.

Brent Field profited in any case. That Monday afternoon the improvement in the condition of the ground was so noticeable that many fellows remarked on it. Fortunately, though, they were quite satisfied with the casual explanation that it had been “fixed up a bit,” and for some reason the marks left by the passage of the roller, plainly visible, failed to connect themselves with the story in that morning’s paper. Perhaps the principal reason for this was that very few of the fellows read anything in the Reporter outside of the sporting page. The infield, and especially the base paths, was more level and smoother than it had ever been, and during practice that afternoon there were far fewer errors that could be laid to inequalities of the surface. To be sure, when Harry Bryan let a ball bound through his hands he promptly picked up a pebble and disgustedly tossed it away, but the excuse didn’t carry the usual conviction.

Practice went well that afternoon. Fielding was cleaner and it really looked to Dick as though his charges were at last finding their batting eyes. Bryan, Cotner and Merrick all hit the ball hard in the four-inning contest with the practice team, the former getting two two-baggers in two turns at bat and Cotner connecting with one of Tom Nostrand’s offerings for a three-base hit. The First Team had no trouble in winning the decision, the score being 5 to 1. Meanwhile, on the cinders the Track Team candidates were busy, and over on the Main Street side of the field, where the pits were located, the jumpers and weight-throwers were trying themselves out as extensively as the ever-watchful “Skeet” would allow. Fudge Shaw, looking heroic—and slightly rotund—in a brand-new white shirt, trunks and spiked shoes, was taking his turn with the shot. So far only three other youths had chosen to contest with him for the mastery in this event, but unfortunately for Fudge two of the three were older fellows with experience and brawn. One, Harry Partridge, a senior and a tackle on the football team, was in command of the shot-putters. Partridge was a good sort usually, Fudge considered, but to-day he was certainly impatient and censorious, not to mention sarcastic!

“Look here, Fudge,” he asked after the tyro had let the shot roll off the side of his hand and dribble away for a scant twelve feet in a direction perilously close to a passing broad-jumper, “who ever told you you could put the shot, anyway? You don’t know the first thing about it! Now come back here and let me tell you for the fiftieth time that the shot leaves your hand over the tips of your fingers and doesn’t roll off the side. I’m not saying anything just now about your spring or your shoulder work. All I’m trying to do is to get it into that ivory knob of yours that the shot rests here and that it leaves your hand so! Now cut out all the movements and let me see you hold it right and get it away right. Thank you, that’s very rotten! Go ahead, Thad. Try not to foul this time. You start too far forward. That’s better! Did you see—look here, Shaw, if you’re out here to put the shot you watch what’s going on and never mind the jumpers! If you don’t watch how these other fellows do it you never will learn! All right, Falkland!”

“Maybe,” said Fudge when he and Perry were walking home, “maybe I’d rather be a broad-jumper, anyway. This shot-putting’s a silly stunt!”

CHAPTER XIII
FOILED!

Whether Fudge really believed all he professed to regarding the mysterious occupant of Room 12 in the brick building on G Street is a question. Fudge, being an author of highly sensational romances, doubtless possessed a little more imagination than common and liked to give it free rein. Probably it is safe to say that he believed about half. Perry, less imaginative and far more practical, had been at first taken in by Fudge and had really credited most if not quite all that Fudge had asserted. When, however, another week passed and nothing startling happened, he began to lose faith. Almost every morning the supposed desperado ate his breakfast in full view of Perry very much as anyone else would have eaten it, rationally clothed and exhibiting absolutely none of the tricks or manners popularly associated with criminals. He did not, for instance, suddenly pause to glance furtively from the window. Nor did he ever, when Perry was looking, shrug his shoulders as villains always did on the screen at the theater. In short, as a criminal he was decidedly disappointing!

One morning he actually laughed. Perry couldn’t hear the laugh, but he could see it, and there was nothing sardonic about it. It was just a jolly, chuckling sort of laugh, apparently inspired by something in the morning paper. Perry’s own features creased in sympathy. After that Perry found it very difficult to place credence in the “safe-breaker” theory. Then, too, Fudge failed to develop any new evidence. In fact, to all appearances, Fudge had gone to sleep on his job. When Perry mentioned the matter to him Fudge would frown portentously and intimate that affairs had reached a point where mental rather than physical exertion counted most. Perry, though, was no longer deceived.

“Huh,” he said one day, “there was nothing in that yarn of yours and you’ve found it out. What’s the good of pretending any more?”

Fudge looked sarcastic and mysterious but refused to bandy words. His “If-you-knew-all-I-know” air slightly impressed the other, and Perry begged to be taken into the secret. But Fudge showed that he felt wounded by his friend’s defection and took himself off in dignified silence. When he had reached home and had settled himself on the platform in the apple tree, however, Fudge realized that his reputation and standing as an authority on crime and its detection was in danger. Something, consequently, must be done to restore Perry’s confidence. But what? He thought hard and long, so long that twilight grew to darkness before he left his retreat and hurried to the house for supper. He had, though, solved his problem.

The next day, which was Saturday, he presented himself at Perry’s at a little after nine o’clock. Perry, who had been practicing starts on the weed-grown path at the side of the house, joined him on the front porch somewhat out of breath and with his thoughts far from the subject of crime and criminals, clews and detectives. One glance at Fudge’s countenance, however, told him that matters of importance were about to be divulged. He pocketed his grips and prepared to listen and be impressed. Briefly, what Fudge had to say was this:

He had, he found, been slightly mistaken regarding Mr. Myron Addicks. The mistake was a natural one. It consisted of classifying Mr. Addicks as a safe-breaker instead of a train-robber. Fudge did not explain clearly by what marvelous mental processes he had arrived at a knowledge of his error, or perhaps the fault was with Perry’s understanding. At all events, the result was there and already his new theory had been proven correct. He had that very morning, not more than twenty minutes ago, read, in the local office of the American Express Company, a description of one “Edward Hurley, alias John Crowell, alias John Fenney,” wanted by the company for the robbery of an express car at Cartwright, Utah, on February seventeenth last, which exactly tallied with the appearance of Mr. Myron Addicks, allowing, of course, for certain efforts at disguise. Fudge had copied the salient points of the placard in the express office and referred now to his memorandum, written on the back of a money order blank: “Age, about 28. Height, 5 feet, 10 inches. Weight, about 170 pounds. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, complexion dark. Was clean-shaven when last seen, but has probably grown beard or mustache. Carries himself erect. Has white scar about two inches in length on back of left forearm.”

“There was a picture of him, too,” said Fudge, “but I guess it wasn’t a very good one, because he had his head thrown back and his eyes half closed and was scowling like anything. It must have been taken by the police.”

“What is the reward?” asked Perry breathlessly.

“Five hundred dollars, it said. Maybe they’d pay more, though.”

“That would be two hundred and fifty apiece,” reflected the other. “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? But—but it doesn’t seem to me that the description is much like this fellow. Did the picture look like him?”

“Well,” replied Fudge judicially, “it did and then again it didn’t. You see, the fellow’s face was all screwed up, and he didn’t have any mustache. A mustache makes a lot of difference in your looks, you know. But the description fits him to a T. ‘Dark brown hair, blue eyes——’”

“I don’t think this chap’s eyes are blue, though.”

“I’ll bet you anything they are! What color are they then?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Perry.

“No, and there you are! He’s about five feet, ten inches high, isn’t he?” Perry nodded doubtfully. “And he weighs about a hundred and seventy pounds, doesn’t he? And his complexion’s dark and he carries himself erect! And he has a false mustache, and the notice said he would probably have one. Oh, it’s our man all right! Don’t you worry! Besides, don’t you see this explains his wearing that cowboy get-up you saw him in? That’s probably what he was. Lots of train-robbers were cowboys first-off.”

“Maybe,” said Perry thoughtfully. “But—but supposing we proved it on him.”

“Well?”

“Would you want to—to give him away?”

Fudge hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to,” he said at last, “but it’s the duty of a good citizen to aid in the apprehension of lawbreakers, isn’t it? And, besides, someone would get that five hundred sooner or later, wouldn’t they? Bound to! You bet! Well, there you are!”

But Perry looked unconvinced. “I don’t think I’d like to,” he murmured presently. “Anyhow, maybe we’re mistaken. Maybe his eyes aren’t blue. If we could get a look at his arm——”

“That’s just what we’ve got to do,” replied Fudge. “That’s what will tell.”

“But how?”

“I haven’t decided that yet. There are ways. You leave it to me. I guess he’s just hiding out here, Perry. I mean I don’t believe he is thinking of doing another job just yet. He’s probably waiting for this to blow over. I told you he was a slick one!”

“But if he really was wanted for robbing that train,” objected Perry, “it doesn’t seem to me he’d show himself around the way he’s doing. He’d hide, wouldn’t he, Fudge?”

“Where? He is hiding. He wears that mustache and he’s trusting to that, you see. Why, if he went sneaking around the police would notice him at once, Perry. So he comes right out in public; makes believe he’s a civil engineer and plays the piano in a theater. You don’t suppose, do you, that the police would ever think of looking in a moving picture house for an escaped train-robber? Say, he must sort of laugh to himself when he sees those train-robbery films, eh?”

“But if he wears that mustache when he goes out, Fudge, why does he take it off when he’s in his room?”

“Maybe it isn’t comfortable. I should think it mightn’t be.”

“Yes, but he must know that most anyone can see him when he sits at his window like that in the morning.”

Fudge was silent for a moment. Then: “Perhaps he doesn’t think of that,” he suggested weakly. “Anyhow, what we’ve got to do is see first if his eyes are blue, and after that whether he has a scar on his arm. We might wait in front of the theater this afternoon, only there’s the ball game and we don’t want to miss that.”

“That isn’t until three, and the theater begins at two.”

“That’s so! We’ll do it, then! I’ll be around right after dinner, and we’ll watch for him. Say, what would you do with two hundred and fifty dollars, Perry?”

Perry shook his head. “I don’t know. Guess I’d give it to dad, all but twenty-five dollars, maybe. What would you?”

Fudge shook his head also. “Search me! Well, we haven’t got it yet. I guess I could find things to do with it all right. Say, you don’t suppose he’s at his window now, do you?”

They ascended to Perry’s room and looked across, but the opposite casement was vacant. Nor, although they kept watch for a good ten minutes, did they catch sight of the suspect. They returned to the porch. “What we might do,” said Fudge reflectively, “is go and see him and make believe we wanted some civil engineering done.”

“We’d look fine doing that!” scoffed Perry. “He’d know right away we were faking.”

“I guess so,” Fudge acknowledged. “We might get someone else to do it, though.”

“Who?”

“Well, you might ask your father.”

“I might, but I’m not likely to,” was the derisive response. “Besides, all we’ve got to do is to get a good look at him to see whether his eyes are blue or not.”

“You don’t suppose folks can change the color of their eyes, do you?”

“Of course not! How could they?”

Fudge shook his head. “Criminals know lots of tricks we don’t,” he replied. “But we’ll soon see.”

Whereupon Perry went back to practicing starts in the side yard and Fudge, finding a rock, gave an interesting imitation of putting the shot.

They reached the theater at twenty-five minutes before two. Fudge apologized for being a trifle late, explaining that his mother had sent him on an errand directly after dinner in spite of his plea of an important engagement. Still, there was no doubt but that they were in plenty of time, for the orchestra did not assemble until a few minutes before two. As there was already quite a throng awaiting the opening of the doors, they decided to separate and take opposite sides of the entrance. This they did, Fudge assuming an expression and demeanor so purposeless that Perry feared he would be arrested as an escaped lunatic by the policeman on duty there. Several hundreds of persons passed into the theater, but neither of the boys caught sight of their quarry, and when, at two o’clock, the strains of the orchestra reached them, they had to confess themselves defeated. By that time the crowd had thinned out to a mere dribble of late arrivals and the officer was, or seemed to them to be, eyeing them with growing suspicion. They were glad when they had escaped from his chilly stare.

“I don’t see——” began Perry.

“I do!” Fudge interrupted bitterly. “We’re a couple of chumps! Why, the orchestra chaps go in the stage entrance, of course! And that’s around in the alley off Pine Street! Gee, we’re a fine pair of dummies, aren’t we?”

There was no denying it and so Perry mutely consented with a sorrowful nod.

“Well, we’ll know better next time,” said Fudge more cheerfully. “Come on into Castle’s and have a soda. Only it’ll have to be a five-center, because I’m pretty nearly strapped. Sleuthing makes a fellow thirsty.”

Ten minutes later the amateur detectives, forgetting their defeat and cheered by two glasses of cherry phosphate, started for the field.

CHAPTER XIV
THE GAME WITH NORRISVILLE

This afternoon’s contest was the first one of the season with an outside team. Norrisville Academy, since it was a boarding school, had the advantage of being able to get into condition rather earlier in the year than Clearfield High School. To-day’s opponents had, in fact, been practicing regularly since the latter part of February, since they were so fortunate as to possess a fine gymnasium with a big and practical baseball cage. Aside from this advantage, however, Norrisville had nothing Clearfield hadn’t, and if the latter had enjoyed another fortnight of practice Dick Lovering would have had no doubt as to the outcome of the game. But as things were he told himself that he would be quite satisfied if his charges came through with something approaching a close score.

It was a splendid April day, warm and still. There were a good many clouds about, though, and the morning paper had predicted showers. With this in mind, Dick resolved to get a good start in the first few innings, if that were possible, and so presented a line-up that surprised the large audience of High School rooters that had turned out for the game. As set down in Manager Wayland’s score-book, the order of batting was as follows: Bryan, 2b; Farrar, cf; Merrick, 1b; Jones, ss; Scott, 3b; McCoy, lf; Breen, rf; White, c; Nostrand, p. This arrangement in Dick’s present judgment presented the team’s best batting strength. Tom Nostrand was put in the box instead of Tom Haley, since so far this spring he had out-hit the first-choice pitcher almost two to one. It takes runs to win a game and runs were what Dick was after.

Fudge, occupying one and a third seats behind the home plate, flanked by Perry on one side and Arthur Beaton, the Track Team Manager, on the other, viewed the selection of talent dubiously. More than that, he didn’t hesitate to criticize. Fudge never did. He was a good, willing critic. No one, though, took him seriously, unless, perhaps, it was the devoted Perry, who, knowing little of baseball, was ready to concede much knowledge of the subject to his chum. Arthur Beaton, however, frankly disagreed with Fudge’s statements.

“Forget it, Fudge,” he said. “Dick Lovering knew baseball when you were waving a rattle. Talk about things you understand.”

“Of course he knows baseball. I’m not saying he doesn’t, am I? What I’m telling you is that Joe Browne’s a heap better fielder than Howard Breen.”

“Maybe, but he isn’t worth two cents as a hitter.”

“That’s all right. If a fellow fields well enough he doesn’t have to be any Ty Cobb to make good. It’s all right to go after runs, but if you let the other fellow get runs, too, what good are you doing? If they whack a ball into right field it’ll be good for three bases, I tell you. Breen’s as slow as cold molasses and can’t throw half-way to the plate!”

“You’d better slip down there before it’s too late and tell that to Dick,” said Arthur sarcastically. “He’d be mighty glad to know it.”

“That’s all right, old scout. You wait and see if I’m not right. I just hope the first fellow up lams one into right!”

He didn’t though; he popped a foul to Lanny and retired to the bench. The succeeding “Norris-villains,” as Fudge called them, were quickly disposed of at first, and Harry Bryan went to bat for the home team. Bryan was a heady batsman and had a reputation for getting his base. He wasn’t particular how he did it. He was a good waiter, had a positive genius for getting struck with the ball and could, when required, lay down a well-calculated bunt. Once on the base, he was hard to stop. On this occasion, he followed Dick’s instructions and was walked after six pitched balls. Pete Farrar waited until Clayton, the Norrisville pitcher, had sent a ball and a strike over and then trundled one down the first base path that started well but unfortunately rolled out, to the immense relief of the hovering Norrisville pitcher and first-baseman. With two strikes against him, it was up to Pete to hit out of the infield, but Captain Jones, coaching at first, sent Bryan off to second and Pete’s swipe at the ball missed. Bryan, though, was safe by three feet, and the stands applauded wildly and saw in imagination the beginning of Clearfield’s scoring. But Bryan never got beyond second in that inning. Gordon Merrick flied out to shortstop and Captain Warner Jones, trying his best to hit between second and short, lined one squarely into second-baseman’s glove.

Nostrand held the enemy safe once more, although the second man up got to first on Scott’s error and slid safely to second when the third batsman was thrown out, Scott to Merrick. A fly to McCoy in left field ended the suspense.

It was Will Scott who started things going for the Purple. He was first up and caught the second offering on the end of his bat and landed it in short right for a single. McCoy sacrificed nicely and Scott took second. Breen there and then vindicated Dick’s judgment. After Clayton had put himself in a hole by trying to give Breen what he didn’t want, and after the onlookers had gone through a violent attack of heart-failure when Will Scott was very nearly caught off second, Breen found something he liked the look of and crashed his bat against it with the result that Scott sped home and Breen rested on second.

Dick summoned Lanny and whispered to him and Lanny nodded and strode to the plate swinging the black bat that was his especial pride and affection. Norrisville played in and Lanny did what they expected he would try to do, but did it so well that their defense was unequal to the task. His bunt toward third was slow and short. Breen landed on the next bag and Lanny streaked for first. Both third-baseman and catcher went after the bunt and there was an instant of indecision. Then third-baseman scooped up the ball and pegged to first. But Lanny, whose record for sixty yards was six and four-fifths seconds, beat out the throw.

Nostrand played a waiting game and had two strikes and a ball on him before Lanny found his chance to steal. Then, with a good getaway, he slid to second unchallenged, Nostrand swinging and missing. With men on third and second and but one down, the world looked bright to the Clearfield supporters, but when, a moment later, Nostrand’s attempt at a sacrifice fly popped high and fell into shortstop’s hands, the outlook dimmed.

But there was still hope of more runs. With Bryan up, Clearfield might get a hit. The Norrisville catcher, though, decided that Bryan would be better on first than at bat and signaled for a pass. Four wide ones were pitched and Harry trotted to first and the bases were filled. Theoretically, the Norrisville catcher was right, for with two out three on bases were no more dangerous than two, and he knew that the next batsman, Pete Farrar, had earned his location in the line-up because of his ability to sacrifice rather than to hit out. But for once theory and practice didn’t agree. Farrar, barred from bunting, resolved to go to the other extreme and hit as hard and as far as he could—if he hit at all. For a minute or two it looked as though he was not to hit at all, for Clayton kept the ball around Farrar’s knees and registered two strikes against him before Pete realized the fact. Then came a ball and then a good one that Pete fouled behind first base. Another ball, and the tally was two and two. Again Pete connected and sent the ball crashing into the stand. Clayton’s attempt to cut the corner resulted badly for him, for the umpire judged it a ball. Anxious coachers danced and shouted jubilantly.

“He’s got to pitch now, Pete!” bawled Captain Jones. “It’s got to be good! Here we go! On your toes, Breen! Touch all the bases, Harry! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yi——”

The last “Yip” was never finished, for just when Warner was in the middle of it bat and ball met with a crack and a number of things happened simultaneously. The ball went streaking across the infield, rising as it went, Breen scuttled to the plate, Lanny flew to third, Harry Bryan sped to second, Pete legged it desperately to first. Second-baseman made a wild attempt to reach the ball, but it passed well above his upstretched glove and kept on. Right- and center-fielders started in, hesitated, changed their minds and raced back. The spectators, on their feet to a boy—or girl—yelled madly as fielders and ball came nearer and nearer together far out beyond the running track in deep center. A brief moment of suspense during which the shouting died down to little more than a murmur and then the outcome was apparent and the yelling suddenly arose to new heights. The fielders slowed down in the shadow of the distant fence, but not so the ball. It made a fine, heroic effort to pass out of the field but couldn’t quite do it. Instead it banged against the boards a few inches from the top and bounded back. It was right-fielder who recovered it and who, turning quickly, made a fine throw to second-baseman. And second-baseman did all he could to cut that hit down to a three-bagger, but Pete was already scuttling to the plate when the ball left his hand and the throw, being hurried, took the catcher just far enough to the right to let Pete in. Pete, catcher and ball became interestingly mixed together for an instant in a cloud of dust and then the umpire, stooping and spreading his arms with palms downward, returned his verdict.

“He’s safe!” declared the official.

The breathless Pete was extricated and pulled triumphantly to the bench while Norrisville, represented by catcher and pitcher and shortstop, who was also captain, gathered around the home plate to record their displeasure at the decision. But Mr. Cochran, physical director at the Y. M. C. A., discouraged argument and waved them aside politely but firmly and, while the cheering died away, Gordon Merrick went to bat. Clayton was shaken by that home-run and seemed absolutely unable to tell where the plate was, although the catcher despairingly invited him to come up and have a look at it! Gordon smiled serenely and presently walked to first. Captain Jones sent him to second with a nice hit past shortstop and Clearfield got ready to acclaim more tallies. But Scott’s best was a slow grounder to shortstop and he made the third out.

Five runs, however, was enough to win the game, or so, at least, the delighted Clearfield supporters declared. And so, too, thought the players themselves. As for their coach, Dick hoped the game was safe, but he meant to take no chances and so when in the next inning, after his own players had failed to add to the total, Norrisville began to show a liking for Tom Nostrand’s delivery by getting two safeties and putting a man on third before the side was retired, Dick sent Tom Haley to warm up.

There was no more scoring by either team until the first of the sixth. Then Haley had a bad inning. The first Norrisville batter laid down a bunt toward the pitcher’s box and Tom, fielding it hurriedly, pegged it far over Merrick’s head. The runner slid to second in safety. That mishap unsettled Haley and he filled the bases by passing the next two men. That Clearfield finally got out of the hole with only two runs against her might well be considered a piece of good fortune. In the last of the sixth Clearfield added one more tally and the score stood 6 to 2. Neither side scored in the seventh.

For my part, I’d like to lower the curtain. Clearfield should have had that game. But it wasn’t to be. Perhaps the home players were too certain. At all events, errors began to crop out at the most unfortunate times, and these, coupled with Tom Haley’s erratic pitching, were the Purple’s undoing. It was Captain Jones himself who booted an easy hit that might have been a double and instead of retiring the side in the first of the eighth, let two more runs cross the plate. Then Haley hit a batsman, donated a third base on balls and finally allowed a hard-slugging Norrisville man to slap out a two-bagger. When the worst was over the score was tied, and so it remained throughout the ninth inning and the tenth and the eleventh and the twelfth. And when that was over darkness had descended and eighteen very tired players heard with relief the umpire call the game. And several hundred spectators, rather stiff and chilly and hungry, went disappointedly home to supper.

“I knew mighty well,” declared Fudge as he and Perry made their way through the twilight, “that we could never win with that line-up! You heard me tell Harry so, too, didn’t you?”

And Perry, being a good chum, assented.

The next day it rained. Not enough, as Fudge bitterly reflected, to keep a fellow from going to church, but sufficiently to make sojourning out of doors in the afternoon a very wet and unpleasant business. It drizzled, but the drizzle was much more of a rain than a mist, and when, about three o’clock, Fudge went across town to Perry’s house he arrived in a fairly damp condition. Being damp affected Fudge’s naturally sunny disposition. It didn’t make him cross, but it gave him an injured and slightly pathetic expression and tinged his utterances with gloom and pessimism. He wasn’t a very cheerful companion to-day, and Perry, who had been having a rather comfortable and cozy time curled up on the black horse-hair lounge in the Doctor’s reception-room—also used as a parlor on extraordinary occasions—with a volume of Du Chaillu’s travels which he had happened on in the book-case, almost wished that his friend had stayed at home. They went up to Perry’s room and sat by the open window and watched the drizzle and talked desultorily of track and field work and yesterday’s game and of many other things. The affair of the “train-robber” was, it seemed by mutual agreement, avoided; it was not a day to inspire one to detecting. The “train-robber’s” window was open across the back yard, but no one appeared at it. Fudge had drawn the conversation back to shot-putting and was indulging in a few well-chosen disparaging remarks with regard to the overbearing manner of Harry Partridge when sounds came to them. Of course sounds had been coming to them for half an hour; the patter of rain, the quiet footfalls of Mrs. Hull below-stairs, the whistle of the three-twenty-two train crossing the bridge and such ordinary noises; but this was new and different. Perry drew Fudge’s attention to it and then listened puzzledly. At first it seemed to come from around the corner of the house, but presently they located it in the room occupied by the “train-robber.” They crowded their heads through the window and strained their ears.

“What’s he doing?” demanded Fudge in a hoarse whisper after a minute or two.

“I think”—Perry hesitated—“I think he’s singing!”

“Singing!”

“Yes; listen!” They listened. Perry was right. The sounds that issued from the window were undoubtedly those of a man’s voice raised in song. What the words of the song were they couldn’t make out, but the tune, if it deserved the name, was peculiarly slow and doleful.

“Jimminy, he must be feeling bad!” muttered Fudge.

“Sounds like a—a dirge, doesn’t it?”

“Awful!” They tried hard to hear what it was all about, but as the singer was evidently well back from the window and as the window was some little distance away, they failed. Finally they drew their heads in, being by that time somewhat wet, and viewed each other inquiringly. Then, without a word, Fudge lifted his cap from the table, Perry, equally silent, moved toward the door and the two quietly descended the staircase. Perry got his cap from the tree in the front hall and they slipped through the front door, across the porch and into the drizzle.

Two minutes later they were climbing the stairs in the brick building on G Street, looking very much like the desperate conspirators they felt themselves to be. A pleasant odor from the bakery on the first floor pursued them as they noiselessly ascended the staircase and crept along the first hall. The building was silent and apparently deserted until, half-way up the second flight, from behind the closed door and transom of Number 7, came the muffled tones of a deep bass voice in monotonous, wailing cadence. The boys paused at the head of the stairs and listened. Words came to them, but only occasionally. They tip-toed nearer. That was better. They could hear fairly well now.

“I wash in a pool and wipe on a sack,

And carry my wardrobe right on my back.

For want of a stove I cook bread in a pot,

And sleep on the ground for want of a cot.”

As the voices of the Sirens lured Ulysses of old, so the doleful strains lured Perry and Fudge nearer and nearer.

“My ceiling’s the sky and my carpet’s the grass,

My music’s the lowing of herds as they pass.

My books are the streams and my Bible’s a stone,

My preacher’s a wolf on a pulpit of bones.”

By now the two boys were standing on either side of the door, listening raptly.

“The preacher he says from his pulpit of bones

That the Lord favors those who look out for their own.

My friends often hint——”

The wails ceased. A moment’s silence ensued. Then the door was suddenly opened, and:

“Come right in, pardners,” said a voice. “Everything’s free!”

CHAPTER XV
THE WHITE SCAR

They were two very startled youths who leaped back as the door unexpectedly opened and who, for a breathless instant, gazed speechlessly at the man confronting them. He was tall, wide-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with a frank, good-looking face, clean-shaven, on which at the moment a quizzical smile rested. He had laid aside coat and vest, and under the uprolled sleeves of his white shirt his long arms showed muscles like whip-cords. It was Fudge who found his voice first.

“I—I—W-w-we——”

“No savvy, hombre. Start again.”

“W-we were j-j-just list-list-list——”

“Listening,” said Perry helpfully.

“Well, I hope you liked it. Come on in. We’re all friends together.”

“No, thanks,” said Perry, embarrassed. “We just happened to hear you singing——”

“Hooray!” exclaimed the man. “That’s sure fine! Shake, pardner!”

And Perry found himself shaking hands most enthusiastically with the strange person and, at the same time, being drawn through the doorway. He tried to hold back, but it was utterly useless. Fudge, his startled expression vastly increased, followed doubtfully and the man closed the door. He was smiling broadly.

“Sit down, boys, and tell me your sweet, sad tale. You sure have made a big hit with me, all right. No one ever called that noise of mine singing before. Yes, sir, muchachos, you’ve won me!”

“I—we thought it was very”—Perry searched for a word—“very nice singing.”

“P-P-Peachy,” supplemented Fudge, smiling ingratiatingly, and then casting a troubled look at the closed door. To be shut in like this at the mercy of a train-robber had not been within his calculations. To increase his uneasiness, Fudge noted that his host’s eyes were blue, light grayish-blue, but still to all intents and purposes blue! He looked meaningly at Perry, wondering whether, if they started together, they could reach the door before they were intercepted. The man had made them take two of the three chairs and perched himself on a corner of the table in the middle of the room.

“I hope I didn’t scare you when I pulled the door open,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to do that, you know. Too flattered at having an audience.”

“No, sir, we weren’t scared,” Perry assured him not too truthfully. “We oughtn’t have done it, but—we heard you and——”

“Just couldn’t resist it, eh? Was it the words or the tune that hypnotized you?” He regarded Perry very gravely indeed, but there was a twinkle in his blue eyes.

Perry smiled weakly.

“I—I guess it was the words,” he said.

“I’ll bet it was! That’s a nice song. I’ll teach it to you some time if you like. Haven’t I seen you boys around town?”

Perry nodded, casting a quick glance at Fudge. Fudge, however, had his gaze set longingly on the door.

“I thought so. I’ve got a good memory for faces. Pretty good ears, too.” He laughed. “I suppose you fellows thought you weren’t making a sound out there? Well, I heard you when you first came along the hall. Live around here, do you?”

“I do,” answered Perry. “He doesn’t.”

“Well, let’s tell our names. Mine’s Addicks.”

“My name is Hull and his is Shaw. My first name is Perry.”

“Perry Hull, eh? Sounds like something out of a history of the American Navy. Any relation to the celebrated commodores?”

“No, sir, I don’t think so.”

“What’s his name to his friends?” asked the host, nodding toward Fudge.

“Fud—that is, William.”

“My first name’s Myron. I don’t know why they called me that, but they did. Doesn’t he ever talk?” Again Mr. Addicks indicated the absorbed Fudge.

“I was j-j-just thinking,” replied the latter.

“Oh! What were you thinking?”

Fudge regarded the questioner doubtfully. “Lots of things,” he muttered darkly.

Mr. Addicks laughed. “Sounds interesting, the way you tell it! I dare say you chaps go to school?”

“Yes, sir, High School,” replied Perry. “We’re both juniors.”

“Good leather! Go in for sports, do you? Football, baseball, those things?”

“A little. Fudge plays baseball and football some. I play football, too.”

“So his name is Fudge, is it? William Fudge Shaw, I suppose.”

“It’s just a nickname,” explained Perry.

“I savvy. William week-days and Fudge Sunday, eh?” Perry smiled politely at the joke, but Fudge’s expression remained serious and distrustful. “I’d like to see you fellows play some time,” continued their host. “I used to play football at college, but I never tried baseball. Didn’t have time. Sprinting and hurdling were my stunts. Do you have a track team at your school?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Perry eagerly, “and he and I are trying for it this year. Fudge is learning to put the shot and throw the hammer and I’m trying the sprints.”

“You don’t say? How old are you, Hull?”

“Fifteen.”

“You look older. What’s your time for the hundred?”

“I—I don’t know yet. Skeet—he’s our coach—gave me a trial the other day, but he wouldn’t tell me what my time was.”

Mr. Addicks nodded. “I see. What’s the school record?”

Perry didn’t know, but Fudge supplied the information. “It’s ten and a fifth. Lanny White did it last year against Springdale.”

“That’s good work! I’d like to see that chap run. I suppose you have your work-outs in the afternoons, don’t you? If I didn’t have to—if I wasn’t so busy I’d come out and look you over. My record was ten flat for the hundred when I was in college, and fifteen and two-fifths over the high hurdles. I never could do much at the two-twenty distance, sprint or hurdles. I did do the low hurdles once in twenty-six flat, but that was in practice.”

“What college did you go to?” asked Fudge, forgetting his suspicion for the moment.

“Morgan,” answered the man, and smiled at their perplexity. “It’s in Nebraska. Ever hear of it?”

They shook their heads, looking apologetic.

“I suppose not. It’s a long ride from here. Good little college, though. I spent a right comfortable three years there.”

“Does it take but three years to get through there?” asked Fudge. “I’d like to go there myself, I guess.”

“No, but I was in a hurry, so I finished up in three. Had to get out and hustle me a living, you see. Not but what I wasn’t doing that after a fashion all the time.” He paused and chuckled deeply. “Ran a livery stable.”

“A livery stable! While you were in college?” asked Fudge.

“You said it, hombre. Had to do something. Didn’t have much of anything but what I had on when I struck college. Paid them a half-year’s tuition—education’s cheap out that way, friends, and it’s good, too—and looked around for something to work at. Didn’t find anything at first and so one day I go down to a stable run by a poor thing name of Cheeny and hires me a bronch for a couple of hours. I can always think a heap better when I’m on a horse, it seems. Well, thinking doesn’t do me much good this time, though, and I heads back to town telling myself the best thing I can do is roll my blanket and hit the trail. But when I gets back to the stable, which isn’t much more than a shed and a corral built of railway ties set on end, this poor thing name of Cheeny says to me: ‘Know anyone wants to buy a nice livery business?’ ‘Supposing I did?’ says I, squinting around the shack. ‘Why, here it is,’ he says. Well, to come right down to brass tacks, he and I did business after a day or two. He wanted to hike back to Missouri, which he ought never to have left, and we made a dicker. I was to pay him so much a month till we were square. ’Course I knew that, as he’d been running the place, he wasn’t making enough to pay his feed bill, but I had a notion I could do a bit better. Did, too. What I bought wasn’t much—half a dozen carriages about ready to fall to pieces, five bronchos and a little grain and alfalfa. The bronchs weren’t so bad, if you excuse their looks. What they needed mostly was food. Trouble was, though, that everyone out there who needed a horse had one, and I saw that if I was to make anything on that investment I’d have to make my own market. Which I did.”

“How did you do it?” asked Perry eagerly.

“Introduced the wholesome recreation of riding. Used to take a string of bronchs up to college in the afternoon and stand ’em outside the Hall. Then when anyone came along I’d ask him if he didn’t want to hire a horse for two bits an hour. At first I just got laughed at. Then one or two fellows tried it for a lark, and after that it went fine. I gave riding lessons to some of the girls—Morgan is co-ed, you know—and the next year I had to buy me more horses. Paid that poor thing name of Cheeny in full before I’d been there six months. When I left I sold out to a man from Lincoln and did right well. Now you talk.”

“Wh-what did you do next?” asked Fudge interestedly.

“Went down to Texas and got a job with a firm of engineers who were running a new railway down to the Gulf. I’d taken a course of civil engineering. Met up with a slick customer who looked like a down-east preacher and went shares with him on some oil land. Still got it. Something happened to the railway about that time and they stopped work. That left me strapped and I hired out as a ranch hand. After that I went to punching down near Las Topas.”

“Punching?” queried Fudge.

“Cows.”

“You mean you were a cowboy?” asked Perry eagerly.

“Four years of it.”

“Gee!” sighed Perry. “That must have been great!”

Mr. Addicks laughed. “Well, some of it wasn’t so bad. I liked it pretty well. I was always crazy about horses and riding. I got enough of it, though. It don’t get you anything. An uncle of mine died and a lawyer wrote me I was the old chap’s heir and had better beat it back here and claim the estate. Which I did.” He smiled wryly. “The estate was a tumble-down farm-house about three miles from here on the Springdale road with a mortgage all over it. There’s so much mortgage you have to lift up a corner of it before you can see the house. Being still a trifle worse than broke, I got a job with a moving picture company in Jersey and rode for ’em almost a year. That was harder work than being the real thing, and a sight more dangerous. I nearly killed myself one day, when a horse fell on me, and so I got my time and quit being an actor. That was about a month ago. Then I came back here and rented this place and started in business. The business hasn’t shown up yet, though. I guess being a civil engineer in Clearfield is about as busy a job as being a street-cleaner in Venice! Now you know all about me. Hope I haven’t tired you out.”

“No, indeed,” replied Perry emphatically. “I like to hear about it. Say, you’ve been around a lot, haven’t you? Were you born in Nebraska?”

“Me? Hombre, I’m a native son of this grand old state. My folks farmed it over near Petersboro before the Pilgrims bought their passage!”

“How did you happen to go to college away out there, sir?”

“Why—now, look here, I’ve talked enough. I’ll tell you some day about that, if you say so, but if I don’t quit now you’ll think I’m wound up. You tell me things.”

“What?” asked Perry, smiling.

“Well, what are you aiming to do when you get through cramming your head full of knowledge, friend?”

“I don’t know. I used to think I’d be a doctor. That’s what my father is. But lately—I don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be much money in doctoring.”

“Be a civil engineer then and get rich,” said Mr. Addicks gravely. “What’s your line going to be, Shaw?”

“I’m going to be an author,” answered Fudge earnestly.

“That’s another of those well-paid professions. Guess what we’d better do is make a date to meet in the poor house in, say, twenty or thirty years!”

“Some authors make a lot of money,” said Fudge.

“Do they? Maybe so. The only one I ever knew who had money in his pocket was a chap out in Laredo. Don’t know as you’d call him an author exactly either; more of a poet. He traveled around on side-door Pullmans and sold poems at the houses. Said he was ‘singing his way around the world.’ Told me he sometimes got as much as fifty cents for a poem. Yes, he was what you might call a right successful author; one of those ‘best-sellers’ you hear about, I guess.”

“What were the poems like?” asked Fudge.

“Well, I don’t believe, between you and me and the shovel, he had more than the one, and that—let me see if I can remember it. How was it now? ‘My name is——’ I used to know that song, too. Wait a minute. I’ve got it!

“‘My name is James O’Reilly,

I come from Erin’s sod

To sing my humble ballads

As round the world I plod.

I ask no gift from any man,

I pay my way with song.

The world is kind, and so I find

Each day I trudge along.’”

“I wouldn’t call that real poetry,” said Fudge critically.

“No more did he; he called it a song. Anyhow, it brought him money. If someone doesn’t happen in pretty quick and give me a job of surveying I’m going to steal that song and see what I can do with it! I suppose, now, you fellows don’t want any surveying done? My prices are cheap. This is bargain week.”

“I’m afraid not,” answered Fudge. “I guess there isn’t much——”

He suddenly stopped, mouth open, eyes round and glassy, and stared at his host.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Addicks, following Fudge’s fascinated gaze. “Anything wrong with my hand?”

Fudge seemed to shake himself out of his daze. “N-n-n-no, sir!” he gulped. “Oh, n-n-no, sir! I j-j-just hap-hap-happened to th-th-think of some-something!”

Mr. Addicks laughed dryly. “You’re a remarkable young thinker, Shaw. I thought, by the way you were looking at my hand, that maybe I needed a manicure. Hello, going?”

“Yes, sir, I guess we’d better be getting home,” said Perry. “We’ve enjoyed your—our visit.”

“Have you? Well, I have, anyway. I was just naturally bored to death when you came. When you hear me trying to sing you’ll know it’s because I’m bored. Drop in again soon, fellows. I’m usually in in the mornings. Come around and I’ll teach you that song.” He chuckled as he opened the door for them. “I know some others too. ‘Sam Bass,’ for instance. I know thirty-four verses of ‘Sam Bass,’ and that’s three more than any other chap at the ‘Lazy K’ knew!”

It was not until they were in the street that either of the boys spoke. Then Perry asked wonderingly: “For the love of mud, Fudge, what was the matter with you? You looked like a dying fish!”

“D-d-d-didn’t you see?” asked Fudge tensely.

“See what?”

“The wh-wh-wh-white s-s-scar!”

“What white scar? Where?”