The High School Rivals

THE HIGH SCHOOL RIVALS

CONTENTS

THE RIVALS

"Nineteen hundred and twelve to the top steps! We're Second Form now! Top steps belong to the Second Form!" shouted four boys, redolent with health and life, as they dashed up the tree-lined walk leading to the Baxter High School, mounted the lower steps, and threw themselves into the coveted positions.

It was the opening day of school, and the spacious, shady grounds were alive with happy, wide-awake boys, and merry, laughing girls, renewing old acquaintances and closely scrutinizing all newcomers.

As the rallying cry rang out, other members of the Second Form broke away from those with whom they were talking and hastened to join the four leaders whom they hailed by the nicknames of Taffy, Soda, Lefty and Buttons, reminders of past exploits.

With envious glances at the proud Seconds, the Lower Form scholars gathered at the foot of the steps, eager to witness any fun that might transpire.

Conspicuous among them was a tall, thin boy, who carried a large bunch of books under his arm.

"Is that the meeting-place of the Second Form?" asked this lad, of the one nearest him.

"Uhuh."

"Thank you. I think I will join them."

"You'd better n——" began his informer, but before he could finish his warning, a hand was clapped over his mouth and warm lips whispered in his ears, "Let him go. He must be taught respect for the Upper Forms. Wait till Soda sees him."

Interference was now too late, had the Lower Form boy wished to finish his advice. For no sooner had the newcomer emerged from the ranks of the others standing at the foot of the steps than a girl, brunette, and very pretty, nudged her companion, who, though just as attractive, was of the blonde type, and giggled:

"Oh, Grace, look at that coming up the steps!"

This exclamation, being audible to the others, all the boys and girls turned their eyes in the direction of the new student, and watched his approach in a silence portentous in its intensity.

Even the newcomer felt its significance, and, as he reached the fourth step from the top, paused, hesitatingly.

Taking advantage of his evident embarrassment, the lad nicknamed Soda, making his voice very deep, demanded:

"What dost thou wish, Clothespin?"

The nickname was so appropriate that the boys and girls roared with laughter, adding still more to their victim's discomfiture.

Twice he cleared his throat, but the grinning faces of the boys and the mischievous eyes of the girls stifled his words and sent hot flushes to his cheeks.

"He's mine! I saw him first!" exclaimed another of the Second Formers, noting the newcomer's embarrassment. "Now, Clothespin, what is it you desire? Speak, or forever hold your tongue."

To the new student, the bantering seemed terribly real, and, after gulping several times, he stammered:

"Is this the Second Form?"

"Yea, verily, Clothespin, this is the Second Form—that is, the best part of it," returned Soda.

But if the students had been amazed by the newcomer's temerity in mounting the steps, they were dumfounded by his reply, as he bowed gravely:

"I am glad to meet you all. My name is James Appleby Bronson. I have passed my examinations to the Second Form."

An instant the students on the top step gazed from their new member to one another, then Soda arose, and, with a mocking wave of his hand, bowed low and commanded:

"Second Formers, rise and salute your fellow member, Mr. James Appleby Bronson, called Clothespin for short."

As though moved by a spring, the twenty-two members of the Second Form stood up and chorused:

"Welcome, Clothespin."

"Then I can sit with you?" asked the newcomer, looking toward Soda.

"You can sit on the top step, there by the railing," replied the leader, pointing to a place at the opposite side of the porch. "There are a few formalities to be settled before you can be really one of us."

Relieved that his torture was over for the moment, yet wondering what the "formalities" could be, Bronson started to take the seat by the rail, when the lad called Taffy exclaimed:

"Where are your credentials?"

"Credentials?" repeated the new student in surprise.

"Yes, your credentials. Didn't the Head give you a card?"

"Why, no. Mr. Vining said all I need do was to meet my instructors and enroll in the classes."

"It was very wrong in the Head to misinform you," began Taffy in mock solemnity, when he was interrupted by a voice shouting: "Here comes Bart Montgomery!"

Instantly cries of welcome greeted the announcement, and in the confusion Bronson was forgotten.

Glancing at the boy whose arrival had spared him further badgering, Bronson saw a tall, lithe fellow, with dark-hued, handsome face.

"Who is Montgomery?" he asked of the boy next him.

"What, you coming to Baxter and don't know Bart Montgomery?" returned the other. "Don't let anybody else hear you say so. He made the hit that won over Landon School last spring—the first time in four years. He's the best baseball and football player at Baxter, that's who Bart Montgomery is."

"No, he isn't, either," interposed another boy.

"Who's better?" demanded Bart's champion.

"Fred Markham."

"Don't you believe him, Clothespin!"

"Well, I don't know about his athletic standing, but I do know I don't like Mr. Montgomery's eyes," rejoined the latter; "he can't look you in the face."

This dispute had passed unnoticed in the welcoming of Bart. As he took his seat in the center of the Second Form students, Lefty exclaimed:

"Now we're all back."

"Not yet," returned Buttons.

"Who's missing?"

"Fred Markham."

"Oh, he'll not be back," sneered Bart Montgomery.

"Why?" chorused several of the boys, while all the others gathered closer.

"You know his father failed, don't you?" demanded Bart.

"Sure," said Buttons, "but how does that affect Fred?"

"He can win the Second Form Scholarship in Science—that'll give him cash enough, if he's short of money," protested another.

"Oh, it isn't lack of rocks that will keep him away," asserted Bart contemptuously.

"Then what will?" persisted Buttons.

All the former students who had returned to Baxter were aware that a rivalry had sprung up the previous year between Fred Markham and Bart Montgomery, due to the former's increasing ability, both in his studies and in athletics, which threatened to wrest the Form leadership from Bart. But they had supposed it to be an honest, schoolboy rivalry, and the tone in which Bart spoke of Fred surprised them.

As both boys were popular, they had many followers among their own and the Third Form students, and unconsciously these divided, Fred's supporters gathering about Buttons, who was championing their absent leader, the others about Bart.

Noticing that he had by far the most numerous following, Bart's pride got the better of his discretion and he retorted:

"If you want to know so much, I'll tell you. You know some men fail in order to make money."

"You mean Fred Markham's father failed dishonestly?" demanded Buttons.

So pointed was the insinuated accusation that, young people though they were, the other students realized its seriousness, and with solemn faces awaited Bart's reply.

The attention of all the scholars hanging upon the answer, none of them had noticed the approach of a well-built, manly young fellow, whose open, honest face and frank blue eyes were in striking contrast to the crafty, though handsome, features of Bart. As a result, the late-comer had reached the edge of the crowd just as Bart exclaimed:

"That's just what I mean. My father was the principal creditor. So I guess I know."

At these words there was a sharp intaking of breath by the divided groups, and Buttons retorted:

"I don't believe it. Fred Markham's father is an honest man."

"Thank you, Buttons," exclaimed a strained voice.

At the words, all eyes were turned in the direction whence they came, and as the boys recognized the speaker, shouts of "Here's Fred! Hello, Cotton-Top! Now say that to his face, you Bart!" filled the air.

"Who said my father was dishonest?" demanded Fred.

"Bart did!" chorused several.

Striding to where the calumniator stood, Fred looked straight in his face.

"Did you say my father was dishonest?"

But the accuser did not have the courage to say in the presence of the son what he had said in his absence, despite the fact that he overtopped Fred by a good two inches, and temporized:

"I said there was something queer about your father's failure. My father said so."

"You are right, Bart Montgomery. There was something 'queer' about it—but not on my father's side!"

"What do you mean?" snarled Bart.

"Anything you want to think," returned Fred.

Drawing back his right hand, Bart hissed:

"I'll teach you to say things about my father, you puppy! Even before yours failed mine could buy him and sell him."

"Because your father had more money doesn't make mine dishonest," retorted Fred, squaring himself to ward off the expected blow.

But before it could be delivered, a stern voice exclaimed:

"Boys, what does this mean?"

"The Head! The Head!" gasped several of the onlookers, and like magic the crowd of students melted away, leaving Mr. Vining, for it was the principal of the school, with Fred and Bart. A moment he gazed from one to the other of the lads.

"Second Formers should set an example of good behavior, not bad," he said. "Bart, come to my office at once. Fred, I shall expect you at the end of thirty minutes."

FACING SUSPENSION

From behind trees and other points of vantage, scores of eyes had watched the headmaster, as, silent and with the gentle dignity that endeared him to his students, he entered the school building, followed by the unwilling Bart.

The town of Baxter would never have been distinguished from countless other prosperous country villages had it not been for the High School. And Mr. Vining's personality had made that institution what it was—the best in the county.

Never for an instant did the headmaster forget that he had once been a boy himself, wherefore he had been able to look with indulgence upon the harmless pranks of the lads and girls under his charge. It had been his good fortune to attract assistants who held the same general ideas, and, as a result, the one hundred and twenty pupils in the school were more like a big, happy family than anything else.

For the most part, the students lived in Baxter, but each year saw more and more scholars come from other towns.

Due to his understanding of young people, Mr. Vining had established the policy of allowing them to settle their differences themselves, only interfering in cases of unusual seriousness.

But fighting in public was tabooed—and because they knew this, the students had fled when his unheralded arrival had put a stop to the quarrel between Fred and Bart.

No sooner had he disappeared within the building, however, than the scholars emerged from their hiding places.

Swarming about Fred, they looked at him like one about to receive condign punishment.

"You're a nice one, you are, to get Bart in trouble on the very first day of school," came from the lad called Taffy.

"Then he shouldn't have said such things about my father," retorted Fred.

"And he called you a puppy," chimed in another.

"It isn't a nice word, but it doesn't seem to me as mean as saying such things about Mr. Markham," asserted the new Second Former to his neighbor.

"It don't, eh?" ejaculated the other. "Well, it's a good deal worse. 'Puppy' is the fighting word at Baxter."

Fortunately for Bronson, his remark had not been heard by any except the boy next him, or he would have been drawn into the wrangle which was growing serious again as Taffy exclaimed:

"Fiddlesticks! I'll bet you saw the Head coming or you'd never dared to face Bart. You know he can whip——"

"You know better than that, Taffy Brown," rejoined Fred, flushing at the charge.

"Besides, Bart can't whip Fred," interposed Buttons.

"He can't, eh? Bart Montgomery can whip any boy in the Second Form, and all but Sandow Hill in the First," returned Taffy.

"Guess again," derided several of Fred's followers.

"I'll go sodas for the entire Form that Fred can lick Bart!" Soda exclaimed.

The size of the wager for a moment dampened Taffy's ardor, and he growled:

"If Fred wanted to fight Bart, why didn't he wait till after school?"

"I'll tell you why, Taffy Brown," retorted Fred hotly. "I'm not going to stand by and let any one make such a statement about my father, no matter where it is or who is 'round."

These words, backed by the defiant determination expressed by Fred's face and attitude, brought a cheer from his supporters, while Bart's howled in derision.

"If you think I am afraid of Bart, I'll fool you!" exclaimed Fred, flushing. "I'll meet him to-night at seven, at The Patch."

"And I'll wager sodas for the Second Form, girls barred, against Taffy!" cried Soda.

"I'll just go you, but it's a shame to take your money, Soda. You'd better have any one who believes in Fred chip in, so you won't have to lose so much; sodas for ten Seconds will cost one dollar."

"Which you will have to pay," rejoined Fred's champion.

"Hooray! Here's Bart now!" shouted somebody who had seen the boy emerge from the building.

Instantly all eyes were focused upon the tall form of the boy who had just left the headmaster, while many were the surmises as to what had transpired at the interview. As Bart drew near, the scholars noticed that his swarthy face was flushed.

"I'll bet the Head gave him a fierce trimming," whispered Soda. But his remark was lost in the babel of voices that demanded to know what Mr. Vining had said.

Bart, however, was in no mood to gratify their curiosity, and, with only unintelligible mumbles in response to the questions, stalked moodily away among the trees, looking neither to the right nor to the left.

"My eye! but the Head must have scorched him!" commented Buttons.

"Well, he ought to," asserted Soda.

"It was Bart's fault, anyway. He had no business to——"

The opinion was never expressed, however, for suddenly a voice called:

"Fred, why don't you come to me when I send for you?"

And turning toward the direction whence it came, the boys beheld the headmaster standing on the porch of the building.

"I didn't know you had sent for me, Mr. Vining," responded Fred, pushing aside his fellows. "I thought you did not want me for half an hour."

"I asked Bart to tell you to come right in."

"I didn't hear him, sir. I am sorry."

"That shows just how white Fred is," declared Buttons vehemently. "He wouldn't say Bart didn't tell him—just said he didn't hear him."

"And it shows how mean Bart is," added Soda.

Regardless of their support of the two leaders of the Second Form, Baxter boys and girls were noted for their love of fair play, and this exhibition of pettiness by Bart surprised them into silence, which lasted until the headmaster and Fred were lost to sight within the school building.

Mr. Vining's office was on the right of the hallway, near the entrance, and although it was tastefully furnished, so intimately associated was it with reprimands and explanations that none of the scholars ever noticed how comfortable and attractive it was.

Pointing to a bench, the headmaster indicated to Fred to be seated, and himself dropping into a Morris chair, he studied the boy's face a moment before saying:

"Did I understand you to say that Bart did not tell you to come to me?"

"I said I did not hear him, sir."

"But you would have, had he done so?"

"The boys were calling out to him, so I couldn't hear very well."

"You're the same Fred, aren't you?" smiled Mr. Vining at the boy's refusal to implicate one of his fellow students. "Now tell me how the trouble started."

"I can't, sir!"

"Why?"

"Because I was not there when it began."

But Fred did not hesitate to describe his own actions.

"I'm sorry," commented the headmaster, when the recital was finished. "I'm afraid you will be obliged to hear a good many unpleasant——"

"But my father is not dishonest," interrupted Fred.

"It is natural for you to think so," returned Mr. Vining noncommittally. "As I said when I came upon you and Bart, you Second Form boys should set an example by obeying the rules. You know fighting in front of the school is forbidden, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why were you going to?"

"Because I shall defend my father's name anywhere, Mr. Vining."

"H'm! Baxter rules are made to be obeyed, Fred. To prevent a recurrence of this morning's scene, I must ask you to give me your word not to fight with Bart."

"I can't, sir."

"Why?"

"Because when the boys said I only stood up against Bart after having seen you coming——"

"Is that true?" interrupted Mr. Vining.

"No, sir. I was too busy watching Bart to see any one else."

"H'm. Go on."

"I said I would fight him to-night at seven."

IF YOU FIGHT, FRED, I SHALL SUSPEND YOU

Several minutes the headmaster gazed at the serious, manly face of the boy before him, then said:

"If you fight, Fred, I shall suspend you. Now you may go."

FRED'S SACRIFICE

It was with lagging feet and heavy heart that Fred left the office of the headmaster.

Bart's aspersions on his father had hurt him deeply, and Mr. Vining's refusal to agree with his own opinion of his parent's honesty had surprised him. But the deepest cut of all was the threat to suspend him should he fight with Bart. If he obeyed the headmaster, he knew all too well that his fellow students—that is, all except Margie—would attribute his action to fear of Bart, and he was also familiar enough with the nature of his rival to realize he would lose no opportunity to twist events to his own advantage.

Such a combination of circumstances was enough to perplex an older head than Fred's, and as he descended the steps, he felt a keen resentment against the headmaster for placing him in such a position. It was with relief, however, that he saw Margie had drawn the other girls off to a spot where they would be out of earshot, for he dreaded their scrutiny more than the rough comments of his fellows.

"He looks as solemn as an owl," exclaimed Buttons, who with Soda and his other staunch supporters had been awaiting his coming.

"The Head must be in a fierce frame of mind to-day," commented another.

"No wonder, with Fred and Bart getting into a mix-up at the very opening of school," returned Soda.

"Well, let's show Fred we intend to stand by him," exclaimed Buttons.

This suggestion met with ready response, and, with a rush, Fred's adherents gathered about him.

"Get a trimming?" queried one of them.

"Worse than that," responded Fred soberly. "I can't defend my father and myself against Bart."

"Whe-ew! How Bart and his crowd will crow!" lamented Soda. And from the expressions on the faces of the others it was evident he had voiced their sentiments.

"But why can't you? What did the Head say?" demanded Buttons.

Eagerly the others looked toward Fred.

"I will be suspended if I fight."

"Jumping grasshoppers! but that is a bad one!"

It had been the proud boast of Baxter that never but once had a student been suspended, whereas in the rival school of Landon suspensions were of almost yearly occurrence. The boys grew silent in the contemplation of the penalty.

It was at this juncture that the First Form students, led by Sandow Hill, reached the steps. With the majority of them Fred was a favorite, and as they noticed the serious expressions on the faces of the Second Form boys, several of them asked:

"What's the trouble? Why so glum, Cotton-Top?"

"He and Bart had a row. The Head came along, and now he's threatened Fred with suspension if he fights Bart," poured forth Buttons, going into details in reply to further questioning.

"Fred ought to be thankful," exclaimed one of the girls. "That big bully would make mincemeat of him."

"You girls go along into school," snapped Sandow. Then, turning to Fred, he asked: "Was there any limit set to where you couldn't fight?"

"Why, no," returned the boy, puzzled by the question.

"Then cheer up," laughed the leader of the First Form. "So long as the Head didn't set any specific limit, you can have your go with Bart anywhere not on school grounds."

This solution of the problem elicited shouts of approval from Fred's followers, but the boy most concerned did not share in the glee.

"I don't think that would be honorable," he interposed. "Mr. Vining said he would suspend me if I mixed it up with Bart."

"But he can't control your actions off school grounds," asserted Hal Church, another First Former.

The tone in which the words were uttered, together with their implication that Fred was not any too anxious to meet his larger rival, produced just the effect Hal had intended.

"I told Mr. Vining I would defend my father's name anywhere," flashed back Fred. "And I will. What he said to Bart, I don't know. But if you can persuade Bart to be at The Patch at seven to-night, I'll show him I'm not afraid of him."

"If we can persuade him?" ejaculated Taffy, who had joined the group just in time to hear Fred's challenge. "Say, it's all Lefty and I could do to keep him from coming back to have it out with you right here now."

"Good. Then have your man ready at seven, Taffy. Buttons, you have Fred on hand. I'll referee the go. Mum's the word. I'll make life unhappy for the boy who carries word of this to the Head," declared Sandow.

"Don't worry about us," asserted Buttons, while Taffy sneered: "You'd better have a doctor handy—or an ambulance. Fred'll need 'em."

Just then the ringing of the bell, calling the scholars to the general assembly room, made the boys forget the quarrel, and, trooping into the building, they took the benches on the right side, while the girls sat on the left, all facing the platform where the Head and his three assistants were seated.

After a short prayer, Mr. Vining welcomed his former students back, and then dilated upon the ideals of Baxter, laying particular stress upon submission to rules. At this reference to obedience, the boys looked at Bart and Fred, and many a face broke into a grin.

"And now we will have the drawing of desks," announced the headmaster, concluding his words of advice, and reaching for a box, into which he dropped some square pieces of paper. "As you know, the First and Second Forms sit together in Room one, and the Third and Fourth Forms in Room two. The three back rows of desks belong to the First and Third Forms, respectively.

"First Form, come forward. The numbers on the cards indicate the desk you can call your own for this school year. Miss Ayres, you may draw first."

Quickly the girl stepped to the platform, thrust her hand into the box, drew out a piece of paper and handed it to the headmaster.

"You have drawn number three, Miss Ayres. Church, you are next."

Rapidly the First Form made their drawings, and then more slips were placed in the box for the Seconds.

"I think we might be allowed to select our own desks," grumbled Bart, and, as the possibility of the two rivals drawing adjacent desks was thus suggested, the others became all attention.

Though he gave no indication of the fact, the headmaster had overheard Bart's remark, and for that reason called Fred to make the first selection, announcing "seventeen" as he read the slip the youth handed him.

"That's the best desk in the Second Form section," whispered several of the boys, while Buttons and Soda patted their chum lovingly on the back when he returned to his seat between them.

As one name after another was called, Bart became more and more glum, his sober face evidencing that he felt slighted at being compelled to wait.

"There's Clothespin, the new boy," murmured Soda, as Bronson walked awkwardly forward. "Wouldn't it be rich if he drew a better desk than Bart?"

"Eighteen," announced Mr. Vining. And the allotment proceeded till only Bart was left.

Eagerly the students had listened as one number after another was called and such close attention did they pay that it was not necessary for them to hear the figure "thirty-three" read to know that the only desk remaining for Bart was in the front row.

"I won't sit there!" growled the rich lad, as the fateful number was announced. "If a newcomer can force me into the front row, I'll do my studying at home."

"That is not the Baxter spirit, my boy," chided the headmaster. "You had an equal chance with the rest. Furthermore, it is very impolite to Mr. Bronson."

"I don't care. I won't sit way up front," retorted Bart, his ungovernable temper making him regardless of consequences.

This challenge of authority drove the kindly expression from Mr. Vining's face, and he cleared his voice to speak when Fred stood up, exclaiming:

"Montgomery can have my desk, and I'll sit up front."

"Thank you, Fred. Bart, because of Fred's sacrifice, you can have number seventeen. Bronson, I regret you should have suffered such rudeness at the hands of any Baxter boy."

This open rebuke to the haughty Bart delighted Fred's champions, and when the desks for the two other Forms had been assigned, they gloated over it as they filed outdoors.

In passing out it so happened that Fred and Bart were brought face to face.

"Grand-stand player!" hissed the bully.

"I don't play to grand stands, and you know it, Bart Montgomery. I was only thinking of the honor of Baxter," retaliated Fred.

"A Markham talking of honor," rejoined Bart.

Unknown to the boys, Mr. Vining had come up behind them, and, as he heard the bully's unkind words, he said:

"Fred, you may forget what I told you this morning."

BRONSON'S CREDENTIALS

To Fred the lifting of the ban against his defending his father's name seemed the solution of all his troubles. In his joy he forgot to thank Mr. Vining, and when his remissness occurred to him he saw the form of the headmaster just entering his office.

"That sure was white of him," the boy muttered to himself. "I don't believe he realized what his threat of suspension meant to me."

Several of the boys had noticed Mr. Vining speaking to Fred, and as soon as the former had passed them, turned back, eager to learn what he had said.

Fred, however, was not disposed to gratify their curiosity, and vouchsafed them only a smile, tantalizing in its mystery.

"It must be good news," asserted Buttons, when his most diplomatic attempts to obtain the desired information had failed. "A few minutes ago your face was as long as a yardstick, and now you're grinning like a cat full of chicken."

"It is good news," laughed Fred, and then the sight of the boy for whom he had sacrificed his desk suggesting an avenue of escape from his too solicitous friends, he called: "Oh, you Bronson. Come and I'll show you where you will sit. Sandow Hill had seventeen last year, so you'll probably have a lot of cleaning out to do."

"It's lucky for you, Cotton-Top, that Sandow didn't hear you say that," came from a First Former. "But I shall tell him, and he'll attend to you, never fear. I don't know what Baxter is coming to when Second Formers can criticize their betters."

The austerity of the First Form student frightened Bronson.

"Do you suppose Mr. Hill will be angry at what you said?" he asked in a whisper.

"He may pretend to be," returned Fred, "but he won't be, really. The Firsts always put on a lot of airs. If you let them, they'll make your life miserable. Just don't take what they say seriously. But there's one thing you must remember—don't talk back to them. It's one of Baxter's unwritten laws that Lower Formers must not talk back to the Firsts."

"Are there many of these unwritten laws?" asked Bronson, alarmed at this constant outcropping of Baxter traditions. He was anxious not to violate any of them, and his own reception had been such as to convince him that unless he soon learned them, he would be in constant hot water.

"No-o, not so very many."

"Are they very hard to learn?"

"Oh, you'll catch on to them soon. Just keep your eyes open and you'll learn them. There's another, though, you should know, or you'll have to stand treat to the whole First Form. When the Firsts are going to classes or coming out, you must never walk in front of them. They have the right of way, just as we Seconds do over the other forms."

"Thank you, I'll remember."

"You'd better. Being new, some candy-loving girl will try to get you in front of her."

"But how can I help it?"

"Just step to one side, and say, 'After you, my dear First Former.' It makes 'em ripping mad."

Room No. 1, being located at the rear of the school building, had a separate entrance, and in reaching it, the boys were obliged to cross one end of the campus. As Fred and Bronson made their way to it, they saw several of the students kicking footballs.

"Are you on the team?" asked the newcomer.

"No, only Firsts make the School team. But I hope to make my Form team."

"Then how is it Montgomery could make the ball team and win the Landon game?"

"Because it's different with baseball. Any one can try for that. The Head says it isn't so dangerous."

By this time the two had reached No. 1, which was already swarming with students busily moving their belongings from their old desks to the ones they had just drawn.

"This will be a good chance for you to meet the Form," said Fred. And he introduced Bronson to Margie Newcomb, Grace Darling, Taffy Brown, Soda Billings, Shorty Simms and Ned Tompkins.

"You mustn't take what we do too seriously, Mr. Bronson," said Margie, as she cordially shook the newcomer's hand. "You will soon get accustomed to us. Oh, Alice," she cried, as the girl who had first espied Bronson when he mounted the steps entered the room, "Come here a minute."

But the girl, noting the presence of the new student, turned on her heel and went out.

At this snub, Margie bit her lip.

"Alice is miffed because Fred has more manners than her brute of a brother," explained Grace. "You'd better leave her and Mary alone, Marg."

"So she's Mr. Montgomery's sister?" asked Bronson, an amused light shining in his eyes. "They do seem alike."

"Oh, don't mind her. That's just the Montgomery way," interposed Fred. "She's really a mighty nice girl—when you know her. Come on, and I'll show you through the building."

After inspecting all the recitation rooms, the laboratory, and the gymnasium in the basement, the boys returned to No. 1.

As Fred and Bronson reached a spot whence they could see the latter's desk, both were surprised to behold an envelope attached thereto by a clothespin.

"Wonder what that is?" exclaimed Fred. Seizing the envelope, he glanced at the address, then handed it to his companion.

"A letter for me?" murmured the newcomer, in surprise. "Whom do you suppose it's from?"

"Why not open it and find out?" suggested Fred, striving to restrain a smile, for he had recognized the round, flourishing writing of Soda.

Quickly Bronson did this, his face assuming a look of perplexity as he scanned the contents. Twice he read the note, then asked:

"Who are the 'Big Six,' and where is 'The Witches' Pool'?"

Recognizing a plot of his chums to have fun with the newcomer, Fred said, ignoring the questions:

"Let me see the note."

But Bronson refused to give it to him.

"How can I tell who sent it, if I can't see the handwriting?" demanded Fred, surprised at such action.

"But I can't show it to you."

"Why?"

"The note says I mustn't."

"Look here, Bronson, you mustn't take things so seriously. This note is just to scare you. It doesn't mean anything. If you don't let me see it, we can't get back at the boys who sent it."

A moment more Bronson hesitated, then reluctantly handed it to Fred. The note ran as follows:

"That's some of Soda's doings," said Fred. "I'm not surprised he didn't want you to let me know about it. But I wonder what he means by your credentials?"

"Why, the papers I must get to show I am a member of the Second Form, I suppose."

"What papers? Who's been telling you such stuff?"

"Soda." And briefly Bronson related to his new friend the incidents of his reception when he introduced himself.

So absorbed had both boys been in the note that not until the creaking of a door, cautiously opened, reached his ears did Fred realize the conspirators were on the lookout to see when the note was discovered. But at the tell-tale sound, he grabbed Bronson by the arm, and with a whispered "Come with me," led him rapidly out the side door and round to the back of the building.

"Where are you going?" eagerly inquired his companion, as Fred slackened his pace.

"To get even with Soda, of course."

"But he hasn't done anything to you."

"Oh, yes, he has. He knows I am showing you around, so anything he does to you is the same as though he did it to me; see?"

"Yes, I see," returned Bronson slowly, adding quickly, "I wonder if the other boys would have been so decent to me, if you hadn't taken me in tow?"

"Of course they would."

But Bronson held a different opinion, though he did not say so, and all the way to the village store, whither Fred led him, he thanked his lucky stars that the fair-haired boy had taken him under his protection.

Arrived at the store, Fred walked to the back part and asked of the clerk:

"Got any very smelly limburger cheese?"

"Sure."

"How much is it?"

"Fifty cents a pound."

"Then give me half a pound of the very smelliest."

"I'll pay for it," said Bronson, as the package was delivered to them, adding, in fear that Fred might think his offer reflected on his position, "it's only fair, you know, because you are helping me out of a hole."

"All right. Now, we'll get a box, and you write on a card, 'My Credentials—Clothespin,' then we'll have it wrapped up."

When this had been done, Fred persuaded the clerk to address the package to "The Big Six, Care of Mr. Soda Billings, Baxter High School."

"I wish we could be there when they open it," exclaimed Bronson, as they returned to the school building.

"We'll be in on the fun, don't worry. Just stay outside, here, and I will deliver your credentials."

Cautiously Fred entered No. 1, laid the box on Soda's desk, and bolted out of the door.

BRONSON TURNS THE TABLES

To the waiting boy the reappearance of his friend seemed instantaneous.

"Quick! To the campus; They mustn't see us near the building!" breathed Fred.

To gain the football field was but the work of a few seconds, and when Soda and his fellow conspirators rushed from the building, the two boys were watching the punting and tackling of team aspirants to the apparent oblivion of all else.

Not long did it take Buttons to descry Fred's yellow head, however, and with a whoop, he dashed at him, followed by his companions, one of whom bore the odoriferous box.

"What shall we do now?" asked Bronson nervously, as the shout reached his ears.

"Nothing. It's their move. Pretend to be interested in the practice—only keep your weather-eye open."

But though the newcomer tried to appear indifferent, when the cessation of the footbeats and the sound of heavy breathing announced the arrival of Soda and the others, he could not keep from looking around to see what they were doing.

"Ha! ha! His guilty conscience makes him fearful!" cried Buttons gleefully. "Clothespin, I'm surprised at you—not to say deeply grieved."

Determined to make amends for having allowed his curiosity to get the better of him, Bronson, ignoring the remark, looked at Fred.

"Who did you say that fellow with the ball is?" he asked.

"That's Tom Perkins, the best full back ever at Baxter," replied Fred, with a wink of approval, never turning his head.

"But how can you tell when only Firsts are allowed to try for the team?"

"Oh, you can get a line on the men from their work on their Form teams. Tom has played full back ever since he came to Baxter."

Surprised at their reception, Buttons and his companions stood quietly until Fred began a history of football at Baxter, relating the most exciting incidents of the annual games with Landon, and then launched into the chances of the various candidates for making the 1912 team.

"Look here, Clothespin, it is customary at Baxter to answer when you are spoken to," exclaimed Soda, as soon as Fred paused for breath.

"Beg pardon, did you address me?" asked Bronson, with a well-feigned look of astonishment. "I was so interested in what Fred Markham was telling me that I did not hear you. What did you say?"

"Good boy, Clothespin," exclaimed Fred between laughs, as he danced with glee at Bronson's simulated surprise. "It isn't very polite, Soda, to interrupt when I am telling a new member of our Form about the team, especially when you smell so."

"Oh, shut up, Cotton-Top," snapped Soda. "Nobody's talking to you. Our business is with Clothespin."

"Business?" repeated the latter innocently.

"Yes, business," broke in Buttons. "We received your credentials. They are certainly strong. After due deliberation, however, we have decided that as you did not deliver them in accordance with instructions, you will not be accorded the privileges of the Second Form unless you eat them."

As he uttered the last words, Buttons took the odoriferous limburger from the box and started to jam it into Bronson's mouth.

But before he could do so, Fred caught his arm.

"Keep out of this, you Cotton-Top!" cried the other boys, jumping for Fred. "This is none of your affair."

"Oh, yes, it is," grinned Fred, throwing aside Soda and skillfully dodging the others who charged at him. Then sniffing loudly, he continued: "I say, Buttons, you'd better run and take a bath."

"Bath nothing," retorted Buttons angrily. "It's this cheese."

Even his fellow-conspirators could not keep from laughing at the indignation with which he repelled the charge.

"I'll stand treat for sodas if you'll come down to the store," exclaimed Bronson, deeming the moment opportune to try to make friends with his tormentors. "That is, if we can go without missing classes."

"Sure we can go. There are no classes till afternoon," chorused several.

Laughing and talking, the boys started for the village, when Buttons suddenly cried:

"I say, let's put the cheese in Bart's desk. He's gone home, and it will make him furious."

The suggestion met with hearty approval, and after due consideration, Shorty Simms was selected as the one to hide the limburger.

"We'll all go in," declared Soda, "then if any instructor sees us, he won't be able to tell who did it, as he would if Shorty went alone."

Readily agreeing, the boys swarmed in a troop into the building, and while Shorty, watching his chance, dodged to Bart's desk, opened the top and placed the limburger as far back as possible, smearing some of it in the cracks.

Gleefully the others watched, filing innocently from the room when the deed was accomplished.

"Wow! but Bart'll raise an awful rumpus," opined several.

"Never mind about Bart. Come on to the store," exclaimed Soda. And, linking his arm through Bronson's, as though fearful he might escape, Soda hurried through the hall, the others following close behind.

But as they started down the steps, they were confronted by a group of Firsts.

"Hey, you Seconds! Back to Number one and clean our desks for us."

At a glance Fred realized that he and his companions were outnumbered by the Upper Formers, and, with that quickness of decision which was destined to make him so good a football player, he whispered:

"The side door!"

Laughing derisively, thee Seconds turned and rushed into No. 1, hastily swarming out the window and through the door.

So unexpected was the refusal to clean their desks, that for a moment the Firsts stood motionless at the foot of the steps, then charged up.

But that moment of hesitation had been sufficient for Fred and his followers to make good their escape, and as the Firsts rushed into No. 1, the last boy reached the campus and with a mocking wave of his hand, Buttons shouted:

"Try the Thirds! They're slow but tame!"

HIS FATHER'S FAILURE

Bronson's action in standing treat for Buttons and his crowd did much to establish him in their good graces, and the lads soon became better acquainted.

"I say, have you picked out your boarding-place, Clothespin?" Soda asked presently. "If you haven't, we may be able to save you getting into one of the 'Old Ladies' Homes.'"

"That's the Baxter name for several boarding-houses managed by elderly maiden ladies," explained Fred. "They——"

But he was interrupted by Soda's announcement:

"The lunacy commission will now consider the sad case of Fred Markham, star athlete of the Second Form, who is so far out of his head as to call the harpies that collect the rent and dish out the prunes at the 'Old Ladies' Homes' maiden ladies. It——"

"I realize that all sense of politeness and respect for your elders is lacking in you, Soda," broke in Fred, "but you must remember that Bronson has been accustomed to associating with well-bred people."

This retort, interpreted in the spirit in which it was uttered, evoked howls of delight from all but the victim of Fred's sarcasm, and Shorty expressed their sentiments by saying:

"That ought to hold you for some time, Soda. Now, don't begin to talk back. Remember, children should be seen and not heard."

"Your conversation may be edifying, but it is not enlightening as to a boarding-house for Bronson," retorted Soda.

"I am deeply moved by your kind consideration of my welfare," smiled Bronson, "and I thank you heartily. But that I may save you further bother, I will tell you I have already arranged for quarters."

"Bet you're stung," declared Shorty, while the others chorused: "Where?"

"With Mr. Vining."

"The Head?" gasped the boys, flashing significant glances to one another, the rising inflection of their voices proclaiming their incredulity.

"Yes, he is an old friend of my family."

"Take me by the hand, somebody, and lead me away," groaned Soda. "Here we invited Bronson to a party at the Witches' Pool, and he lives with the Head."

Though the words were spoken in jest, the expressions on the boys' faces showed that they were wondering whether or not their new Form member would prove a spoil-sport.

Divining their thoughts, Bronson hastened to say:

"I hope the fact that I live with Mr. Vining will make no difference in our relations. It was arranged between mother and him that I should not be quizzed, no matter what happens at school."

"My eye! I wish I could live with the Head," lamented Shorty. "I was quizzed by either him or Gumshoe regularly once a week—if not oftener—all last year."

"We'll petition him to adopt you," cried Soda. "Who'll sign?"

But before the suggestion could be carried out, the blowing of a noon whistle sent the boys to their respective homes for dinner.

The fun with the cheese, and the escape from the Firsts, had distracted Fred's mind from the unpleasant events attendant upon his arrival at school, but as he approached his unpretentious but comfortable home, his rival's remarks recurred to him. Consequently it was a very sober boy who entered the dining room of the Markham homestead.

Instantly realizing that her son's quietness—in striking contrast to his usual good spirits—betokened something serious, Mrs. Markham was about to ask the cause when Fred forestalled her by inquiring:

"Where's father?"

"He's gone to Manchester."

"Why?"

It was the hope of both Mr. and Mrs. Markham that they might keep the full import of the failure from Fred, and in accordance with the plan agreed upon between husband and wife when the former set out on his trip—taken in reality to obtain a position—the woman replied:

"Your father has gone on business, Fred." And then, in an effort to divert his mind from such dangerous ground, she continued: "How did school start? Are there any new boys in your Form?"

Fred, however, was not turned so easily from his object, and, without reply to his mother's questions, said:

"But if he has failed, I don't see how he has any business."

Realizing that her attempt to change the conversation was futile, Mrs. Markham replied:

"He has gone to obtain a position, if possible."

This information appeared to Fred partially to confirm what his rival had said, and it was with a very shaky voice he murmured:

"I'm sorry he went without talking to me."

During this conversation, neither mother nor son had more than tasted the delicious dinner that was growing cold on the table before them, and in one more attempt to divert Fred's thoughts, Mrs. Markham said:

"You will never make your football team if you don't eat."

The words suggested to Fred that he could not afford to sacrifice any strength for his bout with Bart Montgomery by abstaining from food, and, though it was with little relish, he ate his dinner.

When finished, he returned to his questioning, almost taking his mother's breath away by asking:

"Did father make money by his failure?"

An instant Mrs. Markham was too amazed to speak. Then, quickly recovering herself, she replied indignantly:

"No, indeed! Who put such an idea into your head?"

"Bart Montgomery."

Suppressing the groan this reply brought to her lips, for she was well aware of the Montgomery family's pride and trouble-stirring tongues, intuitively her mother's heart felt all her son would be made to suffer by his rich Form mate, and, desirous of knowing the worst, Mrs. Markham asked:

"What did that bully say?"

"He said father failed dishonestly, that his father was the principal creditor, so he ought to know."

"The contemptible brute! Do you suppose if your father had made money by his failure he would now be trying to find a position in order to earn money with which to support us. Fred, your father is an honest man—which is more than Bart Montgomery's mother can say about his father, with all his wealth!"

"Hooray for you, mother! I wish I'd thought of that to say to Bart this morning," exclaimed Fred. "But I'll say it the next time I see him."

Mrs. Markham's anger at the imputation her husband was dishonest had carried her beyond the bounds of her customary caution, and, regretting her indiscretion, she shook her head.

"You mustn't do anything of the sort, Fred. Promise me you won't."

"Why?" he demanded, surprised at this sudden change in his mother, without replying to her request.

"Because it will only make it harder for your father."

"How?"

For several minutes Mrs. Markham was silent, evidently considering whether or not the time had come when Fred should be told all the ramifications of the failure. Finally deciding such a course would be the wisest, she parried:

"If I tell you, will you promise not to make that remark to Bart?"

"I won't do so if it will hurt father."

This answer seeming satisfactory, Mrs. Markham said:

"Being business, there are some points I don't understand myself. But I know enough to give you a general idea.

"When your father started his automobile supply business, he was obliged to borrow some money for which he gave notes.

"People all said your father would not succeed. But when he did, several of them grew jealous, and strove to make trouble for him by buying up his notes.

"Mr. Montgomery heard about it, and, coming to your father, offered him enough funds to pay off the notes, agreeing to accept interest and let your father pay off the principle as he could.

"Believing the offer made in good faith, your father gratefully accepted it. But it was not long before he discovered he was mistaken.

"Mrs. Montgomery has a sister who married Charles Gibbs. Being eager to have her sister with her in Baxter, she asked her husband to start Mr. Gibbs in business.

"Seeing your father's success, Mr. Montgomery decided to ruin your father and set up his brother-in-law in the automobile supply business.

"Accordingly, he came to your father and told him he was sorry but he must have his money. Your father protested, but Mr. Montgomery was firm.

"In despair your father tried to obtain money from the banks in nearby towns, but, when inquiry was made, Mr. Montgomery said your father had obtained the loan from him by misrepresentation and the banks refused to lend."

"The sneak!" flashed Fred, his hands clenching as he thought of such treachery to his father.

"As a last resort, your father tried to mortgage our house, but when his title to the property was examined, it was found there was some flaw in the deed.

"Your father insisted some one had tampered with the records, but to no avail.

"Refused money on all sides, there was nothing left for him to do and he was forced into bankruptcy."

In silence Fred digested the story for several minutes.

"I don't see how they can call father dishonest for that. He certainly wouldn't change the deed," he said finally.

"That is the part I don't understand. They said your father had some money on deposit in the Baxter National Bank, which had been withdrawn before Mr. Montgomery could attach it."

"They mean father is hiding this money?"

"Yes."

"But why shouldn't he withdraw it?"

"The law says a bankrupt must not dispose of nor conceal any property from his creditors."

"What does father say?"

"That he never signed the check on which the money was paid."

"Then he never did!" asserted Fred emphatically. "I'll bet Charles Gibbs and Thomas Montgomery are mixed up both in the deed and the check transaction."

"Hush, dear, you mustn't say such things! Both your father and I believe as you do, but Mr. Montgomery is so powerful we can do nothing, unless we have absolute proof," exclaimed Mrs. Markham, looking anxiously about in fear that some one might have entered and heard the remark.

"Don't worry, mother," exclaimed Fred, jumping from his chair and running to her, as he saw the tears fall on her cheek when she finished the story, "I'll get the proof!"

MRS. MARKHAM'S RUSE

As Fred uttered the manly words, his mother raised her tear-stained face, the light of hope shining in her eyes, threw her arms about him and, her head resting on his shoulder, murmured, between her sobs:

"Oh, if you only could, my boy!"

"I will find the proof, if there is any," asserted Fred confidently, "so cheer up, Momsy."

This sharing of his parents' burden seemed to Fred to draw him nearer to them, and in this closer understanding he and his mother talked matters over, during the course of which the clash with Bart, the drawing of the desks and the joke with the cheese were related.

At the recounting of Bart's rudeness in refusing to occupy the desk he had drawn, Mrs. Markham exclaimed:

"There is no saying so true, my son, as that gentleness is bred in the bone. Gentle birth is a thing no money can buy. So long as it was a Montgomery who was so insolent, I am glad that it was a Markham who made amends. You must bring Bronson to the house."

Further confidences between mother and son were prevented, however, by a loud rap on the side door—which opened into the dining room—followed immediately by the entrance of a tall figure.

"How do you do, Mrs. Markham? Ready, Fred?" came from the newcomer.

"Sandow Hill, you'll scare the life out of me some day, coming in so suddenly," cried Mrs. Markham, as she recognized the boy who had entered so unceremoniously.

"I hope not, but I am so in the habit of running in here I almost forgot to knock. You should give me credit for that, at least."

"Oh, you mustn't think I meant what I said seriously, Sandow, but now that Mr. Markham has gone away, I am a bit nervous."

The leader of the First Form was about to comment upon this announcement, when a significant glance from Fred warned him not to, and instead he said:

"Ready for school, Cotton-Top? I thought I'd call and walk along with you. I want to talk about organizing the Second Form football team."

"Yes, I'm ready," Fred replied, accepting the remark at its face value, although he was well aware it was about his affair with Bart that Sandow meant. "Wait until I get my cap." And going into the hall, he quickly returned, his face aglow with pleasure, in his hand a dark blue cap with the letters "S. F." worked in gold braid on the front.

"Thank you, Momsy," he cried, putting his arm around her waist and kissing her affectionately. "It's a beauty. I was going to ask you to make one and here you've given it to me as a surprise. Isn't it swell, Sandow?"

"It sure is," asserted the leader of the Firsts, thus appealed to. "I wish you'd make me one, Mrs. Markham, with the First's colors, crimson with white initials."

"I shall be pleased to, Sandow. I believe I have some cloth of the exact shade, so I can do it this very afternoon."

"That will be fine, Mrs. Markham, and it will help me out of a bad hole. Several of the girls have offered to make my cap and I don't want to decide between them. But I'd be delighted to wear one you made."

Smiling at the boy's ingenuous frankness, Mrs. Markham renewed her promise to make his Form cap, adding:

"Sandow, won't you come to supper to-night? And Fred, you may bring your new Form mate. I'll ask Sallie Ayres, Margie Newcomb and Dorothy Manning."

At any other time, the boys would have hailed with delight the prospect of an evening with the girls, for Sandow was very fond of Sallie Ayres and Dorothy Manning, while Fred thought there was no one quite so attractive as Margie Newcomb. But under the circumstances, the suggestion filled them with consternation and they looked at one another in blank dismay, which was no whit allayed by Mrs. Markham's saying:

"So you're planning some mischief for to-night, are you? I thought there was something in the wind when you called for Fred, Sandow. Of course, if you prefer your pranks, why I will tell the girls not to come."

"Then you've asked them?" blurted Sandow.

"Yes, this morning."

"But how did you happen to ask three?" inquired Fred, suspecting that his mother, who looked upon the opening day of school with dread because of the hazing that was usually indulged in, had proposed the supper party in the hope that she could keep him at home. "You didn't know about Bronson."

"Oh, yes, I did," returned Mrs. Markham, with a smile, "and I've already invited him."

"When did you meet him?"

"I haven't met him, yet. I saw Mrs. Vining this morning on the street, and she told me about his boarding with her and said she hoped you and he would be friends. Just then the girls came along and I thought it would be pleasant for Mr. Bronson if he could meet them. So I asked them and sent him an invitation."

"Momsy, you're a fox! You mean you thought you could keep Sandow and me at home where you could watch us," laughed Fred.

"Well, shall I tell the girls you prefer your skylarking to their society?" inquired Mrs. Markham.

"If she does, your goose will be cooked with Margie," blurted Sandow, and then, as he realized how disrespectful the voicing of his thoughts sounded, he added, blushing:

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Markham. I spoke without thinking."

"Never mind, Sandow," laughed Fred's mother. "But I agree with you that Margie will resent such action on Fred's part."

Confronted by such an embarrassing situation, the boy who was to meet Bart in defense of his father's honor, was doing some rapid thinking.

"We'll have the party, Momsy," he replied. "Only please have supper at seven instead of six." And without giving his parent the opportunity to ask the reason for the late hour, Fred kissed her and dashed out the door, followed by his schoolmate.

"Jiminy crickets! but this is a pretty mess!" lamented Sandow, as he and Fred settled into a rapid walk. "How do you intend to get around Bart? Put it off until to-morrow?"

"Not much! I'll meet him at five instead of seven."

"He won't agree, if he thinks it will be an accommodation to you."

"Oh, won't he?" returned Fred, smiling in a superior manner. "You just wait and see. He'll jump at the chance!"

"Go ahead and tell me; I'm not good at puzzles."

"There's no mystery. I'll simply tell him that I'm going to a party and want to get through with him first. He'll think he can give me a couple of black eyes and shame me before the girls."

"Great head, Cotton-Top!—provided he doesn't close your peepers. Bart's some scrapper. He told Hal he'd been taking boxing lessons during the summer. It's because I wanted to give you a few points I dropped in for you. Have you any idea how you are going at him?"

"Sure. The way Phil Thomas got him in our Form game with Landon last year."

While the leader of the Firsts realized that Fred was strong and agile, he had no idea the boy had already mapped out his plan of campaign, and he asked in surprise:

"How do you mean?"

"Why, make his nose bleed. After Thomas hit Bart on the nose, he lost his nerve."

Though the plan appealed to the First, he did not wish to say so, lest Fred become overconfident, and he replied:

"But it's getting in the good blow that will be the difficulty."

"That's the truth," asserted a third voice. And turning, Fred and Sandow were surprised to see Buttons close beside them.

"It's lucky it was you!" declared the First. "Guess we'd better change the subject. I didn't realize we were so near the school. You two run along and I'll arrange with Hal."

"Thought everything was fixed," remarked Buttons, as Sandow left them.

"Going to change the hour, that's all." And Fred told his chum about the party, adding: "Can't you get Grace Darling and come over in the evening?"

"Guess so. I promised to let her know how things came out."

"But she'll tell Marg."

"What of it."

"Marg'll tell Momsy and she'll worry her head off."

"Well, there's no use crying over what can't be helped. There's Bart now. Will you ask him to change the time or shall I arrange with Taffy?"

"I will."

FRED'S REWARD

No sooner had Fred spoken than he started toward his rival.

By this time, a score or more boys were in sight and as they saw Fred heading for Bart, they hastened their steps, keeping their eyes on both.

Bart Montgomery had also seen the boy he hated coming toward him and, though he wondered what could be the reason, pretended not to notice him, and it was not until Fred hailed him, with an "I say, Bart, just a moment," that he looked in his direction.

"Well?" drawled the rich bully, as his rival came closer.

"I'm giving a supper to-night and I'd be obliged if you'd meet me at five instead of seven. When I set the hour this morning, I did not know about it."

As Fred spoke, the other boys had formed a circle about the two and eagerly they awaited the bully's response.

For a moment, Bart was on the point of refusing. Then, as Fred had hoped, he saw the chance of humiliating his rival before his friends and sneered:

"You, giving a supper? Who's going?"

"That's none of your business, Bart Montgomery. Will you meet me at five—or are you afraid to?"

"I afraid to meet you? Say, if you'll take my advice, you'll postpone your supper. You'll be more fit for bed and a doctor than a supper."

This taunt drew shouts of approval from Bart's followers.

"Thank you. Five it is," said Fred, ignoring the others. And he walked away to find Bronson, to whom he extended in person the invitation sent by his mother.

Usually the forming of the classes and the assignment of lessons on the opening day was a period of terror for the headmaster and the instructors, but on this occasion, the boys were too excited over the outcome of the quarrel between the rivals to cause any trouble. Thus the tasks were soon completed, and the boys hastened to the campus, while Fred and Bart were spirited away by Buttons and Taffy, respectively.

The scene of the combat between the rivals was a tree-enclosed patch of ground back of Hal Church's barn, beside the cattle run, and as the hour of five approached forms of boys could be seen seeking the spot cautiously, dodging out of sight at every sound.

Then followed a silence, broken now and again by subdued exclamations, and finally the appearance of Fred and Buttons from between the trees, showing that the fight was at an end.

"Why are we going this way?" asked Fred, as his chum led him along the cattle run. "It looks as if I were afraid to be seen."

"Well, you're not exactly a fit exhibit for a beauty show," grinned his chum, and then he suddenly gave three whistles, which were followed immediately by the appearance of two girls from behind the bars at the end of the cattle run.

"What in the world?" began Fred, then, recognizing the figures, he exclaimed: "Why, it's Marg and Grace!"

"My, but you're the fine little guesser," chuckled Buttons. "Who did you think they were, Alice and Mary Montgomery?"

His chum's sarcasm was lost on Fred, however, as, thinking only of the position of the girls, he hastened toward them.

"Marg, you mustn't stay here! You never should have come!" he cried.

"But, I couldn't help it, Fred. I was so worried. Are you—did you—oh! You're all blood! Did that big brute of a Bart get the best of you?"

The look that he read in the girl's eyes was so delightful to the conflict-stained boy that he forgot all else and simply drank it in.

"For goodness sake! Speak, one of you, and relieve our anxiety. Marg has been making my life miserable for the last hour," exclaimed Grace.

"An hour?" repeated both boys, in surprise.

"If not longer," smiled Grace. "I told her the thing wouldn't begin till five, but that didn't make any difference. So please tell us how it came out."

"No, don't," protested Margie, her eyes on Fred's bespattered face. "I can tell—and I don't want to hear it." Then, her affection asserting itself, she put her hand on Fred's arm and breathed: "I'm so sorry! But we won't care. He's bigger than you are, anyway."

"Um-m! You ought to be willing to take a licking every day if Marg would talk like that to you," grinned Buttons.

"Well, I would," retorted the girl, a blush suffusing her pretty face, as she realized the significance of her avowal. "I——"

Something about the expression on Buttons' face, however, suggested to Grace that her chum's sympathy was wasted and she interrupted:

"Don't say another word, Marg. The boys are just drawing you on. I believe Fred won."

But neither boy made any response.

"If you don't tell us, I'll never speak to either of you again," flashed Grace.

Alarmed at the prospect of such a dire calamity, Buttons said:

"Sure he won!"

A moment the girls looked at one another, then Marg exclaimed, looking into Fred's face:

"Really? Did you really beat that big brute of a bully, Fred?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried the girl.

"I think you're a couple of mean things, to tease us so," declared Grace. "Why didn't you tell us in the first place?"

"Because you talked so much we didn't have the chance, and then when he saw you were so sure Bart won, we thought we'd let you have your own way," grinned Buttons.

"Smarty!" snapped Grace.

But Margie was so proud to think the boy of her preference had defeated the rich bully, that she did not share her chum's pique, declaring:

"I'm so happy, I don't mind your not telling us. Indeed, I think it's pleasanter to find we were wrong."

A moment Buttons looked at the happy couple, then seized Grace by the arm and started away, laughing:

"Come on, girlie, this is no place for us. Besides, you ought to be nice to me. I was Fred's second."

Her anger being only simulated, Grace readily allowed herself to be led away and as they went, Fred called:

"Come on back here! If you don't mind the invitation being a little late, I want you both to come home to supper with me."

"Very kind of you, I'm sure," grinned Buttons, "but your mother invited us this afternoon."

"But—why——"

"Your mother sent an invitation by me, when she learned about your fight," exclaimed Grace.

"Then she knows?" gasped Fred.

"Evidently," grinned Buttons.

"Come on, then, quick! We must let Momsy know I won. She'll be worrying her heart out," exclaimed the victor, as he seized Margie's hand and broke into a run, followed by the others.

The arrival at the house affording Margie the first chance to catch her breath long enough to speak, she put her face close to Fred's and whispered:

"One of the reasons I like you is that you are so thoughtful of your mother. Another is because you were not afraid of that Bart Montgomery."

THE SUPPER CLUB

To the surprise of the happy four, they found the other boys and girls awaiting them, and Fred was subjected to merry bantering for his remissness in not being at home to welcome his friends.

"I didn't know you were coming to spend the afternoon," he laughed in return, gazing significantly toward the clock whose hands pointed to ten minutes before seven.

"My, but isn't he the stickler for form," commented Sandow. "Does your majesty wish us to go out and wait until seven and then come in?"

"I told Mr. Hill I thought we would be too early," interposed Bronson apologetically.

"You mustn't mind Fred, Mr. Bronson," quickly exclaimed Mrs. Markham. "When you are better acquainted with him, you will know, he is always joking. Besides, supper is ready, so, as you are all here, we can begin just as soon as Fred makes himself presentable."

Flushing at this reminder of his uncouth appearance, the lad made his excuses and started for his room.

"You're more than forgiven," smiled Sallie Ayres, and from this remark the boy realized that the result of the affair with Bart had been made known to his mother and guests.

No sooner had Fred left the room than the girls offered to assist Mrs. Markham in placing the food on the table.

"I say, Mrs. Markham, isn't there something we fellows can do, too?" asked Sandow, following the girls to the kitchen. "We don't want to be left in there alone."

"Let's make them put on aprons and wait on the table," suggested Dorothy.

But Mrs. Markham laughingly protested, and so the boys were forced to content themselves with watching the preparations.

"Oh, I wish we had something funny to put at Fred's plate," exclaimed Margie, when the food was on the table. "Haven't you anything you can think of, Mrs. Markham?"

"Dear me, I don't believe I have," replied the youth's mother, after a moment's reflection.

"Bronson's got something," announced Sandow. "He made me wait for him on the way over."

Expectantly the eyes of the others were turned upon their new schoolmate.

"Oh, what is it?" cried Margie eagerly.

"I'm afraid it's rather silly," apologized Bronson.

"Never mind. Do hurry and show us before Fred comes," urged Grace.

Blushing profusely, Bronson put his hand in his pocket, drew forth a paper bag and handed it to Mrs. Markham.

"Quick! Quick!" breathed the others, clustering around her, eager to see the contents.

"O-oh! it's a candy Teddy Bear!" exclaimed Sallie.

"Fine!" chuckled Buttons. "Here, Mrs. Markham, please let me have that bag. Sandow, you get a match."

Taking the bag, the boy tore out a small piece of paper, hastily wrote on it, "You're all to the candy," thrust the match through the paper, set the Teddy Bear on Fred's plate and then fixed the match in its arms in such a way as to give the effect of a banner.

"But what does that expression mean?" asked Mrs. Markham, to whom the slang was as so much Sanskrit.

"It means Fred's all right," interpreted Sandow. "Now, come away, I hear him."

With hurried steps, the young people made their way to the other end of the table, which they reached just as the fair-haired boy entered the room.

"What's up? Why are you all in here?" Fred inquired, looking from one to another of his friends.

"The girls wanted to help me put the supper on the table and Sandow and Buttons could not bear to be separated from Sallie and Grace for so long," smiled Mrs. Markham.

"I can understand that," returned Fred. "But there's something else. Every one of you has a guilty expression."

"Hungry, you mean," corrected Buttons. "For pity's sake, take your seat and don't keep us waiting any longer. My mouth's been watering for some of Mrs. Markham's pumpkin pie ever since I was asked to supper. Bronson, I told you this morning, you ought to let us select your boarding place for you. Mrs. Markham's the best cook in Baxter. That's why Fred always looks so sleek and superior."

Pleased and laughing at the boyish compliment, Fred's mother bade them be seated.

So intent was the fair-haired boy in assisting Margie, that it was several moments before he noticed his own plate.

"WELL, OF ALL THINGS," HE EXCLAIMED

"Well, of all things!" he exclaimed, as his eyes rested on the sugared sweetmeat. Then, as he caught sight of the inscription, he added, recognizing the writing: "Buttons, I know it was your diffidence in company that prevented you giving this to Grace. So permit me to do so for you.

"You see, I know both their characteristics and sentiments, Bronson," added their tormentor, as he set the candy bear, with its banner, beside Grace's plate.

Merrily the others laughed, while the boy and girl most concerned blushed furiously.

"Just you wait, Cotton-Top," growled Buttons. But the threat was accepted as the jest it was meant to be.

Healthy young people all, the evident relish with which they ate bore eloquent testimony to the savoriness of Mrs. Markham's cooking.

"Now, go into the other room and amuse yourselves," said the happy woman, when the meal was finished. But the young people refused, declaring they would wash and wipe the dishes, which they did, despite Mrs. Markham's protest.

With games, singing and dancing, the evening quickly passed and, all too soon, the clock struck ten.

"Oh, dear, it seems as though I'd only just come," sighed Margie.

"Never mind, there'll be other nights," laughed Sandow.

"Yes, indeed. I hope you'll all come around often," smiled Mrs. Markham.

"Oh, wouldn't it be jolly to form a supper club," exclaimed Dorothy. "Just we eight. We can take turns meeting at each other's house, once a week."

Enthusiastically the others received the idea. To Mrs. Markham, however, the suggestion was alarming, for she realized that it would tax her already straitened circumstances severely, were she obliged to provide supper for eight young people, even as often as once in two months.

"I think once in two weeks would be often enough," she proposed.

"Yes, I think that would be better," agreed Margie, divining the reason. "Mother said that I must give more attention to my music, if I wanted to keep on with it, and evenings are the only time to practice that I have."

"Then, we'll make it every two weeks," declared Fred, with a promptness that evoked laughter from the others.

"As I suggested the idea, I invite you all to my house for the next meeting," said Dorothy; and after bidding their hostess "Good-night," the young people discussed the club as they walked home.

All their homes were in the center of the village, save Margie's, for which she and Fred had usually been glad. Indeed, as he walked along, the boy was anticipating the pleasure of being alone with the girl of his choice—when they were all startled to hear hurried footsteps behind them.

"Look out for tricks," whispered Buttons. "This is hazing night."

Quickly each boy braced himself to shield, to the best of his ability, the girl he was escorting.

Suddenly, the footsteps seemed to stop. Puzzled, the boys looked at one another.

"There they go, on the grass next the road!" exclaimed Buttons excitedly.

Quickly the others turned, but so heavy were the shadows, that they were unable to distinguish the forms.

"How many did you see?" queried Sandow.

"Six."

"Recognize any of 'em?"

"Too dark."

The presence of six boys, who evidently did not wish to allow their faces to be seen, on the street so late suggested but one idea to all of the young people—that Bart was planning to waylay his rival, as he returned from taking Margie home.

"H'm. Guess we'll all walk home with you, Margie," observed Sandow.

The girl, however, had been doing some rapid thinking.

"Oh, I'm not going home to-night," she exclaimed, giving her chum's arm a significant pinch as she spoke, "I'm going to stay with Grace."

"What did you want to scare Marg for, Sandow?" snapped Fred, in none too pleasant a tone.

"He didn't scare me," flashed the girl. But in her heart she knew that only fear for Fred would have persuaded her not to go home.

"Your mother will be worried," asserted the boy.

"I'll telephone her."

All the others were relieved at this solution of the difficulty, for they were fond of Fred, and they understood, all too well, the significance of their being followed.

"Why won't all you girls stay at my house to-night?" asked Grace. "Sister's away, so there'll be plenty of room. You can telephone, you know."

For a moment, Sallie hesitated. But a nudge from Sandow caused her to acquiesce.

This arrangement decided upon, the young people resumed their way.

After leaving the girls at Grace's home, the boys walked to the Vinings' with Bronson, and then started back.

But not more than ten yards had they walked from the gate, when they heard a hoarse cry:

"Here they come!"

AN EVENTFUL WALK

To the three boys, this cry was not surprising. Indeed, they had been expecting an attack ever since Buttons had espied the six figures sneaking through the shadows, and their only amazement was that they had been allowed to escort the girls and Bronson to their homes, without interference.

"Quick, link arms! Lower your heads, and we'll dash through them!" whispered Sandow. "Use your elbows, like you do in football."

"Strike hard and low," added Buttons. "They mean business—or they wouldn't have waited till we got the girls home."

Instinctively, each boy squared his shoulders at this voicing of the thoughts that had been uppermost in their minds, ever since they learned they were being followed.

"That's certain enough or there wouldn't be six of them to only three of us," returned Sandow. "Crouch down, and we may be able to upset 'em."

"I say charge 'em," breathed Fred. "Bart'll expect us to back up against the fence. So if we run hard, we can break through them."

That the rich bully was the leader of their pursuers, neither Sandow nor Buttons doubted. But, knowing his disposition, they feared the methods he might adopt under cover of darkness, realizing the attack would centre on Fred.

Accordingly, as the fair-haired boy made his suggestion of charging, Sandow whispered:

"Better make a wedge. You run in the lead, Cotton-Top, and Buttons and I will shove you along."

To decide upon their line of action took the boys less time than it does to describe it, and no sooner had the suggestion of the wedge been made than the trio charged.

This move surprised Bart, for he it was. So eager was he to fall upon his rival, that, in his excitement, his voice, when he gave the word of the boys' approach, had been louder than he realized. Moreover, his plan of attack, thoroughly in keeping with his nature, had been to fall upon Fred and his companions from the rear.

In consequence, when he heard the thudding of their footsteps, the bully lost his head.

"Out at them! Get Fred!" he snarled, leaping from his hiding place onto the sidewalk, as he spoke.

Either because they had other ideas of how they should proceed, or because the suddenness of their intended victims' action paralyzed them, Bart's followers did not immediately obey.

And their delay was their leader's undoing.

With great force, Fred, backed by Buttons and Sandow, struck the lone boy on the sidewalk, bowling him over as though he were a tenpin.

"There's no one else ahead," exclaimed Fred. "Guess we were too quick for 'em. No use running any more."

The impetus of his companions was such, however, that though the boy at the head of the wedge stopped running, as he spoke, the others carried him along for several yards.

"That was too easy," grunted Buttons, in evident disappointment.

"Never mind, I reckon we shook Bart up some," chuckled Sandow. "Let's keep going while we have the chance."

"What, run away from Bart Montgomery?" snorted Fred.

"Tut, tut! There's discretion in valor, Cotton-Top. Just take my advice and get home as fast as you can."

"But I'm not going to run," protested Fred.

"Sure not. We'll just go up Main Street. The lights are still on and Bart won't try any funny business on a street where he can be recognized."

As in many other country towns, only the principal street of Baxter was provided with street lamps and—because of the hard-headed economy of the "Town Fathers" even these lamps were only lighted when the night was dark.

"Sandow is right," agreed Buttons, after a moment's reflection.

"But it looks as though I were afraid," protested Fred.

"Fiddlesticks! You don't need to prove your courage," returned Sandow. "Everybody in school admits that. So come along and go the way we want you to."

With evident reluctance, Fred finally yielded, and the trio turned their steps toward Main Street, which they reached without further sight or sound of Bart and his companions.

The route of the three chums took them past the building of the First National Bank.

Dismissing the unsuccessful attack by tacit understanding, the boys were discussing the formation of the Second Form football team, when Fred chanced to glance toward the bank building.

"Look there, by the second window! Can you see any one?" he asked excitedly.

Pausing in their tracks, Buttons and Sandow peered in the direction indicated.

"There's some one sneaking along the side, I think," whispered the latter.

"Probably Bart and his crowd," suggested Buttons.

"Maybe, but I doubt it," returned the leader of the First Form.

"You don't suppose it is anyone trying to break into the bank, do you?" queried Fred.

"I don't believe so," rejoined Sandow. "If they were, they'd be more likely to work at the back of the building than on the side. However, we'll stay here and watch a few minutes."

To this proposal the other boys agreed readily.

"Keep on talking, just as though we hadn't seen anybody," advised the oldest of the trio. And though his companions obeyed, they continued to keep a sharp watch on the bank building.

"They've seen us," exclaimed Buttons suddenly. "Look, they're going back! Can't you see them, crouching down? I tell you, there's something wrong!"

But just as the boy finished voicing his suspicion the flare of a match flickered, revealing two men, searching the ground on their hands and knees.

"Whoever it is has lost something," murmured Fred.

"But who are they?" demanded Buttons. "It may be only a bluff to throw us off the track, now they realize they've been discovered."

"My eye! but you talk just like a story book detective," laughed Sandow. "What do you want us to do, charge 'em, and cry 'hands up'?"

"Don't be a fool——" began Buttons, in angry retort, when a second match flared, the light from which enabled the boys to see the faces of the two men.

As they recognized them, the three chums looked at one another in amazement.

"It's Mr. Montgomery and Mr. Gibbs!" exclaimed Fred, more to himself than to his companions.

"That's who it is," agreed Sandow. "You'd have got us into a pretty mess, if we'd given an alarm, wouldn't you, Buttons?"

"But what are they doing at the bank at this time of night?" demanded the latter.

"Go ask them, if you're so mighty anxious to know—though I reckon Mr. Montgomery has the right to go into the bank, of which he is president, any time he wishes."

"That's just what he hasn't," returned Buttons. "It was only the other day I heard father say no one should be allowed in the bank, from the time the clerks leave at night, till they arrive the next morning."

"Well, I shouldn't advise you to repeat that to Mr. Montgomery," said the leader of the Firsts. "Now we've found out no one is trying to rob the bank, let's be going home."

With the resumption of their walk, Buttons and Sandow took up the matter of the Seconds' football team. Repeatedly they asked Fred's opinion or advice, but his answers showed that his mind was far away.

"I say, come back to earth. What are you dreaming about, anyway?" demanded his Form mate, in disgust, as Fred replied to an important question in regard to the make-up of the team with an "I don't know."

"I was thinking about Char—I mean I wish you two would remember about what we saw at the bank and that this is the night of September 17," hastily corrected the boy.

"Sure, we'll remember," declared his chums.

"Thank you."

"But why?" persisted Buttons.

"I'll tell you sometime. Hello, I'm home. Didn't know we were so near. Much obliged for your help. Good-night—and don't forget."

FRED'S LETTER

So abrupt was their companion's departure, that Sandow and Buttons gazed after him in amazement.

"Wonder what's buzzing in his head, that he wants us to remember to-night?" exclaimed the Second Former, as, having seen Fred enter the house, they resumed their way.

"Don't know, I'm sure."

"Somehow, he doesn't seem like the same chap."

"He isn't," asserted Sandow. "His father's trouble is worrying both his mother and him. Then Mr. Markham has gone away."

"Skipped out?"

"No, indeed! I suppose he's looking for work. But I was going to say, Fred takes the trouble hard—he's too sensitive."

"And Bart'll tease the life out of him."

"It's up to us to see he doesn't."

"How? If Bart hears of it, he'll be worse than ever."

"I know that. It's ticklish business, but I think we can work it."

"How?" repeated Buttons impatiently.

"Through the girls. I don't know one who doesn't like Cotton-Top——"

"Except Mary and Alice Montgomery," interrupted Fred's chum.

"You're wrong there, Buttons. I'm pretty sure they both like him. Anyhow, the others all do—and you know how a girl can twist a fellow round. Well, my idea is to have Sallie, Grace and Dorothy talk with the others and get them to put it to their brothers and friends not to twit Fred about his father."

"They'd never agree," declared Buttons. "Too many of the boys are jealous of Cotton-Top, to be friends with him."

"But, I didn't say anything about being friends," rejoined the leader of the Firsts. "I just said we could get them to agree, not to taunt Fred about his father—they can keep on hating him or disliking him, as much as they please. If the girls go about it right, I believe they can put it through."

"Maybe you're right. Anyway, it's worth trying. I'll put it up to Grace. But why not have Margie?"

"Because, she would queer the whole scheme. We've got to work this thing carefully. The good of the school, or some dodge like that. Make 'em think it will hurt Fred's football playing for instance—when he's needed to trim the Landon Seconds. Everybody knows how Margie feels toward Cotton-Top, so if she tried to talk that way, the others might suspect her motives."

"Guess you're right. Anyhow, I'll tell Grace."

"Good. I'll see Sallie and Dorothy. We must get them started to-morrow."

As they concluded this agreement, the loyal friends of the fair-haired boy reached their homes—which were side by side—and, after repeating their promise to help their friend, entered their respective houses.

In the meantime, the object of their solicitude was talking with his mother.

His return had surprised the good woman, who, knowing the distance Margie lived from the village centre, had not expected Fred for at least half an hour.

"What brings you back so soon?" she asked, immediately suspecting trouble and anxiously scrutinizing the boy, to see if he were injured.

"The girls decided to spend the night with Grace."

"I'm so glad you weren't obliged to take that long walk back alone. I entirely forgot, until you were gone, that this was hazing night—or I should have asked Sandow and Buttons to go out with you and Margie."

From the expression on the face and the look in the eyes of the mother he loved so dearly, Fred realized that she would add to her already heavy burden, worry over him, every time he escorted Margie to her home.

"Now, Momsy, you must quit worrying about me right now," he said, affectionately putting his arm around her waist. "I'm old enough and big enough and strong enough to take care of myself. You know, I like Marg, and I like to walk home with her. But if you are going to be nervous every time I do, I'll have to stop going with her—and I don't want to."

"But I can't help being anxious about you, Fred. With your father away, you are all I have. If anything should happen to you, I think it would drive me crazy."

Never before had the boy realized the depth of the love his mother bore him, and at its revelation he was sorely perplexed. Well he knew that his rival would never cease his attempts to waylay him. Of the outcome, should Bart make the trial alone, he had no misgivings, but he knew the bully's nature too well, to think he would essay the deed single handed. And in the light of his mother's remark, about the effect any injury to him would have upon her, he was sorely perplexed.

"Oh, Momsy, you don't mean that," he exclaimed. "Any boy is liable to get hurt. Please say you don't mean it—and promise me not to worry."

"I'll try not to," agreed the lad's mother, evading an answer to his first entreaty, and adding, hastily, "now, run to bed. I've locked up the house, so everything is all right."

Glad of the opportunity to be alone, Fred kissed his mother and went to his room.

Upon his return, he had intended to tell her of the incidents of his walk, but her words had made him understand the recital would only add to her worry, and he had refrained. But alone in his room, his mind reverted to the discovery of Mr. Montgomery and his brother-in-law, searching the ground by the bank.

"I wish I knew what it was they were hunting for," he muttered to himself. "It must have been either valuable or important for them to want to find it to-night, instead of waiting till to-morrow, when they could search by daylight."

Then his chum's repetition of what his father had said, in regard to Mr. Montgomery's going into the bank after hours, recurred to him, and with it an idea so startling that he sat up in bed.

"If he and Charlie Gibbs go to the bank now, why couldn't they have done so after father failed? They may be the ones who took father's money on that bogus check!"

Amazing as this thought was, in the light of the evening's discovery it seemed plausible. But the boy was too shrewd not to know that, in order to obtain credence for such an accusation against the only millionaire within a radius of fifty miles of Baxter, it would be necessary for him to present overwhelming proof; and he dropped off to sleep, vowing to obtain the evidence.

With the arrival of the mail the next morning, Fred received a letter from his father.

As he recognized the handwriting, he uttered an exclamation of delight, but his pleasure quickly disappeared as he perused the contents.

"Your father isn't hurt or ill?" queried Mrs. Markham, in alarm, as she noted the change of expression on her son's face.

"No; he's well."

"Then, what is it? Let me have the letter."

"I'll read it to you," Fred compromised, for there was a part he did not wish her to see, and he realized that by reading it aloud, he could skip that portion.

As the boy finished, he quickly folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope, put it in his pocket and picked up his school books, fearing lest his mother should ask to see it. But so absorbed was she in her thoughts, that never did such a request occur to her, until Fred was on his way to school.

"My, that was a close shave," he said to himself, as, out of sight of his home, he re-read the part he had omitted: "I went to see a celebrated lawyer, Mr. Samuel Bronson, whom I wished to have represent me in the matter of the forged deed and check. When he found I had no money to pay him a large fee, however, he refused to take the case. I am sorry, because his reputation and ability would have great weight.

"Before his refusal, he told me he had a son entering your Form in Baxter. Do not let the father's action prejudice you against the son. Remember, he is a stranger in Baxter, and treat him courteously."

"And to think I did what I did for a chap whose father won't help mine, for lack of money," snorted Fred, as he tore the letter to shreds in his anger.

BART'S SCHEME FAILS

A moment later, Fred was ashamed of his outburst, and penitently he made amends by being unusually cordial to Bronson, who joined him as he passed the headmaster's house.

"You got home safely, I judge," exclaimed the new student.

"Yes, indeed," replied Fred, maintaining a silence upon the events of the walk home.

"I'm glad. I was afraid Montgomery and his friends might make trouble for you."

With various generalities, to which Fred gave monosyllabic assent or dissent, as the case might be, Bronson kept up a conversation, and in due course they reached the school grounds.

No sooner had they entered, however, than they realized something unusual was afoot.

In groups of varying size, the girls were talking earnestly, some to other girls and others to boys. But at the approach of Fred and his companion they became silent, and the two boys were aware of many covert glances as they passed up the tree-lined walk.

"Wonder what's up?" exclaimed Bronson.

"Don't know," returned his companion. "More stories about me, I suppose, judging from the way they all stop talking and stare when I come near."

With that super-sensitiveness, from which he was a sufferer, Fred had ascribed the actions of his schoolmates to the matter of his father's failure, and in no more forceful manner could he have shown his real character, than by his next remark.

"I say, Bronson," he began, a little catch in his voice, "I don't think it's a good plan for you to associate with me. I'm under a cloud, you know, and it may queer you with the others."

"Of course, if you don't like me, I won't," returned the new student, after a moment's silence.

"It isn't that," responded Fred hurriedly. "I do like you. But I was thinking of your own good—your success at Baxter, you know."

"If that's the only reason for your former remark, forget it," exclaimed Bronson emphatically. "I'd rather have your friendship than that of anyone else in school. You were the only one who treated me decently yesterday—and I don't forget such things."

"All right, Clothespin, if you feel that way. Goodness knows, I need friends at this time, badly."

Fred's suspicions, however, did his schoolmates injustice. In line with their plan of the previous night, Buttons and Sandow had sought Grace, Sallie and Dorothy, early in the morning, and, after explaining matters to them, had received their assurance of hearty coöperation in the endeavor to shield Fred from taunts about his father, and the various groups the sensitive boy had noticed were caused by the girls putting into immediate effect their promise.

The sight of Margie standing alone on the porch, however, made Fred forgetful of the others.

"Why are you here, and not with Grace?" he asked.

"They didn't seem to want me," replied the girl.

Only one reason for such apparent ostracism could Fred imagine, and at the thought his face grew very serious.

"If they are going to leave you out because of me, I'll quit the school," he declared vehemently.

"Don't be a goose, Fred," returned Margie, though there was a light in her eyes that made Fred's heart beat faster. "Nobody's going to leave either of us out of anything."

"Then why do they all stop talking when I come near, and stare at me?" demanded the boy.

"Nonsense. It's just your imagination," temporized the girl, for, having been apprised of Buttons' plan by Grace, and told why it would not be politic for her to assist in promoting it, she feared the evident suffering of the boy might force her into an explanation.

"Imagination, nothing. I guess I can see," retorted Fred. "Besides, Bronson noticed it, too."

"Oh, well, have it your own way, if you like," pouted Margie. "I don't think, though, it is very nice to contradict me so emphatically."

This rebuke sent a flush of contrition to Fred's cheeks, and while he was stammering an apology the bell rang, and the students, whose actions had caused all the boy's misgivings, hurried into school, those who were near Fred hailing him cordially.

"There! Didn't I tell you you were mistaken?" breathed Margie, as she walked to the general assembly room, by Fred's side.

The sudden change in the attitude of his schoolmates was more than Fred could fathom, and so absorbed was he in trying to solve the mystery, that the girl had left him to go to her side of the hall before he thought of a reply.

The students were allowed to choose their own seats in chapel, the only restriction being that each Form must sit by itself. According, Fred, Buttons, Soda, Shorty and Bronson appropriated one bench, marking the respective numbers of their seats in the class room on the back, in pencil.

So engrossed was the fair-haired boy in this task, that he did not notice his rival when he entered.

But his attention was quickly called to him by Buttons.

"We sure got Bart. Look at the court plaster on his face," chuckled the boy, nudging his chum. "He's had to use three pieces."

Fred was not the only one who gazed with interest at the rich bully. Indeed, there was scarcely a pair of eyes in the hall that was not focused upon him, and, conscious of their scrutiny, Bart flushed, dropping as quickly as he could into the seat Taffy had been saving for him.

The hum of comment that greeted his appearance was quickly checked, however, by the headmaster who arose and began the chapel service.

When this was concluded, Mr. Vining moved to the side of the table.

"You all know that one of the advantages afforded by the Baxter High School is the Scholarship in Science. This Scholarship, which is open to any member of the Second Form, amounts to two hundred dollars, a sum worthy the best efforts of all members of the Form. The gentleman who endowed it, Mr. Anthony Baxter, wisely stipulated that it should be awarded upon the result of the mid-winter examinations. As all who wish to try for the prize must make their purpose known, I therefore request that aspirants enroll now."

As the headmaster ceased speaking, there was a buzz of whispering while the students awaited the appearance of the entrants.

The work required of the participants was admittedly hard, requiring such close application that members of the athletic teams had never entered, being unable to carry both the study and the field practice.

Accordingly, it was with a gasp of dismay that the boys and girls beheld Fred rise from his seat and advance to the platform.

"If you please, sir, I wish to enroll for the Scholarship," he said, in a clear voice.

Restraining his surprise, for as teacher of the sciences, he knew that Fred was none too good at them, Mr. Vining wrote down the boy's name.

The realization that Fred's action meant his desertion of the Second's team, of which he, as left half-back, was one of the main supports, filled the scholars with consternation. The Landon Second had been weakened by the withdrawing from school of several of its strongest players, and, in consequence, the students at Baxter had hoped their team might this year obtain the victory, which had gone to their rivals four times in succession. But, if Fred did not play, their hope would be vain.

So absorbed were they, therefore, in consideration of this calamity they did not notice that no one else had enrolled for the scholarship, until Mr. Vining asked:

"Does no other student in the Second Form intend to enter? The provisions of the gift declare there must be at least three contestants, or there shall be no award, the sum reverting to the endowment fund."

This fact thus recalled to them, interest once more centered in the scholarship.

As no one responded to the headmaster's call, a smile spread over Bart's face, which quickly disappeared, however, when Taffy got up.

"Sit down," hissed the bully.

"But I have as good a chance as Fred," returned the boy.

"Never mind if you have. You don't need the money. Fred does, and if no one else enters, he can't get it."

Bart's voice, as he uttered these mean words, was intended to reach only the boys on his bench. But Bronson, being on the end next to Lefty, happened to hear them.

Realizing the significance of the forfeiture to his friend, the boy quickly arose, went to the platform and enrolled. Scarcely had he done so than there was a movement among the girls and Alice Montgomery entered her name.

The expression on Bart's face as his sister's action frustrated his plot to prevent the contest for the scholarship, was not pleasant to see, but it happened that only Fred and Margie were looking at him.

The gates being thus let down, three more students, a boy and two girls, enrolled, after which the entries were closed.

"You're a nice one, you are," growled Lefty, at Fred, as the students passed from the hall. "What did you enter for? You haven't a ghost of a show and you're leaving the team in the lurch. You're a traitor to Baxter—that's what you are!"

"Oh, you can get along without me, Lefty. I'm not the whole team," retorted Fred.

"You're jolly right, you're not," exclaimed Bart, pushing his way to where the two boys were standing.

"But he's the best half-back in Baxter," protested Lefty. "There's no one can come anywhere near him."

"Well, I tell you one thing. Fred's dropping out will permit me to play."

"What do you mean?" demanded several of the boys, in chorus.

Before the bully could explain, however, Sandow joined the group.

"Come down to the basement to elect the captain of the Second team," he ordered. "There's plenty of time before classes, and I want to start you at work to-day."

THE ELECTION

As captain of the First, or School team, Sandow was in charge of all the sports for the lower Forms, so that his command to repair to the basement, to elect the leader of the Seconds' football eleven, was obeyed.

Swept along by the rush of his classmates, Fred was unable to escape from them, until he reached the door leading to the gymnasium. But he quickly took advantage of the opportunity, and in the semi-darkness, which enveloped the stairs, his absence was not noted.

Scarcely had he started back, however, than he came face to face with Alice Montgomery.

At the unexpected meeting, the girl flushed, then dropped her head with the evident intention of passing without speaking.

But Fred did not propose to let her.

"I say, Al—Miss Montgomery, it was mighty good of you to enroll for the Scholarship," he exclaimed impulsively. "If you hadn't come in, I don't believe the others would—and the award would have been passed for this year."

"Then your winning it means a great deal?" queried the girl, deciding from the earnestness with which Fred spoke, that he probably had entered more for the money involved, than for the honor.

"Indeed, it does, Miss Montgomery."

"I'm so glad—I mean I'm glad my entering gives you a chance to win the Scholarship," she corrected hastily. "And—Fred—I wish you'd keep on calling me Alice. 'Miss Montgomery' is my name to those I don't like."

And with this glimpse of her attitude upon the rivalry existing between her brother and Fred, the girl hastened on her way to the classroom.

For a moment, Fred gazed after her in speechless amazement.

"Well, of all things!" he murmured to himself, when at last he had recovered from his surprise. "It's lucky Bart wasn't round. He's brute enough to be mean to his own sister."

Further consideration of Alice's words was prevented by the noisy appearance of several boys from the basement.

"Hey, you Cotton-Top, what are you lallygagging up here for?" demanded Soda, as he caught sight of Fred. "Get a move on and come down. We need your vote."

Thus besought, the left half-back opened his mouth to speak, but the others would not let him, seizing him and carrying him downstairs by main force.

When Sandow had called the Seconds to order, he briefly asked for nominations for captain.

Promptly, Taffy proposed Bart's name, while Soda performed the same office for Fred.

No other names being suggested, the leader of the Firsts called for a vote.

"Let's not have ballots—let's just state our preference, when our name is called," suggested Lefty.

This proposition evoked a storm of protest, and, as time was pressing, Sandow ordered ballots to be used.

"Just write the name of your preference on a piece of paper and bring it to me," he directed.

Quickly the boys obeyed, and when all had cast their votes, the captain of the school team counted them.

"The vote's a tie," he announced. "Seven for Bart and seven for Fred."

"Move we leave it to Sandow to choose the captain," exclaimed Buttons.

But action of this motion was prevented by Soda.

"There are fifteen who can vote, counting Clothespin," he shouted, "and only fourteen votes have been cast. Who's missing?"

Attention thus directed to the fact that all the boys were not present, they quickly counted noses, and Fred's absence was learned.

"Grand-stand play—to keep away when he knows his name will be voted on," sneered Taffy.

"Probably thought he couldn't keep from voting for himself, unless he stayed away," added Bart.

"Bet you voted for yourself," retorted Shorty.

But Sandow checked the controversy in its bud.

"Order!" he commanded. "Some of you go find Cotton-Top, and bring him here."

It was in response to these instructions, that the boys dragged Fred, so unceremoniously, down the stairs.

His arrival was greeted with shouts of delight from his followers, and of derision from Bart's.

"What do you want of me?" inquired the boy, ignoring the greetings and comments that were hurled at him.

"Why did you not come to the meeting when you knew it was the most important of this semester, being for the purpose of electing the captain of the Second football team?" demanded Sandow, assuming all the dignity his position, as leader of the First Form, gave him. For, though he was one of Fred's intimates, such was his conception of his duty to Baxter, that he never allowed his friendships to interfere with the good of the school.

"As my entrance for the Scholarship told you all, I have decided to give up football for this year," began the boy.

"You mustn't desert the team!" "Traitor!" "How much is Landon paying you?" were some of the cries that greeted this announcement.

Flushing at the charges, Fred squared his shoulders.

"Give me a chance to finish, will you?" he exclaimed hotly.

"Order!" demanded Sandow. "If any one else interrupts, he'll lose his vote!"

This drastic ruling had the effect of silencing the boys, and Fred resumed.

"When I found I could not play on the team, I—well, I decided I didn't want to be present," he explained.

"But why can't you play and try for the scholarship, too?" demanded Lefty.

"Because I'm not clever enough in science."

"Then give up science. You'll fall down on the scholarship, anyhow. But if you stick to the team, we'll win from Landon, sure," declared Taffy.

"I may not obtain the scholarship—but I must try for it," returned Fred quietly.

"Must need the money pretty bad," sneered Bart.

"Montgomery, for that nasty and uncalled-for remark, you lose your vote," cried Sandow.

This decision threw the boys into an uproar, so great that it was heard above stairs and members of the First and Lower Forms descended to learn its cause.

Paying no attention to it, however, Sandow prepared more ballots, then called upon the Seconds to vote again.

Before they could do so, however, Fred obtained permission to speak.

"As I shall not play this year, my name, of course, cannot be voted upon. Inasmuch as the first ballot resulted in a tie, between Bart and myself, I ask those who voted for me to support Bart."

"I ASK THOSE WHO VOTED FOR ME TO SUPPORT BART"

"Good boy!" "That's the talk!" interrupted several.

"I, therefore, move that Bart Montgomery be elected captain of the Baxter Second football team by acclamation," concluded Fred.

Although the boy's chums realized such sportsmanlike action was in keeping with his character, its unexpectedness took their breath away, and they stared at one another in silence, while Bart's adherents dared not say anything, lest they prejudice their favorite's chances to obtain the coveted honor without a contest.

"Any one second the motion?" asked Sandow, when several moments had elapsed without such action.

But no one spoke.

"Second it, Buttons," exclaimed Fred, in a whisper, audible to all.

"Yes—I will—not," growled the boy.

"Do I hear any one second the motion?" asked Sandow again. "If not, we will proceed to ballot."

The words drew the eyes of the boys to the speaker, and under cover of their distraction, Fred made his way to Bronson, to whom he spoke vehemently, with the result that just as the leader of the Firsts started to hand out the ballots, a voice cried:

"I second the motion!"

Instantly the boys turned to see who had spoken, but they were too late.

"The motion is made and seconded that Bart Montgomery be elected captain of the Second Baxter football team by acclamation," announced Sandow. "All in favor say 'Aye.' Contrary, 'No.' The 'Ayes' have it."

"Snap judgment! Move a roll call!" protested Shorty Simms.

The leader of the Firsts, however, ignored the comment.

"In consequence of this vote," he continued, "I declare Bart Montgomery elected to the captaincy. All members and candidates for the Second be on the campus at three, this afternoon, for practice. Meeting's adjourned."

Their favorite elected, Bart's followers crowded about Fred, slapping him on the back, and telling him he was a good fellow, their anger at his decision not to play forgotten in their triumph.

On the other hand, Fred's chums held aloof from him.

"I'd like to know who seconded that motion," snarled Buttons.

"And I," chorused Shorty. "We'd make him go some, eh?"

Fortunately for Bronson's piece of mind, he was out of earshot of these threatening words, or he might have betrayed himself.

By this time, all the boys had gone upstairs, leaving Sandow, Hal Church and Fred alone.

Going to the boy, the leader of the Firsts put his arm around Fred's shoulder.

"Won't you really try for the team?" he asked. "The Second will never have a good show against Landon."

"You know I'd like to, Sandow, but I can't," replied Fred, a catch in his voice.

"You know the game, so you won't need much practice," urged Hal.

"More than I can give, though. I'll need every spare minute for science."

"But what's the honor—" began Hal, when Fred interrupted him.

"It isn't the honor—it's the money," he said. "I want you fellows to understand, so I'll tell you: father wrote me to try for the two hundred because mother needs it. I'm not any too good at science, so you see I've got to study like the old Harry. I don't want her or father to think I am letting fun interfere with helping them."

As the two older boys listened to this manly statement, they understood as never before the strength of Fred's character.

A moment or two they stood in silence, then each seized a hand impulsively.

"I hope you'll win," said Sandow, and Hal echoed the sentiment.

LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS

Thankful was Fred for the Baxter tradition that gave to members of the First Form precedence in walking about the building and grounds, for because of it, he was enabled to let Sandow and Hal go upstairs alone. In fact, he tarried longer than necessary in the basement, because he felt in no mood for the comments and glances he knew would be bestowed upon him, both on account of his having been instrumental in the election of his rival to the captaincy and his decision to give up football.

"Oh, I wish father would let me quit school and go to work," he said to himself. "I believe it would be easier than to give up the team—especially, when all the fellows are calling me a traitor to the school."

As he gave voice to his feelings, Fred had reached the hall, which, to his relief, he found free from his schoolmates.

But he was not so much alone as he thought.

"Who says you're a traitor?" demanded a voice solicitously.

In surprise, Fred turned quickly.

"Alice—you here?" he gasped. "I—I must have been thinking out loud. I supposed every one was in class."

"I understand," said the girl, "and I'm sorry. Oh, so sorry, for you, Fred. But you mustn't mind what the others say. They don't mean anything—really. They're just thoughtless. They've never had any trouble or—or sorrow—and so they don't realize. I think your action, in giving the captaincy to my brother, was simply fine. Everybody's saying so. Indeed, you're quite the hero of the school."

But the girl's attempt at merry raillery of her schoolmate failed.

"You would never say that if you'd heard what the fellows said when I told them I couldn't play this year," returned Fred bitterly. "It's hard enough, goodness knows, to give up the team. But when they call you a traitor, it's almost more than a fellow can stand."

"Never mind, they only said it in the bitterness of their disappointment at your decision. When they have had time to think it over, they'll see the matter in its true light."

"I wish I could think so."

"Well, you can—and must. It's nice to be a football star, of course, but there are much finer things in life."

"Bearing the taunt of traitor resignedly, for instance."

"Doing what you think is right, and sticking to it, no matter how much suffering it entails—you mean," corrected the girl.

Under her friendly persistency, even Fred's self-pity could not long stand.

"By Jove, Alice! You're the best cure for the blues I ever knew!" he exclaimed impulsively. "If it hadn't been for you, I'd probably have gone round for a week or so thinking myself a regular martyr."

"I'm glad I'm some use to somebody," laughed the girl, a wistfulness in her tone. "Any time you feel the martyr attack coming on, let me know."

"I will; don't worry. By George! but we'll be late for class. Come on."

"I don't think I'll stay this morning," returned Alice. "I've a headache. But you go in. Good-bye—and remember to let me know when you feel the blues coming on."

In silence, Fred watched the girl pass down the steps of the school entrance and along the shady walk.

"She's a brick!" he declared emphatically, adding, "if she only didn't have a brother. But that's not her fault—and I shouldn't wonder if there wasn't any love lost between them."

In this surmise, Fred was nearer the truth than he realized. Of the three Montgomery children, Bart and Mary were as alike as two peas, arrogant and snobbish. In striking contrast, Alice was quick of sympathy and considerate of her fellows. And in consequence of this wide difference in their natures, Bart and Mary made their sister's life miserable with their bullying. With all her heart, Mary entered into her brother's hatred of his rival, while Alice never lost the opportunity of speaking a good word for Fred—a fact that did not tend to lessen the breach between them. But this hostility to her Alice took such pains to hide that even her mother and father were in ignorance of it, attributing her frequent headaches, her aloofness and her melancholy to ill-health.

"A girl like that can't be happy with a brother and sister like Bart and Mary," mused Fred, as he watched her disappear down the walk. "I'll bet she's lonesome. Now I think of it, I never see her round with any of the fellows and girls. I'll speak to Marg about her the first time I get a chance. If I can do anything for her in return for what she's done for me, I'll be only too glad."

And, with this resolve, the boy entered the classroom. With a hurried glance at Margie, given from long custom, he dropped into his seat in the front row. But all through the morning Alice's face, with its wistful expression, danced before his eyes as he tried to study.

At recess, he sought out Margie and poured out to her his thoughts about Alice, concluding with the request that she be more friendly with her and make her one of their intimates. But to his surprise, Margie did not enthuse over the project, instead receiving the suggestion with evident displeasure, and for the first time in their friendship they parted in anger at one another.

During the afternoon and for the next two days, Fred strove to propitiate the girl, but she kept aloof from him so persistently that he finally gave up the attempt.

To the sorely-tried boy, this action on Margie's part seemed the last straw to his burden, and he kept to himself entirely, repulsing the awkward attempts at sympathy essayed by Buttons, Soda and Grace, and only becoming his usual cheery self when in the presence of his mother.

When this self-imposed isolation had continued for a month, including absence from two meetings of the supper club, as an excuse for which he pleaded study, Buttons called Sandow and Soda into consultation.

"I don't know what it is, but something is eating the heart out of poor old Cotton-Top," he declared when the three were securely ensconced in his room.

"He's simply crazy over that science scholarship; that's all," vouchsafed Soda. "If he prefers books to his friends, why, I'm willing he should have 'em, for my part."

"But it isn't study, I tell you," asserted Buttons. "It's something else."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's getting worse and worse in science every recitation. Honestly, it's painful to hear him stumble through the lessons. He's queering his chance for the scholarship every day."

"Well, what do you propose to do about it?" demanded Soda, after a silence of several minutes.

"If I knew, do you suppose I'd ask you?" snapped Buttons. "It's so we could talk things over, I got you and Sandow to come over."

"Then suppose you give me a chance to speak," suggested the leader of the First Form.

"Fire away," exclaimed the Seconds, in unison.

"There are several things, I reckon, that are the cause of Cotton-Top's actions. In the first place, he's worried about money; in the second, he feels all broken up over not being able to play on the team, and the remarks you Seconds made when he told you—like a man—why he couldn't play, cut him way down deep."

"But it is a low-down trick to throw the team the only time we have a chance against Landon," grumbled Soda. "I——"

"Careful there, what you say," cautioned Sandow, interrupting. "If one of you fellows who are talking traitor had half the pluck Fred Markham has, you'd be more decent. For your own special benefit, I'll tell you something—but understand, it's not to go any further. Fred's father asked him to try for the scholarship so his mother could have the money."

In shamed amazement, the Seconds heard this statement.

"How do you know?" finally blurted Soda.

"Because Fred told me, after he elected Bart captain. I'll also tell you it almost broke his heart to give up the team, meaning the loss of the captaincy of the School Team next year, as it does, for he could have been captain of the Second, if he desired."

"Poor old Cotton-Top! And here we, his best friends, have only been making things harder for him," murmured Buttons contritely.

"Glad you're waking up to yourselves," returned Sandow. "I've been so busy with the team I didn't know, until Sallie told me this noon, quite how bad things were. When I did learn, I wanted to take you both by the necks and knock your heads together."

"Instead of which, you accept an invitation to meet us peacefully—for which we thank you," interposed Soda.

"Now, don't try to get funny. This is no joking matter, and I never was more in earnest in my life. Fred is so sensitive that a little more of the treatment you Seconds have been handing him, and he'll be down sick. Then he'll surely lose the scholarship—to say nothing of the expense."

"Well, since you're so wise, what do you want us to do?" snapped Soda, whose very petulance showed that the straight-from-the-shoulder talk of the school leader had produced the intended effect.

"Make him forget himself, of course."

"How?"

"Ask him to go to the campus to give Buttons points on playing left half."

"But he wouldn't come."

"Have you asked him?"

"No."

"Then you don't know he won't. Put it to him he owes it to Baxter and to Buttons, as his friend, to lend a hand."

"Don't believe he knows I'm playing left half," declared Buttons.

"Then tell him—and ask him to coach you."

"But how'll we get round the month we've hardly spoken to him?" inquired Soda.

"Forget it. Just go to Cotton-Top and talk to him as though nothing had happened. Then, Buttons, you and Grace get at Margie. It seems Fred thinks Alice is lonesome, and so he asked Margie to take her into our crowd, and, like a silly fool, Margie got on her high horse, instead of realizing Fred only suggested the idea out of kindness."

"By Jove! I have it!" cried Buttons. "Why not have an extra meeting of the supper club round at Fred's to-night?"

"Too much of a tax on Mrs. Markham," returned Sandow.

"We can get around that, by having the girls bring baskets and telling Mrs. Markham we only decided after school to have the meeting."

"All right, fix it up. Only be sure to talk to Margie first, so she won't sulk," advised Sandow.

"That's pretty fine for you two, but where do I come in?" demanded Soda. "Here you bid me to a consultation, and then decide upon a plan to be pulled off at a meeting of a club of which I'm not a member."

"That is sort of tough," chuckled Buttons. "Guess we'll have to invite you. You can come as my guest. So long as we're going to take our suppers, an extra won't make any difference."

"But I'll want a girl," protested Soda. "I don't want to sit around and watch you all."

"All right. I'll have Grace ask Betty Brewer."

This proposal met with the approval of Soda, and the consultation ended with Sandow's admonition to inform the girls without delay.

Eagerly the suggestion was accepted by all the members of the club, though Margie demurred until Buttons told her Sandow had called her silly—discreetly omitting the fool—and while the girls bustled about their preparations, Buttons sought Bronson.

Fred was in his room studying when the boys and girls arrived.

"I'll call him," said Mrs. Markham.

"No; let me," pleaded Margie, and, amid the banter of the others, she vanished from the room, returning in due course with Fred.

At the sight of his friends, the boy flushed, but Sandow and Sallie diplomatically smoothed out any awkwardness, and under the spell of their hearty cordiality, Fred became the merry companion of old.

But his cup of happiness was not yet filled.

While the girls were putting on their wraps, Bronson called Fred to one side.

"Will you give me your father's address?" he asked.

"Why, yes, if you want it," replied the boy, his surprise at the request evident in his face.

"I do. That is—my father does. Your father consulted him about some matter and left without giving his address. Father wishes to write him that he has changed his mind and will take his case."

THE SCHOLARSHIP IS AWARDED

So eager was Fred to write his father about Mr. Bronson's change of front, that he actually grudged the time necessary to escort Margie home, and several times he hurried her so fast that at last she poutingly suggested he let her go by herself if he were so anxious to get back to his study.

"It isn't that, Marg," he explained contritely. "I've got some news for father that will please him more than almost anything he could hear."

Then, acting on impulse, he related the incident of his father's visit to the famous lawyer, the latter's refusal to handle the case, and the development of the evening.

"And all this time, knowing his father's action, you've been kind and courteous to that Clothespin? I never heard anything so fine," breathed the girl proudly. But though her admiration of his attitude toward his classmate was sincere, it was the realization that Fred had once again restored her to his confidence, as indicated by his telling her of the Bronson matter, that made the girl most happy.

Bitterly she reproached herself for having by her manner added to the boy's suffering, and eagerly she strove to make amends.

"Remember what you asked me the day we quarrelled?" she exclaimed, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.

"Do I remember? Well, I should say I did. I've gone over our talk two or three times a day to see what I had said that could give you offense."

"You foolish boy! It was all my fault, and—and now I want you to ask me again."

"So you can pick another quarrel?"

"Don't be silly. I was just a jealous little goose. I might have known it was only your consideration for others that led you to speak of Alice as you did."

This confession gave both the young people happiness, and it was much later than even Fred had supposed when he returned to his home, and, going to his room, wrote the tidings to his father that were destined to effect great changes.

At the cheery greetings with which Fred hailed them the next morning, his schoolmates were first amazed, then delighted, and by the time classes were over all memories and bitterness caused by the breach were healed over and forgotten.

Indeed, so delighted were the Seconds to recognize in the boy the jolly companion of old, that Taffy even asked Fred to go to the campus to coach the back field of the Form team.

"But Bart might not like it," objected the boy, though the light in his eyes showed his eagerness to place the benefit of his experience at the service of the eleven.

"Sure he will. He'll be tickled to death," insisted Taffy. "Only last night he told me he'd give anything if there was only some way you could be persuaded to play. Between you and me, Buttons is fierce."

"Well, I can't play," sighed Fred. "But I'll do this much—I'll take Buttons in hand, if you think that will help."

"That'll be the next best thing to having you in the line-up," declared the boy joyfully, and he hurried away to carry to the desponding captain and his coterie the tidings of Fred's agreement to coach Buttons.

And Bart needed assistance. There were not enough of his clique to fill all the positions on the eleven, and he had been obliged to draft some of his rival's followers. In consequence, there had been a lack of harmony, which the rich bully did not have the characteristics to stamp out; and to make matters worse, the Lower Formers, having overheard some of the Firsts discussing the prospects of the Second eleven, openly declared Bart did not have the knowledge of the game possessed by Fred.

At first, Taffy, Lefty and the others of his intimates had loyally resented the charge, but as the season progressed with little or no improvement in the eleven, in their hearts they were beginning to fear its truth.

Accordingly, Taffy's tidings were joyously received, and when the fair-haired boy appeared on the campus that afternoon, he was given an ovation.

Such a demonstration was gall and wormwood to the rich bully, but, realizing that if he were to obtain the wish of his heart and lead the Baxter Seconds to their first victory over Landon in five years, he must control himself, he managed to force a smile.

"Will you get in the game?" he asked, approaching his rival.

"Not to-day; thank you. Just run them through a few signals till I get a line on their faults."

Quickly Bart did so, and as a result of the exhibition, Fred called Buttons from the line-up and passed the remainder of the afternoon in giving him personal coaching, the benefit of which was evident in the scrimmage of the next day.

Fred's coöperation thus assured, the team improved rapidly. Moreover, to his surprise, the boy found that instead of proving a handicap to his class work, his lessons seemed to be mastered with less effort.

The scene of the annual contest between the Form elevens of Baxter and Landon alternated between the two towns, and this year chanced to be the one when the games were played at Landon. As the day approached, Fred was importuned to go. But though it cost him many a pang, he was obliged to decline, finally announcing the truth to Taffy, who came as an emissary from Bart—that he could not afford the expense.

"If that's the only reason you're staying at home, I'll lend you the money gladly," returned Taffy.

"Much obliged, but under my circumstances it would not be right to borrow money for pleasure," responded Fred, and that he might get away from the temptation, he turned on his heel and walked off.

When the result of Taffy's entreaties had been made known to the rest of the team, the boys went into council, the result of which was that they agreed to raise a subscription among themselves sufficient to defray Fred's expenses.

But when Buttons sounded him on the proposition, Fred refused to accept it.

"I'm not an object of charity," he exclaimed hotly.

"But it's not charity," protested his chum. "We shall need your advice between halves. Because of that, the boys are willing to pay your way. It's for the good of Baxter."

"No, it isn't, Buttons. I'm obliged to you all, of course. But you ought to know that if my expenses are paid I'll be practically in the position of a professional coach. That would prevent my playing on the School Team next year—and I want to do that."

Before this new angle in the case Buttons was silent, and in despair the boys gave up trying to persuade Fred to go with the team.

At last the eventful day of the contests arrived. Bright and early the boys and girls, some accompanied by their fathers and mothers, flocked to the station. And with their school flags and colors they presented a brilliant scene, laughing and talking merrily.

As the members of the different teams arrived, they were greeted with hearty cheers, and were immediately surrounded by their friends, who offered advice and good wishes.

Attracting as little attention as he could, Fred moved among the happy throng until he caught sight of Taffy, to whom he beckoned.

Walking with him to one end of the platform, he was talking to him earnestly when several of the students espied him and surged toward him, declaring they would take him with them by force.

Good-naturedly, Fred was trying to escape from them, when Bart suddenly forced his way close to his rival.

"The boys seem to want you to go with them, but I understand you're too poor. Here's ten dollars—enough to carry you down and back and leave you something besides," he exclaimed, at the same time extending a bill to Fred.

A gasp of amazement ran through the crowd of students and their elders, then in expectant silence they stared at the fair-haired boy.

Flushing scarlet, Fred quivered as though he would leap at the brutal bully, then turned on his heel and resumed his talk with Taffy.

"As I was saying," he began, his voice trembling with emotion, "you must watch out for Phil Thomas, the Landon left guard. He'll try to make Bart's nose bleed—the way he did last year. If he does, Bart'll lose his head and the game will be lost."

More than two score of people were within earshot of these words, and as they realized that the boy who had been so wantonly insulted in public had not allowed his personal feelings to outweigh his desire to have Baxter win, they broke into hearty cheers, many of them pressing forward to shake Fred's hands.

"Ouch! this hurts more than the other!" he exclaimed, and, wriggling like an eel, he slipped from the crowd with the same skill that made him so hard a runner to tackle on the football gridiron.

But though the students were prevented from showing their sympathy to Fred, they were able to let the rich bully know in what light they regarded his action—which they did in no uncertain manner, turning their backs on him, as with one accord, and paying no further attention to him whatsoever.

Though they strove to regain their former lightheartedness, the incident had cast a damper on their spirits, and many of Baxter's supporters considered it an omen of disaster for the various teams.

Realizing the prolongation of such feeling would have a bad effect upon the morale of the various elevens, Sandow, Hal and several other Firsts went through the train rallying the students. And with such good effect that when the train arrived at Landon they had practically regained their former high spirits.

That both schools might be able to witness the game between the First Teams, the contests between the Third and Second Forms were always held in the morning.

But that the Baxter students were still determined to let Bart understand they resented his treatment of Fred, was evident when the elevens lined up. Only a handful were present to watch the contest between the Seconds, the rest flocking to watch the Thirds.

The result of this wholesale boycott of the Second team was that it was defeated by the overwhelming score of 30 to 4—despite brilliant work by Buttons, who proved himself the star of the game—while the Thirds, encouraged by the cheering of their schoolmates, won their game, 12 to 6.

Elated by their victory of their Seconds, which they had conceded to Baxter, the Landon students declared the game between the Firsts was already won—and such proved to be the case, for Sandow and Hal were unable to defeat the entire Landon eleven, though the game was a tie, 0 to 0, until the last fifteen minutes of play, when the captain of the Baxter team was obliged to leave the game, after which Landon scored a touch-down, and won, to the score of 6 to 0.

Although it was a glum trainload of students who returned to Baxter in the evening, the sting of defeat was soon forgotten.

In due course, the Christmas holidays came and passed, and with the resumption of the session interest centered in the contest for the Scholarship of Science, which would be decided on the tenth of February, the first day of the mid-winter examinations.

Thanks to Fred's diligence and hard work, he was making rapid strides toward mastering the subject, and as the school settled down after the Christmas holidays, it soon became evident the Scholarship lay between Fred, Bronson and Alice Montgomery.

As the day of the examinations approached, the excitement over the award grew.

In some way, though Soda and Buttons declared they were innocent, word had leaked out that Fred was working for the money rather than the honor, and the presence of Alice in the contest gave the flavor of a second rivalry between Fred and the Montgomerys.

Yet had they known that instead of seeking to take the prize from Fred, Alice was, in reality, trying to make him win it, spending hours at Margie's house explaining problems to him, rehearsing recitations and coaching him in every way of which she could think, they would have been amazed.

But in their ignorance of the secret friendship, they saw only the family rivalry.

The wagering of money was strictly forbidden—and severely punished when discovered—at Baxter, but the resourceful students had devised a method to back their favorites, by agreeing to work problems in mathematics or translate Greek, Latin, Spanish, French and German for varying periods.

On the day previous to the examinations, Bart stalked haughtily into the gymnasium during recess.

"I'll do mathematics, French, Spanish and German for the entire Second semester against the same for a month that Alice wins over Fred," he announced.

"Greek and Latin the same," cried Lefty.

"I'll give mathematics," announced Taffy.

"Wow! What a cinch!" cried Buttons, Soda and Shorty in chorus. "We'll each take the three of you. No more worry about baseball and lessons. Hooray!"

The eagerness with which the wagers were accepted rather surprised Bart and his chums. But they had made the odds tempting on purpose, and so confident were they of Alice's ability, that they bound the agreements—according to Baxter tradition—by shaking hands.

At breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Montgomery announced to the rich bully that Alice was ill in bed.

Instantly Bart rushed to her room and urged her to get up and take the examination.

"But we've no end of wagers on you," he growled when she turned a deaf ear to his entreaties.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bart," exclaimed Mrs. Montgomery, who had followed him. "The idea of you're caring more about your wagers than your sister's health. Now go away, and mind you do not bother Alice any more."

When Bart reported the indisposition of his sister at school, his chums were in consternation.

"Serves you right," chuckled Shorty. "No one with sense would have wagered such periods."

"But they're off," announced the bully.

"Not much!" exclaimed Buttons. "It's just the same as though Alice failed to win. You made no conditions."

And with this decision, Bart and his chums were forced to be content.

"Oh, well, Bronson may beat Fred," suggested Taffy. "That'll let us out."

As the four contestants came out of the examination room, they were surrounded by their classmates, but in accordance with a suggestion from the headmaster, they refused to discuss the examination, and went immediately to their homes.

Realizing that the interval of suspense would prove hard on her son, Mrs. Markham had asked Margie, Grace and Buttons to spend the afternoon and evening with Fred. But despite their attempts to divert him, the boy was silent and unresponsive.

Just as they sat down to supper, however, there came a rap at the door.

Opening it, Fred was surprised to see Bronson standing on the porch.

"Hello, Clothespin! Come in. You're just in time to eat," invited Fred.

"Thank you, but I can't. I'm going home to-night. I came over to bring this note from Mr. Vining."

And before Fred could say anything, Bronson had hurried away.

A moment the boy turned the envelope over and over.

"Open it! Open it!" called the others.

In obedience, Fred did so.

And as he unfolded the letter, two bank notes fluttered to the floor.

THE CALL FOR BASEBALL CANDIDATES

For a moment Fred could scarcely believe his eyes, mechanically stooping and picking up the crisp pieces of paper. Then, as he caught sight of the letter "C" on each, he realized that he held two one-hundred-dollar bills.

"I've won! I've won!" he cried. "Here, Momsy, these are for you!" And, rushing to his mother, he placed the money in her hands.

Rejoicing in his success, the others expressed their delight in no uncertain ways, while Mrs. Markham sank into a chair and beamed upon them.

"What does the letter say?" inquired Grace suddenly, noticing that Fred still held the sheet of paper in his hand.

"Jove! I'd forgotten. Listen:

"Good for the Head. I always knew he was a brick!" exclaimed Buttons.

"It certainly is most considerate of him to relieve our suspense," said Mrs. Markham.

But in the hour of his happiness, Fred's thoughts were not of himself.

"I wonder if Bronson knew what this envelope contained," he mused. "It must have been rather hard on him if he did."

"Oh, don't worry about him," protested Margie. "This is an occasion of jubilation, not mourning."

"That's what, Cotton-Top," chimed in Buttons. "Come in to the feast, Mrs. Markham." And, seizing the happy woman by the arm, he led her to the supper-table, whither the others quickly followed, and what had promised to be a solemn meal was one of great merriment.

All at once, while the young people were enjoying themselves after supper, Fred laughed aloud.

"What is it now?" demanded Buttons.

"You can't any of you go home," grinned Fred.

"Why not?" asked the others.

"Because the Head requested me not to let the fact of my winning be known before to-morrow. If you go home, you'll tell about it. So you must stay here."

"But we can't," protested the girls.

"It isn't a question of can; it's one of must," declared Fred.

"But mother will worry," persisted Margie.

"Yes; I'm afraid she will," interposed Mrs. Markham.

"I'll fix that," announced the winner of the prize.

"How?" inquired both girls.

"Go round to Buttons' and telephone to both your mothers."

"But you'll have to tell them you won over the phone—which would mean the whole town," declared Grace.

"Trust me not to. I'll just say you are going to stay at our house, and hang up the receiver before they can ask questions."

"Buttons may tell, though," suggested Margie.

"No, he won't. Will you?"

"Sure not. It's too decent of the Head to let us know Fred won to throw him down."

In their hearts, Margie and Grace were only too delighted at the thought of not going home, and, as the obstacles they had raised were removed, they sighed resignedly.

Mrs. Newcomb and Mrs. Darling, however, proved less easy to assure, and the boys found it necessary to take Buttons' mother into their confidence before the desired permission was obtained.

"I'm so glad you won, Fred," declared the good woman. "You certainly worked hard for it. Ever since that Bart Montgomery acted so atrociously when you went down to see the football elevens off, I've hoped it wouldn't go to Alice."

"You must not blame her for Bart's actions," exclaimed Fred. "Alice is no more like the rest of the Montgomerys than I am."

"Which is some difference," chuckled Buttons. "Come on, Cotton-Top. Let's get back. Now, mother, don't forget—you're keeping a secret." And, with a merry laugh, the boys took their departure.

Exempt from the examinations because they had attained a daily average of ninety per cent. or better, the four young people were aware the notice of the Scholarship award would be placed on the bulletin-board early, and they timed their arrival at school the next morning so that Fred's success would be known first. But they had no idea of the manner of his greeting.

No sooner had one of his Form mates caught sight of Fred's yellow head, than he raised a shout, and in a flash all the students rushed out to meet him.

"Three cheers for old Cotton-Top!" yelled Soda, hugging his chum.

With a will, they were given, and then repeated.

"Speech! Speech!" shouted some one, as the tumult subsided.

Instantly the cry was taken up, the boys and girls chanting in rhythm:

"Speech! Speech! Speech!"

Blushing, Fred tried to escape, but his schoolmates good-naturedly hemmed him in on all sides.

"I appreciate your good will," he began at last, "but I never should have won had not my friends helped me in my studying. Indeed, it is they who deserve the credit, not I."

Fred had been on the point of saying Alice Montgomery, instead of "friends," but as the words were on his tongue's end, he chanced to see Bart's face, malignant with anger and disappointment, peering at him from the edge of the crowd, and, fearing the bully would wreak his vengeance on his sister, should he learn of her actions, he had wisely refrained from paying such tribute to the girl.

But before he went home to dinner, he mailed Alice a note, in which he attributed his success solely to her patient assistance.

The Scholarship thus awarded, the students settled down to the grind of the mid-year examinations.

On the third day succeeding the public announcement of the award, Fred received two letters. One he recognized as from his father, but the other puzzled him.

"Who on earth do you suppose is writing me from Boston?" he exclaimed, after scanning the postmark.

"There's only one way to find out when you receive a letter whose authorship you do not recognize," smiled Mrs. Markham.

But Fred did not open the missive at once, preferring to read what his father had to say.

In affectionate terms, Mr. Markham told Fred how proud he was of him, and then explained that his winning the money for his mother would enable him to use his salary to defray the expense of having a handwriting expert examine the deed of his property, which had been changed, and compare it with specimens of Charlie Gibbs' penmanship.

This statement suggested many possibilities to the mother and son; and, in their discussion, the second letter was forgotten until, in Fred's moving, it dropped to the floor.

Their attention thus recalled to it, Mrs. Markham bade him open it.

"Why, it's from Clothespin," the boy exclaimed, as he turned to the signature. "And he's enclosed a check," he continued, turning to the last page and discovering the substitute for money.

"Mercy me! What for? Do read what he says," urged Mrs. Markham.

"Oh, Fred! Isn't that fine. I've hated to take the money you earned and not give you some pleasure in return. And now this opportunity has come. I'm so thankful. Why, the check is for fifty dollars. That will buy you a new suit of clothes, and leave you enough for your fare down and back."

The prospect of a trip to Boston was, indeed, enticing to the boy, yet he hesitated about saying so.

"I wonder if I couldn't send the money to father instead of going?" he asked.

"No, indeed. Mr. Bronson sent it to you to use in going to Boston. Unless you wish to go, you have no right to it, and must return it."

"But you'll be too lonesome, Momsy."

"No, she won't, because I'll stay with her," announced a cheery voice, and, turning, the mother and son beheld Margie, who had entered without the formality of rapping, in time to hear the latter part of the conversation. "You must go, Fred. You deserve a little pleasure, if ever any one did."

Thus assured that his mother would not be alone, the boy decided to start that very afternoon, and telegraphed Bronson to that effect.

The lawyer did not seem at all the formidable man Fred supposed him to be, and Mr. Bronson, on his part, took a great liking to the manly boy, of whose persecution by the rich bully, his son had told him.

Under cover of this cordiality, Fred plucked up courage one evening to tell about the strange actions of Mr. Montgomery and Charlie Gibbs at the bank.

Instantly the lawyer was all attention, and, after he had heard the story once, he made the boy repeat it, questioning him searchingly upon the incidents.

"H'm; if Montgomery is in the habit of going to the bank at night with his brother-in-law, it will explain several things," he mused.

But though the boy sought to draw him out, he was unable, Mr. Bronson dismissing the subject with the remark that Fred was too young to understand such things. Yet, on the day of his return to Baxter, he had the satisfaction of being asked by the lawyer to advise him of any suspicious actions by either Mr. Montgomery or Gibbs.

After the opening of the second semester, the students amused themselves as best they could after school hours until the call was issued for candidates for the baseball team.

As any boy in good standing was eligible, the gymnasium was well filled when Hal Church, who had been elected captain at the close of the previous season, greeted the candidates.

"First, I'll take the names of those who played last year," he announced.

Quickly the boys came forward, each stating the position for which he intended to try.

Among the first to enroll was Bart, who declared he was out for pitcher. Then followed Lefty, third base; Shorty Sims, shortstop; Taffy, right field; Sandow, first base, and Fred, who signified his intention of trying for second base.

"Don't put him down; he threw my football game to Landon," growled Bart.

If a bomb had been dropped among the boys, no greater consternation could have been produced than by this remark.

"You know better than that, Montgomery," shouted Sandow above the babel of voices.

"Do you mean to tell me if Fred had played we wouldn't have won?" demanded Bart angrily.

"No, I don't."

"I thought not," sneered the rich bully.

"But I tell you what I do mean," flashed the leader of the Firsts. "I mean if you had kept your head after Thomas slugged your nose, and sent Buttons against the line, instead of always signalling for the ball to be given to you, the Seconds would have won—or at least made a better showing."

This open charge of both incompetence and selfish desire to carry the ball set Bart beside himself.

"You have no license to talk—your team didn't do wonders," he retorted. "If——"

"Yes, it did! Yes, it did! Sandow held them to no score until he was carried from the field," shouted several of the boys.

But Bart only grew more angry at these emphatic contradictions.

"I don't care what you say or think," he flared. "If that Fred Markham plays on the Baxter baseball team, I won't, and I'm the only decent pitcher in the school."

This defiance threatened to bring the rival factions to blows. But Hal was equal to the occasion.

"I am captain of this team, Montgomery," he declared when he had produced a semblance of order. "I want you to understand that, first, last and all the time. As captain, I shall play the players I want—not the ones you want."

"Humph!"

"If Fred Markham wants to try for second base, he can have all the show in the world, and if he makes good, he'll play the bag in——"

"Then I won't pitch," snarled Bart.

At this second defiance, Hal was silent a moment.

"Who's throwing the school now?" he flashed. "You seem to think you're running this team, but you're not. You'll either report for practice at the grounds this afternoon at three o'clock, or you'll not pitch a single ball for Baxter this season. Now leave the gymnasium, so I can enroll the rest of the candidates."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll put you out!" retorted the captain, stepping down from the chair on which he had been standing and forcing his way through the excited throng of students.

THE PITCHING FIND

Instinctively Bart's intimates gathered about him, while Sandow and the other boys, who had no liking for the rich bully, rallied around Hal.

Noting that the captain had the support of an overwhelming majority of the students, Taffy seized Bart's arm.

"Don't make a fool of yourself," he counseled. "Hal's entirely within his right as captain. If you don't go peacefully, he won't let you play this year. Don't let your personal enmity lay you open to the charge of throwing Baxter."

But, despite this sound advice, the rich bully refused to obey, glowering at the approaching captain with sullen defiance.

Hal, however, was still master of himself, and when he was within a yard of Bart, he stopped, and looked him straight in the eye.

"I'll give you one more chance," he said with cold deliberation. "Leave the gymnasium immediately and report at three, or you'll not play on my team."

Realizing that the captain was in deadly earnest, Taffy, Lefty and several of the Firsts seized the bully and forced him up the stairs.

Fiercely Bart struggled to get free, but his friends were determined to save him from himself, and continued to carry him along.

Just as he reached the top step, however, the bully made a desperate stand.

"You may think you can dictate to me," he shouted. "But I'll show you, Hal Church, you can't. I won't report at the grounds."

"Suit yourself," returned Hal quietly, then, turning to the other boys, he exclaimed: "Whoever else wishes to try for the team, give me his name."

When all who desired had signified their intentions, Hal found that thirty candidates had enrolled, and, bidding them be at the grounds at three that afternoon, he adjourned the meeting.

The necessity of going to classes immediately, prevented any discussion of Bart's insubordination, but at noon the leaders of the school gathered in consultation.

Though they all were agreed that Hal had adopted the only course possible in order to maintain his authority, the fact remained that Bart was a pitcher of great ability, and they had counted upon his work to help defeat the nine from Landon.

Every boy who had ever pitched, or whom they thought could be made into a pitcher, was discussed, but the only possibilities who had anything of School Nine calibre were Holcomb and Sandow. Whether or not these two boys could be developed, was a question, and it was a glum set of athletes who went to their homes for dinner.

For some reason, Bronson had not attended the meeting, but he had heard about Bart's objection to Fred and final defiance of his captain.

"Is Montgomery such a phenomenal pitcher?" he asked, as he walked home with Fred.

"He's the best we've had at Baxter in years. Why, last year, even when he was a Third, he held Landon to six hits in the second game. And he can bat, too," declared his rival generously. "Indeed, it was his work more than anything else that made the usual third game unnecessary."

"Aren't there any other fellows who can pitch?" inquired Bronson, after a silence of several minutes. "You surely did not rely solely on a Third Former to win from Landon."

"No. Jack Hastings pitched the first game, but he has graduated. I guess the only thing for me to do is to tell Hal I have decided not to play. Then Bart will come back and we'll win the championship again this year."

"Are you crazy?" demanded his companion. "Even if you did that, Hal could not let Montgomery play after his open defiance."

"But it's for the good of Baxter," insisted Fred.

His companion made no comment upon this statement, and again they lapsed into silence.

"Have the entries for candidates closed?" Bronson suddenly asked.

"Why, no. A fellow can come out any time. But what makes you ask?" inquired Fred eagerly.

"Just wanted to know," returned Bronson, smiling tantalizingly. "Here we are at the Head's. See you this afternoon." And he turned in at the gate.

Wondering what his friend meant by his mysteriousness, Fred continued to his home, where he bolted his dinner, and then returned to school, seeking Hal, whom he drew to one side.

"Bronson given in his name for the nine yet?" he inquired excitedly.

"No; why?"

Briefly Fred related the conversation that had passed between Clothespin and him.

"What do you suppose he's driving at?" asked Hal, when the story was finished.

"More than I know. Let's see if we can find him."

But though they searched diligently, Bronson was nowhere to be found, and it was not until the candidates had assembled at the cage that the puzzle was solved.

Just as Hal was ready to assign the players to their workouts, Bronson, clad in a natty blue uniform, approached the captain.

Instantly all the other boys gathered around.

"With your permission, Mr. Church, I should like to try for pitcher," said Bronson, flushing under the gaze of the other candidates.

A gasp of amazement ran through the crowd at these words, and many were the whispered comments.

"Ever played?" asked Hal, trying to conceal his surprise.

"Two years."

"Where?"

"I pitched at Hodgson's Military School."

"Are you the Bronson who never lost a game for his team?" exclaimed the captain, hope mingled with his astonishment.

"Yes; but it was the support I received that enabled me to establish such a record," rejoined the boy.

"Hooray! We don't need Bart!" yelled Buttons joyously, while the other boys slapped one another on the back, and jumped and capered in their delight at the discovery of so classy a pitcher in the form of the tall, awkward Second.

Hal was as pleased as the rest, but believing it not in keeping with his dignity as captain to show his feelings, he took out the book in which he had listed the names of the candidates and added Bronson's.

"Go into the box and pitch a few balls to Gregory, who'll do the major part of our catching," commanded Hal, as he finished writing. "The rest of you practice fielding. Lefty, you knock them grounders."

But though the boys all obediently took positions, they simply stood in their places watching the new pitcher.

Conscious of the scrutiny, Bronson showed no signs of being rattled, and with cool deliberation threw a half dozen balls which showed that he had curves and speed.

"Great stuff!" whispered Sandow, who was standing with Hal behind the pitching find. "Wonder if he's hard to hit?"

"We'll soon know," returned the captain. "Wait a minute, Bronson; I want you to pitch a few with Sandow at the plate."

When the others heard the words, they grinned expectantly, for the leader of the Firsts was the hardest hitter in the school.

"Will you call strikes and balls?" asked Bronson, turning to Hal.

"Why, yes; if you like."

"All right; I wish you would." And while Sandow settled himself at the plate, Bronson turned his back and worked his fingers round the ball.

Believing in his heart that Hal would send for him, Bart had hung about the building. But as he heard the shouts, his curiosity got the better of his sulking, and he hastened to learn their cause, arriving just as Sandow made ready to bat.

With none of the spectacular "wind-ups," of which Bart was so fond, Bronson secured a sound footing, drew back his arm, took a quick swing, and released the ball.

To Hal, Gregory and Sandow, it seemed to be one of those straight, swift balls, and a grin suffused the batter's face as he prepared to meet it.

But though he swung viciously, just as the ball was in front of the plate, it jumped, and the bat missed it.

"Good boy! Great work!" shouted several of the onlookers, while Hal called "Strike one!" and Sandow rapped the plate disgustedly with the bat, bracing himself for the next ball.

Again Bronson served him the same sort, and again Sandow missed.

"Strike him out! Strike him out!" shouted the crowd.

"Shall I?" asked the boy, turning to Hal.

"If you can."

Once more Bronson worked his fingers and released the ball. But this time it took a sudden drop, and Sandow's bat went over it.

"Three strikes!" cried Hal.

"Fluke! Fluke! Sandow hasn't got his eye back! Bet he can't do it again," shouted Taffy.

But Bronson proved it was no fluke, and that he had remarkable control, by not only striking out Sandow again, but two of the next best batsmen, including Hal himself.

Satisfied that the Baxter High School had, indeed, received a valuable acquisition, Hal told Bronson to take good care of his arm, and after a short workout with the rest of the candidates, announced the practice over.

To Bart, the ability of Bronson was a bitter blow, but, worst of all, as the season wore on, he found that the boys did not even mention his desertion of the nine.

At last, fearing he would lose his followers in school entirely, he went to Hal and pleaded to be allowed to play. But the captain was obdurate. Finally, however, as a matter of precaution in case anything happened to Bronson, he agreed to let Bart practice in secret.

Fred, having the natural qualifications of a second baseman, had no difficulty in beating out the other candidates for the position, and he and Bronson worked out a secret code of signals to assist the pitcher when men were on bases.

ON THE DIAMOND

As it was Baxter's turn to play the first of the championship games at Landon, when the day arrived it was none too sanguine a band of students that accompanied the nine.

The Landon team was composed of unusually hard hitters, and the fact that they were to play on their home grounds gave them an advantage that only Bronson's ability to puzzle the batsmen could overcome.

Indeed, Baxter practically conceded the first game to their rivals, pinning their hope for the championship to the return game at Baxter, and to the third game, which the headmasters of the two schools had agreed should be played on neutral ground in the town of Winthrop.

When the Baxter contingent, with banners flying, descended from the train at Landon, they found the entire school and many of the ball-loving townspeople on hand. And but one desire did they have—to get a glimpse of Baxter's pitching find.

Early in the season word of Bronson's record at the Military Academy had been received at Landon, and several of the nine had gone to their rival's town to see him work in practice games.

But the alert Hal had foiled their attempts to get a line on Bronson by sending Holcomb or Sandow to the box, with the result that the new pitcher was still a mystery.

That this policy of secrecy had caused the Landon students worry and had made the members of their nine nervous, was evidenced by the questions they asked about Bronson's delivery.

But when the supporters of Baxter arrived on the diamond, they soon discovered that their rivals did not intend to let any chance to win go by.

As the teams trotted on to the field and spread out for warming-up practice, the Landon rooters cheered lustily, and then, at a signal from their cheer leader, producing tin horns from under their coats, raised a tumult of strident discords.

Taken by surprise, the Baxter contingent was silent a minute, then roared out their school yell defiantly.

But the human throats were no match for the tin ones, and, though the Baxter students cheered loyally, the horns drowned them.

During this demonstration, Hal, Sandow, the headmaster, the instructors, those of the alumni who were allowed on the diamond, and the rest of the Baxter team and substitutes, and the entire squad of Landon players, watched Bronson intently to see whether or not he showed any signs of nervousness.

But the tall, awkward boy was the least excited of them all.

With a grin on his face, he stared at the Landon side of the field, and then turned toward Hal.

"They seem to be after my scalp," he chuckled.

"And we'll get it, too!" shouted several of Landon's alumni who were close at hand, looking Bronson over.

"I don't see any one who looks like an Indian on your nine," he retorted good-naturedly, while the Baxter alumni slapped one another on the back, assuming each "the kid would do." For they, and the Landon grads as well, realized that if Bronson did not allow the taunts that would be hurled at him to arouse his anger, he would be less likely to get rattled.

Among the Baxter alumni who had been looking Bronson over was Jack Hastings, who had pitched his nine to one victory the year before.

"I suppose Hal has told you what kind of balls the Landon veterans like," he said, approaching the boy.

"Yes, I think I know all I can without actually facing them," Bronson replied.

"Good. If you'll take my advice, though, you'll make the third and fourth men up hit pop flies—they're the hardest batters on the team."

"I always try to strike out the first men who face me—it rather takes the life out of the team," replied the pitcher quietly.

The matter-of-fact way in which Bronson spoke delighted his hearers. But Hal put an end to further remarks by ordering his find to warm up.

Instead of letting himself out, Bronson only used enough speed to limber his arm, and when he declared he was ready, Hal met the Landon captain to toss the coin for choice of innings.

Luck smiled on Baxter, and Hal chose the field, thus assuring his team the last chance at bat.

When the result of the toss was made known, the Baxter contingent cheered wildly. Landon tooted its horns in defiance, but when the visiting nine took their positions, there was a momentary lull.

Taking plenty of time, Bronson watched Gregory for a signal, but when it came for an inshoot, he shook his head. Twice more he refused to pitch the balls his catcher called for, and gave the signal for his in-jump.

"Get an alarm-clock to wake that pitcher up," shouted a Landon man through a megaphone.

But before the echo had died away, Bronson had sent the ball speeding toward the plate.

With a grin, the batter struck at it—and missed.

"Strike one!" bellowed the umpire, while Baxter cheered.

Again Bronson pitched.

This time the batsman decided to see what sort of a ball was being thrown at him, and as he saw it jump, he chuckled.

"I can eat those," he called to his teammates.

But the "strike tuh!" of the umpire banished the smile from his face as he realized that a pitcher who had such control he could jump the ball across the plate was one with whom to reckon.

Again Bronson refused Gregory's signals, indicating he would send another jump.

In breathless silence, the spectators watched.

Bronson pitched, the batter swung, and the umpire shouted "Strike three!"

Wildly the Baxter contingent cheered, for the man struck out had been Mitchell, the Landon captain. And in the home section there was corresponding gloom.

Nervously, the second batter approached the plate, and Bronson, taking advantage of it, sent three out-shoots that, apparently travelling straight for the man at bat, caused him to step back, then broke beautifully and cut the plate.

Six balls pitched, and not a semblance of a hit, with the surest batters down, gave the Landon captain a scare, and he ran to where his schoolmates sat.

"For the love of Landon, get busy with those horns!" he shouted.

Valiantly the boys and girls responded. But in vain.

Bronson served the third man up a straight, swift ball, a drop, and an in-jump, and the side was retired.

"Bronson! Bronson! Bronson!" chanted the Baxter contingent in appreciation, until Hal waved for silence.

But Mitchell, who pitched for Landon, while not in his rival's class, was a brainy player, and retired his opponents without a run, though Sandow got as far as second on a hit through shortstop and a sacrifice by Fred.

The next six innings passed without a score, though several scratch hits were made off both pitchers.

In the first half of the seventh, however, in accordance with instructions from Hal, Bronson eased up, and Landon made a single and a double, getting a man on first and third, while the batter had one strike and three balls and Mitchell was on deck.

Realizing that now was the time for their nine to score, if ever, the Landon students howled and tooted their horns madly, striving their utmost to rattle Bronson.

"Steady, Clothespin, and show 'em what you can do," encouraged Fred. "Give him three in-shoots. He'll never hit at one with three balls on you."

"Guess you're right," replied Bronson.

And to the relief of Baxter, the boy struck out the batter.

The man on first, however, had gone to second on the first ball pitched, but with the man on third Gregory had not attempted to throw him out.

Consequently, Bronson was still in a hole when Mitchell stepped to the plate, a look of confidence on his face.

In his endeavor to rattle the battery, the man on second was taking a long lead, hoping to draw a throw from Gregory, thus allowing his mate on third to score.

But in this crisis, Fred and Bronson showed the result of their secret practice.

As the latter made ready to pitch, Fred coughed.

Already Bronson's arm was taking its swing, but instead of sending the ball to the plate, he turned completely around and shot the ball to Fred.

A VICTORY

Had the boys not rehearsed this play many times, they never could have worked it. Indeed, so swift was the ball that it almost knocked the second baseman over, while sharp pains ran through his arms. But he managed to hold the ball.

"Go back! Go back!" shouted the Landon contingent, as one man. "Don't force third."

In a desperate dive, the runner strove to reach second base. But Fred tagged him out.

FRED TAGGED HIM OUT

During this play, the man on third had started for home.

Warned by his team mates, Fred whipped the ball across the diamond in a low, straight throw.

"Runner out!" shouted the umpire, and a cheer of relief broke from the Baxter throats.

Mitchell proved an easy out, shortstop to first base.

Hal's team retired in order in their half. No runs were scored by either side in the eighth inning, and Landon failed to cross the plate in their half of the ninth.

"Make it extra innings!" shouted the home enthusiasts. "That pitcher's tiring!"

"Here's where we win, boys," exclaimed Hal to his men. "If a man gets on a base, we've got to bring him home."

Inspired with determination, Taffy stepped to the plate.

The first ball pitched was straight and swift. Reaching for it, the boy caught it square on the bat.

With terrific speed, the ball sailed between short and third. Frantically the left fielder raced in, but the ball took a bad bound and Taffy was safe on second before it could be fielded.

Sandow being at bat and Fred on deck, Mitchell elected to pass the star hitter of the Baxter team to first, trusting to striking out Fred, as he had done twice before, and forcing the others to hit pop flies.

When Taffy saw the plan, he went around to third, Sandow starting for second the moment the ball left Mitchell's hand.

As he waited for this play, Fred was amazed to see the ball coming straight and low—just the kind he liked.

Quickly tightening his hold on his bat, to the surprise of his team mates and the Landon players, who had closed in, he swung with all his might and caught the ball full.

At the crack of the bat, Taffy raced for home, while Sandow reached third and hesitated.

"Keep going!" bellowed Hal.

"Home run! Home run!" roared the Baxter students, waving their banners and jumping about joyously.

Fred's sudden decision to hit the ball had caught the Landon outfield napping.

As the sphere sailed through the air, the center and right fielders started for it. Racing at top speed, their eyes on the ball, they gave no heed to one another.

Closer and closer they drew.

"Right field take it!" shouted Mitchell, in frantic endeavor to prevent a collision.

But his command was too late.

With a thud, the two players came together, recoiled from the shock, and went sprawling, while the ball dropped less than a yard away.

Realizing what was going to happen, Taffy crossed the plate leisurely, followed by Sandow, and later by Fred.

"Three to nothing! Three to nothing!" roared the Baxter students. "Good old Cotton-Top!"

Victory thus assured, the next two batters made little attempt to hit the ball, and were easy outs.

Deliriously happy that they had won the game on Landon's grounds, the Baxter students and alumni rushed onto the field, cheering and yelling for Fred and Bronson.

But the two boys, shrinking from the demonstration, hastened to the dressing-room, quickly donned their street clothes and slipped out, going directly to the station and into the students' special train, where they found Margie and Dorothy awaiting them by prearrangement.

Their tête-a-tête was short, however, for when their schoolmates discovered the two boys whose playing had won the game, they refused to leave them.

Elated with the victory, the students considered the championship practically won, confident that on their own grounds they would have no difficulty in winning the second game, which was to be played on the second day following.

Having arranged for a meeting of the supper club at Fred's, the members trooped gayly to the house upon arrival at Baxter.

In delight, Mrs. Markham listened to the glowing description of her son's home run.

"Too bad you will be unable to play when Landon comes here," she exclaimed.

"Fred not play?" gasped the others in consternation.

"I'm sorry, but he must go to Manchester. His father has sent for him," explained Mrs. Markham.

"Can't he put it off?" pleaded Sandow. "One day won't make any difference, will it?"

"Unfortunately, it will. The matter is of the utmost importance," replied Fred's mother.

"Then I must let Hal know, right after supper," declared the second baseman.

The young people did not allow this news to dampen their celebration, however, and the supper was a merry feast.

"Why does father want me, Momsy?" asked Fred, when he had a minute alone with her.

"I don't know, son. He simply telegraphed for you to go to Manchester on Wednesday; without fail."

Accompanied by the others, the boy sought Hal, who was forced to make the best of the situation. But though the absence of his second baseman would prove a serious handicap, he believed Bronson could pitch the team to victory. Consequently, when he received a note from that pitcher the next morning announcing that he, too, had been called to Manchester by his father, he was in despair.

Quickly seeking Sandow, he discussed with him what was best to do.

"Use Bart," urged the leader of the Firsts. "He'll do his best to outdo Clothespin's record, and with Fred out of the game, he'll have no reason to throw it."

This move agreed upon, Hal summoned the bully by telephone.

"I want you to pitch to-morrow," exclaimed the captain when the boy appeared.

"With Fred on second?"

"No; with Lefty. Johnson will take Lefty's place in the field."

"Where's Fred?"

"Out of town. Will you do your best, or will you sulk?"

"I sulk? Not when I have the chance to take down Bronson's swelled head by showing him that he isn't the only fellow at Baxter who can pitch."

Satisfied with this retort, Hal ordered Bart to find Gregory and put in some hard practice, while Sandow promised to drop round and pitch to him that he might train his batting eye.

But when the students heard the two stars of the first game were to be out of the second, they were glum indeed.

With the arrival of the Landon players and supporters, however, the Baxter students put forth the appearance of confidence.

Again the Landon section used tin horns and it did not take the students long to realize they bothered Bart.

In consequence, every time he wound up to pitch, they let loose a broadside of discordant toots.

For five innings, the bully managed to hold his opponents runless, but in the sixth he went all to pieces, and when Holcomb relieved him, Landon had a lead of four runs.

Goaded to desperation by the caustic comments of their captain, the Baxter boys sought to wrest victory from defeat, but in vain. And Landon won, 4 to 1, thereby necessitating a third game at Winthrop.

AN INTERVIEW OF IMPORTANCE

Bright and early on the day of the game, Fred and Bronson had taken the train for Manchester, the three hours' journey being whiled away in speculation as to the cause of their summons and the showing Bart would be able to make against Landon.

Arrived at the city, Bronson accompanied Fred to the firm for whom Mr. Markham was working, and, after being introduced, left the father and son together while he went to his home.

After so many months' separation from his family, Mr. Markham had a veritable avalanche of questions to ask.

"Why did you send for me?" asked Fred, when at last he had a chance to get in a word.

"Mr. Bronson wants to see you," replied his father mysteriously.

"Do you happen to know why he sent for Clothespin?"

"He will tell you, Fred."

"Then it's about the same thing?" cried Fred excitedly.

"Yes."

"Oh, father, please tell me!"

"It's a matter of great consequence to us," replied Mr. Markham. "But just what Mr. Bronson had in mind, I don't know. I do know this, though, he has taken a great liking to you. Indeed, it was what his son wrote about your kindness when school opened that caused him to reconsider his refusal to take my case."

"How do you know?"

"He told me so. Now, just amuse yourself with the paper for a few minutes while I attend to some things, and then we are to lunch with Mr. Bronson."

"At his home?"

"No; at his office."

"He must have a funny office if he can have lunch in it," observed Fred.

"He will have it sent in," smiled Mr. Markham. "You must remember you are in the city, son—where money can do anything."

"But why doesn't he take us to his house? That would save expense."

"Because the matter is very important, and he wants to be assured of absolute privacy. Besides, a man is not supposed to let his business affairs intrude upon his home."

His curiosity only whetted—instead of gratified—by these replies, Fred possessed himself in peace as best he could while he waited for his father.

At last Mr. Markham was ready, and the two soon arrived at the office of the distinguished lawyer, where they found Clothespin awaiting them with his father and two men who immediately went to another room.

Cordially Mr. Bronson greeted Fred, congratulating him on knocking the home run that beat Landon.

"I suppose you consider me very inconsiderate for insisting upon your presence here to-day," he said, smiling as they all seated themselves around the table which had been set in another room in the lawyer's offices.

"Oh, the team can get along without me. It's Jim who'll be missed," replied the boy.

"Don't you believe it, father," returned the school pitcher. "Bart Montgomery has more speed than I have. He won the game last year."

"He may have more speed, but he hasn't your control nor jump, Clothespin," returned Fred. "Besides, he gets rattled. Landon knows that, and they'll certainly go after him with their tin horns."

"I'm sorry if I have jeopardized Baxter's chances of winning, but it is just as well you boys should realize that business is of more importance than baseball, or anything else," came from the lawyer. "Furthermore, if your nine loses to-day, you still have an opportunity to win on Saturday."

At the mention of business—the first reference that had been made to the cause of their presence in Manchester—both boys pricked up their ears. But to their disappointment, the lawyer turned the conversation to other topics.

With the appetites of healthy young athletes, the lads did full justice to the luncheon.

When all had finished, Mr. Bronson dismissed the waiter, requesting him to send in the two men the Markhams had seen in the office.

"These are Mr. Howard and Mr. Abbot, Fred," said the lawyer, when the men had entered. "They are investigators.

"The reason that I sent for you two boys is that I need help in a matter concerning Mr. Markham's affairs, and I knew that I could trust you implicitly. You mustn't even breathe a word of the matter to any one.

"Charlie Gibbs is in Manchester for some purpose that Mr. Abbot and Mr. Howard will soon learn. But he is here under a name not his own—that of Henry Sanders.

"Fred, I want you to go to the Randolph Hotel and stay about the hotel till you see Gibbs. When you do, go to him and address him by his right name. He denied his identity day before yesterday.

"James, Abbot and Howard will be in the hotel also, but you must not speak to them. They are to witness the meeting between you and Gibbs."

As the boys realized they were to play an important part in the lawyer's plan to clear Mr. Markham's name, their eyes grew big with excitement, and even Fred's father was surprised.

"But why do you need me, if Mr. Abbot and Mr. Howard are to be there?" asked young Bronson.

"Because courts sometimes have a prejudice against the testimony of professional investigators," replied his father. "Having seen Gibbs, you know him."

Though both boys were consumed with anxiety to learn what bearing the identification would have upon the case, they understood the nature of the lawyer too well to ask questions.

"Here is ten dollars for your expenses," continued Mr. Bronson, handing the money to Fred.

"But I won't need that much," protested the boy.

"You may—in case you are obliged to stay at the hotel a day or so. Now, go right over there."

"What shall I say if Charlie Gibbs asks me what I am doing in Manchester?" inquired Fred.

"Say you are looking for work," replied his father. "When you see him, be sure and shake hands with him. That will make the identification more complete; won't it, Bronson?"

"Yes, that's a good idea."

Eager to begin his watch, Fred hastened to the hotel, and dropped into a chair near the elevator, where he proceeded, apparently, to read a newspaper, though in reality he was looking over its edge at the people who passed before him.

Scarcely had he seated himself than he saw the two investigators enter, and finally Clothespin, all three of whom took chairs whence they could watch Fred.

When evening came without Gibbs, the boy saw Howard approach the hotel desk and heard him ask if Mr. Sanders had left.

"No; he's still here," replied a clerk, "but he's out."

At ten o'clock Fred took a room, returning to his vigil early the next morning. As before, Howard inquired for Sanders, and learned that he had not returned to the hotel the previous night.

The day and evening passed without his appearing, and when Friday also went by without a sight of Montgomery's brother-in-law, the boys became uneasy.

They had learned of Landon's victory, and each wanted to return to Baxter in time for the deciding game.

As Fred was walking nervously up and down the lobby, just before six, he saw the object of his search enter the hotel, go to the desk, and then start toward the elevator.

"Why, hello, Mr. Gibbs!" exclaimed the boy from Baxter, suddenly stepping forward.

At the name, Gibbs started, and cast a swift glance toward the hotel desk to see if the clerks were looking toward him, finding to his evident relief that they were not.

"Why, hello, Fred," he replied, with a poor attempt at a smile, and limply shaking the hand the boy forced upon him, "what are you doing here?"

"Came down to look for a job," replied Fred.

By this time, the man had recovered his composure.

"I should think you would have waited till after the game. But it's just like a Markham to desert his friends when they need him," sneered the man.

"Don't you mean a Montgomery, instead of a Markham?" asked Fred meaningly.

But Charlie Gibbs never deigned a reply, and hurriedly entered the elevator.

Smiling happily to himself, Fred lingered a few minutes in the hotel, and then went outside, where he was quickly joined by Bronson and the investigators, who congratulated him on his success and instructed him to go to the lawyer's office.

But with their object accomplished, both boys began to think about reaching Baxter in time to accompany the team.

"There's nothing more to keep us; is there, father?" asked James, after the identification had been reported to Mr. Bronson and Mr. Markham.

"Nothing but dinner. Why?"

"Because we must get back and relieve Hal's mind."

"I'll telegraph him. You boys can go direct to Winthrop in the morning."

Fred's father, however, suggested that the long ride would tire them, and it was finally arranged they should go that night to the scene of the game, where, though they would arrive late, they could sleep until noon, if they wished.

Accordingly, the boys wired Hal they would be at Winthrop in season to play, and then passed a pleasant evening with their fathers.

"Tell your mother to keep up her cheer, Fred," said Mr. Bronson, as he bade the boys good-night at the train.

"And tell her I'll be home for the Fourth of July," added his father.

Arrived at Winthrop at two in the morning, Fred and Bronson went to a hotel, and were soon sound asleep.

BART'S MEANNESS

Not to be caught by any mischance, Hal brought Bart along with the team. Word had been passed among the Baxter contingent that the two stars of the first game would join the nine at Winthrop, and when they reached the town, the students inquired anxiously for them.

But no one could give them any information. Much worried, Hal took his team to the ball park, where they put in a good practice in order to acquaint themselves with the diamond.

When the Landon supporters arrived, they rejoiced to learn that Fred and Bronson were missing, declaring the game was as good as won.

Indeed, their prophecy seemed true, for as the time for the game approached and the two boys failed to appear, the members of the Baxter nine grew more and more nervous.

Vainly Hal and Sandow tried to rally them, but their words showed their own anxiety, and, therefore failed.

Alone of all the team or supporters, Bart was happy. His mother had brought a party of girls from out of town to see the game, and the bully realized that if his pitching were not successful, he could lay the defeat to his team mates' nervousness over the absence of Fred and Bronson.

Meanwhile, unconscious of the worry they were causing, and exhausted by the excitement of the identification and the long night journey, the two boys were sleeping soundly.

Of a sudden, however, Fred woke up. Noting the bright daylight, he aroused his companion.

"See what time it is; quick!" he exclaimed.

Sleepily, Bronson fumbled in his clothes, at last finding his watch.

"My eye! It's one fifteen!" he gasped.

"And the game begins at two," cried Fred. "Hal must be worried to death. Quick! into your clothes. We'll get a bite to eat and hike out to the park."

Into their clothes the boys literally flew, but as both realized the necessity of a good meal, they did not hurry their dinner unduly, setting out for the diamond at ten minutes before two in a carriage which Bronson insisted upon hiring.

The seats were filled with followers of the rival nines, cheering, tooting horns and singing, and the players were warming up when Fred and Bronson rushed into the dressing-room.

Seizing their suits, which Hal had brought, they trotted onto the field just as the two captains were tossing for innings.

As the Baxter students caught sight of the yellow head and the tall form, they rose to their feet.

"Here they are! Here they are!" they roared.

Instantly the eyes of the teams and of all the Landon and Winthrop spectators were focused upon the two late arrivals. The Baxter players rushed toward them, howling with joy.

"Can I have time to warm up my pitcher?" asked Hal of the Landon captain.

"No. You've got Montgomery ready," returned Mitchell.

But Hal did not propose to use the bully if he could help it.

"Hey, Bronson, are you fit to go right in?" asked his captain.

"I'd rather limber up a minute or two."

"Well, you can pass a couple of the Landon boys. That'll give you eight balls," exclaimed Sandow. "You can hold 'em safe easy enough."

The tone in which the big first baseman spoke was none too pleasant, for he thought Mitchell's refusal unsportsmanlike. But the Baxter boys had their revenge in the flush the taunt brought to the Landon captain's face.

As in the first game, Hal won the toss, and again chose the field.

"Shall you use me?" asked Bart of his captain, as his team mates started for their positions.

"Not if Bronson goes right," replied Hal.

"Then I'm going up to sit with my friends. You can put in Holcomb or Sandow, if Clothespin blows up," retorted the bully.

"I'd rather you'd stay on the field," declared his captain.

"But I'd rather be with my friends." And, turning on his heel, Bart crossed the diamond, joining his mother and guests in the grand stand.

"Aren't you going to play?" exclaimed one of the girls.

"No; Markham's gang runs the team."

"But they shouldn't allow their jealousy to keep a good player like you out of the deciding game," declared another member of the party.

"If you knew Markham, you'd understand," returned the bully, rejoicing at the utterly false impression he had given of his rival.

Further effort to prejudice his friends was forgotten in the yell that arose from the Landon stand.

"We've got him going! We've got him going!" howled the students.

Acting on Sandow's suggestion, Bronson had passed both the first and second Landon batters, pitching balls that were impossible to hit, to limber up.

But when the spectators saw the second player trot to first base, they believed the wonder pitcher was having an off day, while the Baxter supporters criticized Hal for sending Bronson to the box without preliminary work.

As neither Sandow or Hal had taken the former's remark seriously, the captain ran to Bronson.

"Hadn't I better let Holcomb work while you warm up for next inning?" he asked anxiously.

"I'm warmed up, now," replied the pitcher. "Don't worry about me. I'm going to cut loose. There's no other game to hold back for."

"All right; cut loose," grinned Hal, running back to his position in center field.

"That captain must be crazy," declared the girl who had sympathized with Bart, as Clothespin continued in the box.

"I told you Bronson was Markham's friend," sneered the bully, while from the Landon side came blatant toots of glee.

But their joy was short lived.

With terrific speed, Bronson shot three strikes across the plate. Then he served the next two batters in the same way.

Believing their star had found himself, the Baxter students taunted their rivals by singing, "We were only teasing you."

But Bronson's work had more than retired the side. Mitchell, the Landon pitcher as well as captain, had remembered Sandow's words, and as he saw the boy settle down and throw nine strikes in as many balls, he realized his team would have no easy battle. Consequently, he was so nervous that he could not control his throws, and before Baxter was retired three runs had crossed the plate.

In the next seven innings, Bronson struck out nine men, holding the others to hits to the infield, never allowing a Landon man to get beyond second base, while Baxter brought in one more run, made by Taffy.

As their side went to bat in the ninth, the Landon followers implored them to hit out a victory.

"Strike 'em out, one, two, three!" yelled the Baxter students at Bronson.

And as he retired the first man up, they howled with glee, which turned to pandemonium as the second batter struck out.

Desperate, Mitchell ordered his player to strike at anything.

Crack! went his bat on the first ball pitched. With terrific force, the ball sped straight for the pitcher's box.

"Let it go! Let it go!" yelled Fred at Bronson, while Hal ran in to back up his second baseman.

In silence, the crowd held its breath.

That the yellow-haired boy would be able to stop, much less hold, the ball seemed nigh impossible.

"Don't try for it. Let Hal take it!" cautioned Sandow.

But the second baseman never heard him.

With a "thwack" that resounded over the diamond, the ball struck the pit in Fred's glove. But so tremendous was its force that the ball raised the boy off his feet, and as he struck the ground again he tripped and fell.

Madly the batter raced to first, while Hal came on to field the ball.

But before he reached his prostrate team mate, Fred held up his hand with the ball firmly clutched in his mitt—and Baxter had won the championship—4 to 0.

Hastening to their train that they might return to Baxter in time to prepare the bonfire and arrange for the dance with which the winning of the pennant was always celebrated, the students gave full vent to their joy.

Winthrop being only about twenty miles from Baxter, Margie and Dorothy had driven over to the game for the purpose of bringing Fred and Bronson back with them.

Being too happy to hurry, it was dusk when they reached home, and by the time they had finished supper the celebration was in full swing.

But Fred insisted he must see his mother before going to the campus, promising to join Margie and the others at the dance.

In delight Mrs. Markham listened to the account of the trip to Manchester and the winning of the game, and so long did they talk that it was almost eleven before Fred reached the school building where the dance was being held.

Margie was on the lookout for him, and as they entered, Bart and several of the girls who had been with his party at the game were standing near the door.

"There comes that crackerjack second baseman. I want to meet him awfully," gushed one of the young women.

"Oh, do bring him over, Bart," pleaded the others.

Because of a lull in the music, many of the students and older people who were in the vicinity, chanced to hear the remarks, and, knowing Bart's hatred of his rival, listened eagerly for his response.

Aware of this attention, the bully surveyed Fred insolently, then turned to the girls.

"I'm very careful whom I introduce to my friends. Knowing what I do of the Markhams, I do not think you would care for this chap," he drawled.

THE CLOUDS BEGIN TO LIFT

In shocked amazement, Margie and the others heard this remark. The girls in the Montgomery party blushed furiously, while Fred, his face white with suppressed anger, stopped still, and then, speaking to the girl by his side, turned as though he would leave the hall.

Among those who were within hearing of Bart's brutal words chanced to be Mr. and Mrs. Vining, and Mrs. Anthony Baxter, widow of the founder of the academy, who had brought her daughters from Boston to see the game.

Speaking quickly to Mr. Vining, Mrs. Baxter raised her lorgnette and calmly surveyed Bart from foot to head.

In evident obedience to her command, the headmaster hurried to Fred's side, and spoke with him and the furiously blushing Margie who had loyally remained with the boy.

Conscious of the sudden tension in the hall, all the others turned toward the scene just in time to see Fred, Margie and Mr. Vining walk toward Mrs. Baxter.

So intense was the silence that a pin dropped could have been heard.

Her scrutiny of Bart ended, the patroness of the school turned, saw the boy and girl coming toward her, and advanced to meet them.

"So you are Benjamin Markham's son," exclaimed the gentlewoman, extending her hand, as a cordial smile lighted her face. "I am delighted to meet you, both on account of what you did for Baxter this afternoon—I saw the game, you know—and because of the estimation in which Mr. Baxter held your father. And this is Margie Newcomb," she smiled, shaking the girl by the hand. "I am glad, my dear, you have a gentleman for an escort. I want you to know my daughters. I don't think they have ever had the pleasure of meeting you."

Cordially the Baxter girls greeted Margie and Fred, and under their diplomatic guidance, the girl and boy were soon chatting without embarrassment.

Taking their cue from the action of Mrs. Baxter, others came up and joined the group about Fred.

At the boy's humiliation at the hands of her son, Mrs. Montgomery had smiled visibly. But at the rebuke, more stinging because it was so deserved, the woman became conscience-stricken, and, with the best grace possible, she gathered the members of her party and left the hall.

But though Mrs. Baxter, her daughters and Mr. Vining urged him, Fred declined to dance, and with Margie and the other members of the Supper Club quietly took his departure.

"Mother's going to have a spread ready for us," said Buttons, as soon as they were outside of the building, "and we can dance, too, if we like."

"Then let's go back and get Hal, Betty, Shorty, Ned and the Baxter girls," suggested Sandow.

Readily the others agreed, deputizing Buttons and the leader of the Firsts to invite the others, promising to wait for them at the entrance to the grounds.

The unpleasant incident having cast a damper upon the celebrators, the other young people were only too glad to accept the invitation. But it was with trepidation that Buttons approached Mrs. Baxter.

"Surely my girls may go—provided you ask Mr. and Mrs. Vining and myself," she smiled. And, quickly gathering their wraps, they left the hall.

Asking Fred to walk with her, Mrs. Baxter adroitly questioned him about his father's affairs, smiling at the diplomatic manner in which he parried any leading questions.

"Do you suppose we could persuade your mother to come to the supper?" she suddenly asked.

"Perhaps you could," replied Fred. "It would do her no end of good. She doesn't go anywhere, you know; she's so sensitive."

This reply raised the boy greatly in the estimation of the rich woman, and she made a mental note that she would learn from Mr. Vining the details of his circumstances which she had been unable to extract from him.

As the others reached Buttons' house, they waited for Mrs. Baxter and Fred.

"Don't pay any attention to us. We're going to take a little walk," exclaimed the matron gayly, as they joined the group.

"Margie, you'd better look out for mother," laughed Phyllis Baxter, and merrily they watched as the two schemers started to get Mrs. Markham.

At the sight of her old friend, Fred's mother was overjoyed, and after a few objections she consented to accompany them.

But her real pleasure came in the delight with which the young people and Buttons' mother and father greeted her.

After the supper, the older people chatted while the young folks danced, and it was with reluctance they finally went home.

The next few days were a round of gaiety attendant upon the graduation of the First Form, after which the young people settled down to their summer life.

The money from the scholarship had all but been used up, despite the rigid economy experienced by Mrs. Markham; and with the freedom from his studies, Fred decided to go to work.

Setting out with never a word of his purpose to his mother, the boy was walking down Main Street, wondering to whom he should apply, when in passing the bank, he noticed that an assistant clerk was wanted.

Resolutely he entered and stated his object to Mr. Herring, the cashier.

"You'll have to see Mr. Montgomery," said the official. "He happens to be in his office now. Come in, and I will speak a good word for you."

But Fred was not prepared for the reception he received.

"What, you want a position in my bank?" exclaimed the president, as Fred stated the purpose of his call.

"Yes, sir," replied the boy, missing the point of the question.

"I don't doubt it. I don't doubt it," mused Mr. Montgomery. "There are also several men in jail who would like to work in my bank—and I should as soon think of employing them as a Markham."

"Sir!" gasped Fred, squaring his shoulders.

But the president, the memory of Mrs. Baxter's affront to his wife rankling in his mind, revelled in the opportunity to excoriate the son of the man he had ruined.

"I can only attribute your impudence in applying to me for a position to your ignorance of the fact that your father stole more than a thousand dollars from this bank," he continued.

"That's not so, and you know it, Mr. Montgomery," retorted Fred angrily.

"Perhaps you can tell me who did take it, then?" sneered the president.

"Probably some of the men who come to the bank after hours," returned the boy calmly.

Unconsciously clasping the arms of his chair, Mr. Montgomery scanned the face of the boy searchingly. But it was as guileless as a doll's.

"Herring, take him away. You should have known better than to bring him in," stormed the president.

"I only did it because I knew he was bright and needed work," apologized the cashier.

"Well, he'll have to go among strangers, as his father did, if he wants to get any. No one will have him who knows him," exclaimed the bank president, as Fred, scarlet with shame, went from the office.

It so chanced that the cashier had left the door of the president's room open and during the scene Mrs. Baxter had entered the bank.

Hearing the loud voice of the president, she had listened and could he have seen the expression that settled on her face, Mr. Montgomery would have been alarmed.

Remaining until she was satisfied the interview was over, she told the clerk she had merely called on some business with the president, and, as he was apparently engaged, she would call again.

But instead, after making the necessary arrangements to leave her daughters with the Vinings, she telegraphed her attorney to meet her in Manchester, and took the first train for that city.

FRED AT WORK

Deeply humiliated, Fred felt like going home, then threw back his head and gritted his teeth.

"I'll show Mr. Montgomery I can get a job right here in Baxter," he exclaimed, and, crossing the street, entered the town's hardware store, asking the proprietor for any sort of a job.

"Don't want any one but a boy to run errands," replied the man. "I suppose that's beneath you."

"No honest work is beneath me," rejoined Fred. "How much will you pay?"

"Three dollars."

"Raise me if I make good?"

"Yes."

"How soon do you want me?"

"This afternoon at one o'clock."

"All right, I'll be on hand."

Proud of her son's pluck, Mrs. Markham gave her permission, and Fred was on hand promptly. And so ready and willing was he that before night he was assisting the proprietor in many little ways.

Upon her arrival in Manchester, Mrs. Baxter went to the Maryland Hotel, where she was joined, in due course, by her attorney from Boston.

"Harding, I want you to buy every share of stock possible in the First National Bank of Baxter," she commanded, after the generalities of greeting.

"But——"

"Don't 'but' me. Buy, no matter what you are obliged to pay. This is not a matter of investment. It is one of retribution—and I think I can afford it."

"Surely, Mrs. Baxter."

"Then carry out my instructions at your earliest opportunity. Now fetch Samuel Bronson to see me."

Accustomed to the curt commands of the wealthy woman, her attorney hastened to the offices of the distinguished lawyer, and soon returned with him.

"I understand you are representing Benjamin Markham, Mr. Bronson," she said, when the introduction had been completed.

"Yes, Mrs. Baxter."

"I want you to tell me just how his case stands. I am his friend and desire to help him."

After courteously assuring himself on this point, Mr. Bronson briefly told her all the details, adding that he was convinced Gibbs had changed the record of the deed, had forged the check, and, in company with Mr. Montgomery, had taken the money from the bank at one of their evening visits.

"The great difficulty, however, is to prove these things," he concluded.

"Would it help if I should obtain control of the bank's stock?" asked Mrs. Baxter.

"Undoubtedly."

Quickly Fred's benefactress told of her orders to attorney, and it was agreed that the day she was in possession of the majority of the stock, Mr. Bronson should go to Baxter as her representative, call a meeting of the directors and elect himself president. And they further agreed that no word of their plan should be communicated to the Markhams until its success was assured.

But the task of securing control of the bank without arousing Mr. Montgomery's suspicions was difficult, and it was not until late in the fall that it was accomplished.

In the meantime, Mr. Markham had passed the Fourth of July with his family, and Fred had made himself so valuable that his employer had doubled his wage and allowed him to assist in keeping the books. But as the time approached for the opening of school, Fred was in a quandary whether to give up his work or his school. In his perplexity, he appealed to his father, who, in turn, sought the advice of Mr. Bronson.

"By all means have Fred go back to school," counselled the lawyer. "If you are short of money, I will gladly advance you some which you can repay when you are on your feet again."

"You must be mighty confident I'm going to get back," smiled Mr. Markham.

"I am."

The opening day of school found all the First Form back, and cordial were their greetings to Fred.

After the formality of enrolling had been gone through, Bart summoned the boys to lay out the football campaigns for the different Forms.

By virtue of his election as captain of the Second eleven the previous fall, he had inherited the leadership of the School Team.

"If I've aroused any one's ill-will in the past, I want them to remember it was in the past, and, forgetting it, to work with me to wrest the championship from Landon this fall," he said. "By working in harmony, each one doing his best, I think we can win—and if we do, the Baxter 1912 football team will never be forgotten."

So unusual was such good nature in the rich bully, that Buttons, Soda, Bronson and Fred were first amazed and then delighted.

"If he really means what he says, I shall come out and try for full back," exclaimed Clothespin.

That the boy could kick the pigskin had never occurred to his companions, but mindful of his prowess as a pitcher, they refrained from poking fun at him.

"Ever play at the Military Academy?" laughed Shorty.

"Yes, indeed."

"What was your record there—never being thrown when running with the ball?" grinned Soda.

"Oh, shut up," returned Bronson. "It wasn't my fault my record with the nine was brought out."

"If you'll do as well with the eleven as on the diamond, we'll forgive you," declared Buttons.

Just then Tompkins joined the group, fairly bubbling with excitement.

"What is it, Ned?" asked the group in chorus.

"I've got the dandy scheme. You all know 1912 is no ordinary Form, like those that have graduated before us. But that we may carve ourselves firmly into Baxter tradition, let's start the custom of a cane rush on opening night."

"Won't do for us—too frivolous," returned Buttons judiciously. "But it'll be a bully good stunt to put up to the Thirds and Seconds. The Seconds are a scrawny bunch, anyway, this year, so the Thirds can give them a good rush."

But, as luck would have it, the headmaster had come up as the boy spoke, and he peremptorily refused to allow the rush.

"You for a spoil-sport," growled Ned at Buttons, as Mr. Vining left them. "If you hadn't wanted to butt in and change my plan, we could have gone about making arrangements, and wouldn't have been here when the Head came along."

To make sure that all manner of hazing or rushing would be avoided, Mr. Vining stated to the students, when they assembled for class and lesson assignments in the afternoon, that suspension faced the first boy discovered trying them. And his ultimatum was effective.

Being deprived of this amusement, the Firsts turned their attention to football.

AN ARREST

During the summer Bart had met several college men who were members of their 'varsity teams, and from them he received many valuable ideas, among which was the formation of a scrub eleven to play against the school team.

Eagerly falling in with the plan, the candidates asked that Fred be placed in charge.

Reluctantly, Bart agreed, for he feared that his rival would out-general him, but the others were so insistent that he could not refuse. But to lessen the possibility, he gave Fred only the poorest players, with the exception of the unknown Bronson.

Understanding this action, Fred made no objection, however, and set to work to develop his players, and so well did he succeed that by the middle of the season the scrub eleven was able to keep the School Team from scoring, whenever it felt inclined.

This success served to rouse all Bart's old hatred of his rival, and so viciously did he always tackle Fred, that, fearing the star left back would be seriously injured, Buttons, Bronson and Soda finally prevailed upon him to feign a sprained ligament and keep out of the game, except to run through signals.

But it was not until a week before the game with Landon, when Sandow and Hal, who had been appealed to by Buttons, added their solicitations to the others' that Fred consented.

When he reported his supposed injury, Bart tried to appear sorry, but in his eyes there was a light of joy.

When the assembled crowds of Baxter and Landon supporters arrived for the game, they were amazed to see that Buttons' name was down to play left half-back, while Fred was listed among the substitutes.

At the discovery, the Baxter students and grads were furious, and in no gentle manner they told Bart what they thought.

But he quoted Fred's own statement, that he had sprained a ligament, in his defense, declaring that under the circumstances it would be foolhardy to start him in the game rather than hold him in reserve. And as the captain's word is absolute, the protestants were forced to be content, though many secretly hoped that Buttons would be laid out at an early stage of the game.

But had the grads prevailed upon Bart, they would have found another obstacle.

When Buttons and Sandow went to Fred's house during the forenoon to commiserate him, he was not there.

Early that morning he had been called to the long-distance telephone, in the village central.

Wondering who could wish to talk with him, he was amazed to hear his father's voice.

"Mr. Bronson will arrive in Baxter at ten this morning," Mr. Markham said. "You are to get a buggy from the livery stable and meet him. He will tell you what he wants you to do. I am sorry it is the day of the game, but your being on hand means everything to me, to your mother and to yourself."

"I'll be there, don't worry," replied Fred.

Hastening back to his mother, Fred imparted the news, and then whiled away the morning as best he could until it was time to get the buggy and drive to the train to meet Mr. Bronson.

Quickly jumping into the buggy, the lawyer told Fred to drive fast until he was out of the village, as he desired his presence to remain unknown.

In order the better to accomplish this object, the boy turned off Main Street.

"That was a wise move," complimented Mr. Bronson. "I want you to drive me to Mr. James Newcomb's. Your father told me he lived out of the village."

"About a mile," replied Fred.

"What sort of a man is he?"

"Hard as nails."

"H'm. Is he fond of money?"

"Yes."

"Good." And, as he noticed the look of entreaty in the boy's eyes, Mr. Bronson continued: "A very good friend of your father's has almost secured control of the stock of Montgomery's bank. I have the power to vote this stock. But I want five more shares, which I hope to get from Newcomb. If I do, I shall call a meeting of the directors, oust Montgomery, elect myself president, and start an investigation of the bank's books—which I am convinced will give us the evidence we need to proceed against Montgomery and Gibbs."

"But how will that help father?"

"The books will show when the money on your father's check was paid. I hope also to find the check—which Montgomery refused to surrender—to be compared with Gibbs' writing. By the way, Gibbs was in Manchester trying to borrow money under an assumed name."

"Oh, I hope Marg's at home!" exclaimed Fred.

"Why?" asked the lawyer, smiling.

"Because she can make her father do anything."

"She's a good friend of yours?"

"Very."

"Then perhaps you had better explain matters to her before I talk with Mr. Newcomb."

This plan agreed upon, Fred went into the house alone, and, to his delight, found Margie, to whom he made things clear.

"Of course father'll do it!" she cried. "Come, we'll ask him together."

But although he listened intently, Mr. Newcomb refused to commit himself, saying he would talk with the lawyer.

Briefly Mr. Bronson stated his purpose, offering two hundred dollars apiece for the shares, just double their market price. And, shrewdly judging the old man, he produced ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills as he spoke.

An instant Mr. Newcomb gazed at the money.

"Margie, get them shares of stock," he finally said.

Jubilant, Mr. Bronson saw to the transfer of the certificates, and invited Mr. Newcomb to be at the bank at half-past two o'clock, saying Fred's father had suggested his name as a director, an honor which delighted the old man greatly.

Promising to meet Margie after the game, Fred and the lawyer reëntered the buggy, arriving by a roundabout way at the boy's home.

On the way back from the stable, Fred saw Mr. Montgomery and Charlie Gibbs ahead of him, talking excitedly as they walked along.

"I tell you, you must go to the cave and destroy that check," declared the bank president.

"Not without you," returned Gibbs. "I'm no fool."

"Come on, then," growled the millionaire, and they abruptly turned from Main Street, setting their course toward Spy mountain.

Scarcely able to contain himself, Fred rushed into a nearby store and asked for pen and paper.

"Mr. Bronson," he wrote. "Get a horse quick, and a man, and drive to the cave at the foot of Spy mountain. Gibbs and Montgomery have gone there to tear up the check and other papers. I'm following them. Fred."

It was several minutes before he could find a boy to deliver the note. When he did, he set out in pursuit of his father's enemies, whom he kept in sight, creeping behind stone walls and fences, that he himself might not be seen.

Handing the note to Mrs. Markham, the lawyer bade the messenger boy guide him to the livery stable, where he hired a two-seated wagon and a driver.

"Take me to the nearest justice of the peace," he directed.

"Si Newcomb's the only justice in Baxter," replied the man.

"Then get out to his house as fast as possible."

"What brings you back?" asked the old man, as he saw the lawyer enter the house.

"Come into your office." And as the justice led him into a side room, Mr. Bronson continued: "I want to swear out a warrant charging Charles Gibbs with forgery."

Amazed, Mr. Newcomb asked for evidence, which the lawyer quickly outlined, ending up by relating the conversation Fred had overheard.

"Always said Charlie was too all-fired cute," commented the justice, as he made out the warrant. "Shall you want me at the bank?"

"Surely. Only as it's two now, we'd better say at three. Where is the nearest constable?"

"Hen Jenkins, right side of the bank. He's——"

But Mr. Bronson was out of the house and in the carriage before the justice could finish the sentence.

Fortunately, the constable was at home, and, after looking at the warrant, he readily accompanied the lawyer.

"Now, let's see what good those horses are," said Mr. Bronson to the driver, as he and Jenkins seated themselves in the carriage. "How long will it take you to reach the cave at Spy mountain?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Make it fifteen, and I'll give you five dollars," exclaimed the lawyer.

Eager to win the bonus, the driver urged his horses to the utmost, and in just fourteen minutes he drew rein at the end of the road leading to the cave.

"They're only just inside the rocks! They're quarrelling!" exclaimed Fred, emerging from the bushes where he had been hiding.

With the constable in front, Mr. Bronson, Fred and the driver hastened along the path.

At the sound of footsteps, the president of the bank and Gibbs looked up.

"Charlie Gibbs, I arrest you in the name of the law!" shouted Jenkins, melodramatically.

Bitterly the man protested, but before the cold facts uttered by Mr. Bronson, he grew silent.

"What time is it?" asked Fred.

"Two forty-five," replied the lawyer.

"Can—can I go to the game?"

"Yes, I'll drive you."

"You needn't. I can get a horse from Farmer Brown, and ride in quicker." And like a flash, the boy was away.

ANOTHER VICTORY—CONCLUSION

Obtaining the horse without trouble, Fred galloped toward the campus.

And he was sorely needed. Buttons had been injured in the second scrimmage, and Bart was forced to use Bronson, while the crowd yelled for Fred.

No one could explain his absence, and the rumor started that he had been kidnapped by Landon.

But Bronson was playing splendidly, and Baxter, though not able to score, was holding Landon.

"If we can only find Fred before the second half, we'll win!" exclaimed Sandow. And he and Hal corralled a score of boys and went in search of the missing half-back.

Up and down the field the ball went, getting ever nearer the Baxter goal line.

But to the relief of the home team supporters, time was called with the ball on the twenty-yard line.

The players knew, however, that they could scarcely hope to hold Landon during the second half, and it was a heart-heavy eleven that returned to the field.

Scarcely had the play begun than Sandow and Hal ran in front of the Baxter stands.

"We've found him! Fred's dressing!" they yelled.

Mighty was the roar that greeted these announcements, and as the yellow-haired boy dashed onto the field, the people in the Baxter stands cheered joyously.

"I've a good mind not to let you play, you sneaking sulker," hissed Bart, as his rival came up to him.

"Sulker nothing! I had to show my father's lawyer where to find Charlie Gibbs so they could arrest him," retorted Fred.

At the words, spoken low so that only he should hear them, for even in his joy Fred was considerate of his rival's feelings, the bully's face went white, and he staggered as though struck.

"Oh! Oh! I'm sick! I'm sick!" Bart gasped, and sank to the ground in utter collapse.

Quickly the officials gathered round, while doctors, masters and grads ran out from the side lines.

"He's done for!" declared Sandow. "Mr. Vining, name Fred acting captain. He may save the day."

This the headmaster quickly did.

"Bronson, take Bart's place at full back," ordered Fred. "Come on, now, boys. This is Baxter's year. Show 'em how we can get the ball."

The boy's words put new life into the Team, and when the Landon centre put the ball in play, Fred was put through an opening made by Tompkins and on top of the full back, who was ready to kick, knocking the ball from him, while Taffy fell on it.

"Well done, Baxter!" roared their supporters.

Calling for the ball to be passed to him, Fred again found the hole made by Tompkins, was through the Landon line and dodging the backs, almost before the visiting players knew it.

"Oh, you Cotton-Top!" howled the Baxter rooters.

"Stop him! Down him!" yelled Landon.

Only the opposing full back was between Fred and the goal line, but that player was charging at the yellow-haired boy like a maddened bull.

Suddenly the Landon man dove at Fred.

Scarcely breathing, the spectators watched.

But the half-back had been expecting the move, and, leaping in the air and to one side, he escaped the outstretched arms and raced unhindered across the goal line.

Wildly Baxter cheered, yelling and waving their banners, as Bronson sent the ball spinning between the goal posts.

Desperately, Landon strove to hammer their way through the lighter line of their opponents. But Fred resorted to a kicking game, and Bronson's long spirals ever kept the Baxter goal out of danger.

With only three minutes more to play, and the ball his, Fred again signalled for it to be passed to him, and carried it to the twenty-yard line.

"Hold now! Bronson's going to drop a goal from the field!" whispered the acting captain to his men. "I'm going to signal for an end play, but Clothespin will kick."

Confused by such tactics, the Landon players did not know where the ball was going, and, in consequence, Bronson received it, dropped back, and, with a beautiful punt, sent it sailing toward the goal posts before the visiting players were upon him.

Discouraged, the Landon men lined up for the kick off. But while the ball was in the air, the whistle blew—and the game was over—won by Baxter for the first time in six years.

"Fine, Fred, fine!" cried several of his friends.

"The best ever!" said Margie, and gave her hero a look that meant a great deal.

"I must get home—I want to find out what is happening," said Fred to the girl, and broke away from his fellow players and the others as soon as possible.

When Fred arrived home, he found Mr. Bronson there, along with his father.

"Charlie Gibbs has confessed to forging that check!" cried Mr. Markham. "And he has also confessed to altering the deed."

"And what of Mr. Montgomery?" asked the son quickly.

"When we went to the bank he at first put up a great front," replied Mr. Bronson. "But I soon showed him what authority I possessed, and then he agreed to get out at once, provided he was not prosecuted. On account of his family, your father has decided not to prosecute him."

"Well, I am glad of that," said Fred, and he thought of Alice Montgomery and how she had befriended him.

"My name has been completely cleared," said Mr. Markham, with much pride in his voice. "I shall start again in business here—at the old stand."

"And I guess the Gibbs place will be shut up," said Fred.

"It is shut up already, and the officers of the law are in possession," answered the lawyer. "He overstepped himself as soon as he went to the city and tried to borrow money under a false name."

At the wish of Mrs. Baxter, Mr. Bronson had been elected president of the bank. A complete investigation revealed many crooked things done by Mr. Montgomery, and he was glad enough to leave town, taking his whole family with him. Later on, it was learned by Fred that Alice had left the others, and, working her way through college, became a teacher in a young ladies' seminary. Bart drifted West and then to Alaska, and that was the last heard of him. Charlie Gibbs was sent to prison for a term of five years.

"Well, the clouds have passed at last, mother," said Fred, one day, after the excitement was a thing of the past.

"Yes, and I am truly thankful," responded Mrs. Markham.

"Come out, Fred!" yelled a voice from the street, and Soda appeared, accompanied by Bronson. "Going to have a last game of football between the First and Second Forms!"

"All right—I'm with you!" cried Fred good-naturedly, and ran to join them; and here we will say good-by to the High School Rivals.

THE END