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"It's Fits—Mr. Fits Himself!" |
The Grammar School
Boys Snowbound
OR
Dick & Co. at Winter Sports
By
H. IRVING HANCOCK
Author of The Grammar School Boys of Gridley, The Grammar School
Boys in the Woods, The High School Boys' Series, The West Point
Series, The Annapolis Series, The Boys of the Army
Series, The Motor Boat Club Series, Etc., Etc.
Illustrated
P H I L A D E L P H I A
HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY
Copyright, 1911, by Howard E. Altemus
CONTENTS
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The Grammar School Boys
Snowbound
CHAPTER I
REALLY A GREAT PLAN, BUT——
S Hen Dutcher came up to a group of boys on the ice, and slowed down his speed, he stuck the point of his right skate in the ice to bring himself to a full stop.
"Huh! You fellows think you're some smart on fancy skating, don't you?" he demanded rather scornfully.
"No," replied Dave Darrin shortly.
"You been showing off a lot, then."
"Hen," grimaced Dave, "I'm afraid you're going to miss your calling in life."
"Didn't know I had any," grunted Hen.
"Yes, you have; one of your own choosing, too."
"What is it?" asked Hen curiously.
"You're a walking anvil chorus."
"An anvil chorus?" repeated Hen Dutcher, the puzzled expression deepening in his face.
"Yes; wherever you go the fellows are sure to hear the sounds of 'hammering' and 'knocking.'"
A score of boys grinned, a dozen laughed outright. But Hen wasn't bright enough to see the point.
"What's an anvil got to do with it all?" demanded Hen in a puzzled tone. "An anvil belongs in a blacksmith shop."
"And that's where you ought to go, to do all your 'hammering' and 'knocking,'" explained Dave, as he skated slowly away.
"Huh! You think you're smart!" growled Hen, who still couldn't see why the other fellows had laughed.
"Hen," remarked Dick Prescott, "I'm afraid you're not up to concert pitch."
"Concert pitch?" repeated the dense one. "No, I know I'm not. Did I ever make any claim to being musical?"
"You see," hinted Greg Holmes, "the trouble with the Dutcher kid is that he's all ivory, from his collar-button up."
Another laugh greeted this assertion, but Hen only glared stupidly.
"Ivory is all white, anyway," Hen muttered. "So am I."
He swelled out his chest, did one or two fancy little things on skates, and tried to look important. But none of the other fellows in the group on the ice seemed inclined to take young Dutcher at his own valuation.
Hen Dutcher was a peculiar chap, at any rate. His worst fault, probably—but one that led to other faults—was his egotism. He was always thinking about himself and his own puny little interests. For the life of him, Hen couldn't understand why he wasn't popular with other fellows. He sometimes realized that he wasn't, but charged the fact up to the other fellows being "too stuck on themselves, or on those 'boobs,' Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin."
"Let's run Hen ashore and rub his face in the snow!" proposed one boy gleefully.
"You dassent!" flared up Hen. But half a dozen boys uttered a whoop and skated toward him. Hen wobbled on his skates an instant, then turned, intent on escape.
"Oh, say, fellows," called Dick, "don't be all the time picking on poor old Hen."
"We'll just wash his face," shouted back one of the pursuers.
Hen knew they meant it, and he was traveling down the ice, now, under full steam.
"Come on, fellows," called Dick, to Greg and to Tom Reade. "We don't want to see Hen abused."
"Why does he get so fresh, then?" demanded Greg, but he started, as did Tom. Dick & Co. were all fleet skaters. They surged to the front of the pursuers, who took it for granted that Dick and his friends were going to aid them, and therefore set up a shout of joy.
Hen Dutcher was traveling with so much effort that he panted hard as he skated.
"Get him, Dick!" sang out Ben Alvord, as Prescott shot ahead of the others.
Hen, looking back, saw Dick gaining on him swiftly, while Greg and Tom were just behind.
"They're mean as all-git-out!" sputtered panting Hen. "Why can't they let a fellow alone? Don't they think I've got as much right to talk as the rest of 'em? Well, I'll show 'em that I have!"
At this moment Dick overtook the fugitive, linking arms with him.
"You let me alone!" snarled Hen. "You're meaner'n poison!"
"Am I?" smiled Dick. "See here, Hen, face about and don't let the fellows bluff you out of a week's growth. Just turn on them. They won't do anything to you."
"If they try it on, I'll fix 'em, no matter what desperate thing I have to do to get square," snarled Hen.
"Oh, cut out all the war talk," Dick advised him gently. "Now, wheel about."
"You lemme alone! I know where I'm going," snapped Hen, making a big effort to break loose from Dick's hold. The effort proved a disastrous one, for Hen tripped himself, slid along for a few feet and then sat down with a jarring bump on the ice. Dick Prescott all but shared the same fate.
"Now, we've got him!" chuckled Ben Alvord, racing in and reaching out for the luckless Dutcher.
The unexpected happened. Hen swung around, as on a pivot, extending a foot in such a way as to trip Ben and send him down on his own face.
In the gasp of astonishment that followed Hen got upon his feet, gave a swift push with his left skate and was away.
"After him, fellows!" roared Toby Ross. "We'll hold him and let Ben do the face-washing."
Dick, Tom and Greg had shot past the scene. Now they circled and came back, their faces aglow with the fast sport and the keen air.
Hen tried to make for the shore, but got in where the surface of the ice was rough and choppy. Ned Allen and Toby reached out to grasp Hen as they neared him. Young Dutcher made a switching-away movement, and the next instant he had fallen flat on his face. He let out a howl.
"We've got him!" declared Toby, as he and Allen pounced on the prostrate one.
"Yes, but let him alone, fellows," urged Dick, reaching the scene and halting. "Hen may have his faults, but it's time we chose another fellow to pick on for a while."
"We're going to wash his face," insisted Ben Alvord, skating up and looking belligerent. "Don't you interfere, Dick Prescott!"
Hen, making no effort to do more than sit up, was blubbering softly.
"Lemme alone, fellows," he pleaded. "Can't you see I'm hurt?"
Hen had his right mitten off, and was gingerly applying that hand to the narrow stretch of upper lip. There was blood there. Hen, catching only an imperfect view as he gazed down past the end of his nose, was sure that he had been badly injured by his fall.
Some of the other boys set up a yell of laughter.
"Why, you big baby!" blurted Toby. "You've only scratched your lip on the ice."
"A handful of snow will heal it!" asserted Ben Alvord. "Come, get up, bone-head! Come on to your dousing."
"You lemme alone, I tell you!" screamed Dutcher, blubbering. "I've got to go home and get myself attended to."
"Come on, booby!" jeered Alvord, forcing a hand under one of Hen's shoulders and trying to lift him.
"Lemme alone. Can't you see I'm badly hurt?"
"Let Hen alone," broke in Dick quietly.
"He's got to come ashore and have his face washed in the snow," insisted Alvord. "Come, fellows, help me take him there."
"You'd better step back and let him alone, Ben!" spoke Dick, more quietly than before, but there was a sound of command in his voice as he moved over between Hen and Alvord.
"Get out of the way," growled Ben. "This ivory-top has got to have his face washed in the snow."
"And I say you're not going to do it," warned Dick.
"He's too fresh, Hen is."
"No committee of citizens has asked you to reform any one, Ben," Dick went on good-humoredly. "You've got a few faults of your own that you might remedy, and I guess we all have."
"Come on, fellows, and rush Dutcher," called Ben Alvord. Ross, Allen and others moved as though to help, but Dick was flanked by Tom and Greg. In the distance Dave Darrin could be seen skating back.
"All right, if you fellows insist on it," partly agreed Dick. "But if trouble starts Hen is going to have some backing on his side, too."
"I guess that's right," nodded Tom Reade.
"Now, who's fresh?" challenged Ben Alvord hotly. "You, Dick Prescott."
"Well, if I am," sighed Dick, "I'm ready to take my punishment for it. At all events, I'll look after myself."
"Yah, you will!" growled Ben angrily. "I notice that, just as soon as anything starts, your gang always jump in on the scene!"
"Dick will fight you, all alone, I know, Ben, if you want him to," proposed Dave Darrin, coming slowly into the circle. "But perhaps you don't want to fight Dick. You tried it once before, and got most beautifully pounded."
"Yah!" snarled Ben.
"Well, didn't you?" demanded Dave.
"Yah!" sneered Ben. "See here, Darrin, Prescott may be fresh, but he ain't as bad as you are!"
"So it's I you want to fight with, is it?" laughed Dave. "Come right on to the shore, then, and don't try any bluffing."
But Ben Alvord didn't care about putting up his guard before either of these spirited youngsters of the Central Grammar School. After sputtering a little Ben skated away by himself. Hen got up, after dabbing his upper lip with his handkerchief and finding that the scratch amounted to nothing. No further effort was made to molest Hen.
"Now, when you talk, say something pleasant. Don't talk so disagreeably all the time," advised Prescott in a low tone. "At least, not unless you're really hunting trouble."
"This is the meanest crowd I ever saw," declared Hen Dutcher stiffly. "And you started it all, Dave Darrin, by nicknaming me 'Anvil Chorus!'"
"You're at it again, Hen," sighed Dick. "Why can't you stop saying disagreeable things?"
Toby Ross, who had skated close enough to hear this last, now skated away again to join a crowd of boys a little way off. Toby spoke to them laughingly. Then, over the ice, came a mocking chorus:
"Oh, you Anvil!"
"There, you see," muttered Dutcher angrily, "you've gone and fastened the nickname on me!"
"Anvil! Anvil!" yelled other tormentors.
"You're all of you about the meanest crowd of fellows I ever saw," grunted Hen, as he started slowly to skate away.
"And that's all the thanks you get, Dick, for trying to use him a bit decently," jeered Greg Holmes.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry for the fellow," muttered Prescott. "Hen is one of those fellows who are never popular with any crowd and can never understand why."
Harry Hazelton and Dan Dalzell now skated up from town and joined their chums. Dick & Co. were at last united.
"Let's try a two-mile swift skate up river, fellows," urged Dick. "Ready? Go!"
Away went the six, moving along over the ice like young human whirlwinds. Dick & Co. were known to be the best skaters of all the Grammar School boys in town.
Dick & Co. will need no introduction to the readers of the first volume in this series, entitled "The Grammar School Boys of Gridley." Our readers have met all six of the young men, namely, Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Greg Holmes, Dan Dalzell, Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton. It would be hard to find six manlier boys of thirteen—now all of them close to their fourteenth birthdays.
Readers of the previous volume know on what grounds it can be claimed that these six were real leaders of the little Grammar School world of Gridley. Dick & Co. were ardent lovers of all forms of outdoor sports. All were keen for baseball. As runners these six youngsters were just beginning to develop as a result of self-training. The September before Dick Prescott had organized, at the Central Grammar School, a football squad. Things were moving well in this line until delegations came over from the North and South Grammars, to see about organizing a Grammar School football league. The delegates from the two other schools, however, displayed lack of harmony, and the football idea fell through.
Now, however, winter was on in earnest, and Dick & Co. were in their element, for, of all sports, they loved those that went with winter. All six were fearless coasters; no hill was too steep, too long or too dangerous. On the ice Dick & Co. felt all the bounding pulse of life.
This day was the twenty-fourth of December. School had closed in order to give the Gridley youngsters a free hand on the last day before Christmas.
The river had been frozen in fine condition for more than a week. Not more than four inches of snow had fallen, but all the boys knew that the season gave promise of more snow ere long.
As Dick & Co. skated along the number of other skaters became fewer. At last they reached a part of the river where they had the ice all to themselves.
"There's Payson's orchard, Greg," sang out Dave Darrin. "The place where you got grabbed last fall, by Dexter and Driggs, and carried off to be shut up in that cave."
"Say, we ought to hunt up that cave, fellows," called Greg. "Whee! It might make a bully place for a winter camp. Now, that we've got the two weeks and more of holiday vacation, wouldn't it be fine to slip off and camp a few days in that cave?"
"Nothing doing," retorted Tom Reade.
"Why not?" Dan asked.
"You remember that I went off, yesterday after school, on a sleigh ride with Jim Foley?"
"Yes."
"Well, we went by that cave," Tom continued. "Nothing would do but that we stop. Jim had a lantern on the sleigh. We lit the lantern and got into the cave. Whew! We nearly got drowned. I meant to tell you fellows about it, but forgot it."
"How did you come near getting drowned in a cave?" Greg demanded.
"Why, the outlandish place isn't weather-tight," responded Tom. "You know, the flooring slopes slightly upward from the entrance. There are a lot of cracks that rain and snow-water leak through. It was all little rivulets inside the place. Camp? Huh! It'd make a better extra reservoir for the town water-works, that place would!"
"Too bad!" muttered Greg. "I have had a notion that it would be huge fun to camp out in such a place."
"I've got another idea about that," spoke up Dan.
"Fire away!" begged Reade.
"A cousin of mine who visited me last summer told me about the kind of camp he and some of his chums had. It was a sort of manufactured cave. The fellows dug an oblong hole in the ground. Just like a cellar in shape, you know. It was eight feet wide and twelve feet long. When they had it all dug out the fellows laid boards over the hole for a roof. Then they piled dirt back on top of the boards, and on top of the dirt they laid the sods that they first dug up. At a corner in one end the fellows left a square hole in the roof, to use for an entrance. For a door they made a square board cover to fit over the entrance hole. At the upper end of the cave they dug into the dirt wall and made a stove. They dug another hole down from above to connect with it, and that made a dandy stove and chimney. My cousin and his chums used to do a lot of cooking there. Then they laid down more old boards to make a floor, and boarded most of the wall space, too. Last of all, they took up an old table and old chairs, and they had just a dandy camp! Say, fellows, why couldn't we have a camp like that?"
"It would do all right for springtime," declared Tom Reade, "but we couldn't work it in winter."
"Why not?" challenged Dan.
"Not unless, Danny, you want to be the strong man who's going to dig down into the ground through two or three feet of frost."
Dan looked a bit crestfallen.
"Besides," declared Dick thoughtfully, "every time there was a thaw or a big rain the cave you're talking about making would be nothing but a big cistern, half-full of water. But we could dig and fit up such a cave somewhere in the woods in springtime, fellows."
"Only we don't have much vacation in the spring," broke in Greg disappointedly, "and it certainly would be grand to go into camp right after Christmas Day, if we could be warm enough and have enough to eat."
"It would be great sport," nodded Dick.
"Then let's do it," glowed Greg.
"I suppose you have the camping place all picked out, and permission to use it," smiled Prescott.
"Well, no," admitted Greg. "But why can't we fix up some sort of place?"
"How?" Dave Darrin wanted to know. "If we try going into camp at this time of the year we want, first of all, some place above ground, with enough daylight and sunlight. We want a weather-tight place that we can keep properly warm."
"All of that," agreed Dick.
"Why can't we build a place, out in the woods somewhere?" Greg insisted.
"For one thing," objected Tom Reade quizzically, "there are no leaves at this time of the year."
"What do we want leaves for?" queried Greg.
"To lay on the roof, like shingles."
"Bosh!" snapped Holmes. "We'd build our camp of wood."
"Well, where'll we get the wood?" came from Dave.
"We can carry it from home," proposed Greg.
"No lumber pile in our yard. Is there in yours?" Dave insisted.
"We can use the boards from old boxes and things," went on Greg desperately.
"Oh, excuse me!" mimicked Tom Reade. "I am not camping out in any grocery boxes at this cold time of the year."
"You might go home nights, then," hinted Greg disdainfully.
"The whole camping idea is a great one, if we could only put it through," declared Dick.
"Then let's put it through," pressed Greg Holmes. "Where there's a will there's a way, you know."
"The trouble is that we need a pocketbook more than a will," returned Prescott doubtfully. "It would take lumber to build a winter camp, even if we could prove ourselves good enough carpenters."
"How much money would it take?"
"Well, I don't believe a hundred dollars would go far," declared Reade.
"Make it a thousand, then," laughed Darrin. "We fellows couldn't raise either sum in a year."
"It's too bad," sighed Harry Hazelton. "A good camp, at this time of the year, would be huge fun!"
"Yes; it would," agreed Dick. "I don't see the way now, but we may find it. We can keep on hoping."
"Hey, you boobs!" called a disagreeable voice across the ice.
All of the six Grammar School boys slowed down and turned around. They found themselves looking at a solitary skater who had slowed down. He was Fred Ripley, son of Lawyer Ripley, one of the wealthy men of the town. Fred was never over polite to those whom he considered as his "inferiors." Besides, young Ripley was now in his freshman year at the Gridley High School. As such, he naturally looked down on mere Grammar School boys, none of whom, perhaps, would ever reach the dignity of "attending High."
"What do you want, Ripley?" called Dick. "Planning to give us a lesson in the art of polite speech?"
"Cut the funny talk," grumbled Fred. "Prescott, did you get a letter from my guv'nor this morning?"
"Why, no; I didn't know your father was in the habit of writing me letters. Anyway, I left home before the mail carrier was due."
"Guv'nor said that was likely to happen," continued Fred. "So he told me, if I saw you fellows on the ice, to say that he wanted to see you."
"All of us?" Dave wanted to know.
"I reckon so. And the guv'nor said it was important, too. You boobs had better crank up your skates and make fast time. Guv'nor won't be at his office late to-day."
"What——" began Dick.
"The guv'nor gave me a message to you fellows, and I've delivered it," cut in Fred airily, as he started to skate away. "That's all I've got to do in the matter. I don't care to stand here all day. Somebody that knew me might come along and catch me talking with you."
"The snob!" muttered Dave indignantly.
"What on earth can the lawyer want of us?" pondered Greg.
"Generally, when a lawyer sends for you, it means trouble," guessed Dalzell.
"Or else some relative has died and left you a lot of money," added Harry Hazelton.
"Well, in any case," replied Dick, "we six fellows haven't the same relative, anywhere, and Fred said his father wanted to see all of us."
"We haven't been doing anything—nothing wrong, anyway," declared Dan virtuously.
"We won't know the answer until we've seen Mr. Ripley," declared Dick. "We'll have to go around there after dinner to-day."
"Why not go now?" proposed Tom Reade. "We haven't anything special to do with our time."
"You fellows haven't much imagination, have you?" laughed Dave, his eyes twinkling mysteriously.
"Have you guessed?" demanded Dick Prescott.
"Well, it's only a guess, of course, and it may be a wild one."
"Out with it!" ordered Tom Reade sharply.
"You know, fellows," Dave continued, "that we did some service for Mrs. Dexter last fall, and that she tried to reward us. Now that she's gone away to parts unknown, perhaps you also know that Lawyer Ripley is managing her money affairs these days."
"Then——" gasped Greg.
"Why, fellows, now that Mrs. Dexter is away, and we can't stop her, and as to-morrow will be Christmas, why, perhaps——"
Not one single member of Dick & Co. was at all lacking in imagination now!
"Why, do you think——"
"I wonder if——"
"Fellows," hinted Dick Prescott dryly, and in a tone that hid the excitement going on within him, "it won't take us long to skate back to Gridley!"
CHAPTER II
DICK & CO. FIND CAUSE FOR GLEE
AWYER RIPLEY was one of the important men of the little city of Gridley. His law practice, which he did not now follow on account of the need of an income, put him in touch with all the wealthier people of the place.
In manner the lawyer was rather severe and austere. He was a good deal of an aristocrat. While he did not seek to repel people, he had little of the knack of drawing people to him in democratic fashion.
"Come in!" he called, in answer to the knock that Dick gave on the door.
As the boys entered they saw the lawyer pausing beside his coat rack.
"I am afraid we have gotten along a little too late, sir," apologized Dick Prescott.
"I can spare you two or three minutes," said the lawyer, turning and going back to his desk.
"Your son said you wished to see us," Prescott continued.
"Yes," said the lawyer, pulling a drawer in his desk open and glancing inside. "Late yesterday afternoon I received a letter from my client, Mrs. Dexter, who directed me to hand you each a new ten-dollar bill, with her best wishes for a Merry Christmas added."
"I am afraid that Mrs. Dexter intends that as a reward for what we were able to do for her last fall," cried Dick, flushing. "We tried to tell her, at the time, that we didn't want any reward and that we wouldn't feel comfortable in taking one."
"Nothing was said in Mrs. Dexter's letter about a reward," replied the lawyer dryly. "She directed me to hand you the banknotes in place of Christmas cards. I suppose you young gentlemen have no objection to receiving Christmas cards?"
Lawyer Ripley took out several banknotes. One of these he now held out to Prescott.
Dick flushed again, looked embarrassed, then reached out his hand slowly and took the money.
"Will you send Mrs. Dexter our thanks, sir, and tell her that we enjoyed the cards very much?"
"Especially the pictures on them," added Dan Dalzell, as he received his banknote.
"I will send all your messages," nodded the lawyer, as he continued the distribution.
"Say—whoop!" suddenly exploded Greg Holmes.
"What's the matter—yours counterfeit?" laughed Dan.
"Say, fellows," Greg went on, "we were wishing we had the funds to build some sort of a camp. We can do it, now, can't we?"
"What kind of camp?" inquired Lawyer Ripley, looking mildly interested. "And for what would you use a camp?"
"Why, for camping, I suppose," confessed Greg.
"You wouldn't live in a tent, at this time of the year, would you?"
"If we had to," assented young Holmes. "What we were talking about was building some kind of a shack in the woods somewhere."
"Rather a bad time of the year for building operations," smiled Lawyer Ripley dryly.
"But this wouldn't be so very much of an operation, sir," urged Greg. "Now that we've sixty dollars between us, we ought to be able to buy enough lumber to put up quite a shanty."
"Yes; and probably have enough money left to pay for the teaming of the lumber a few miles," agreed the man of law. "But there wouldn't be enough to pay the carpenters."
"We might be able to build a small shack ourselves," proposed Tom Reade.
"Why, so you might," admitted the lawyer, half smiling. "However, any task that is worth doing is much better done by one used to that kind of work. When do you want to go camping?"
"Why, right after to-morrow, Christmas," replied Dick. "We could stay in the woods, if our parents let us go, until about the end of the present vacation."
"It would take you at least that length of time to build the shack, I should think," suggested the lawyer. "Until you had it built you might have to wrap up in the snow at night for your sleep. And, then, when you had it all built, you would discover that the shack didn't belong to you, but to the owner of the land on which you built it. He could order you away from the shack if he were so disposed."
"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Greg, looking crestfallen.
"I'm afraid we won't camp," spoke up Harry Hazelton.
"The greatest difficulty," suggested the lawyer, "would be getting the consent of your parents to any such madcap scheme as going off into the woods to camp, day after day, in mid-winter."
"There might be some difficulty about that, sir," replied Prescott. "But now it looks as though the one really big problem would be to get a camp on the money that we now have, and to be ready to go into it in season during this school vacation."
"That would really be but a very slight difficulty," rejoined the lawyer.
"I wish I could see how you make that out, sir."
"Why, as it happens, in the property that Mrs. Dexter's grandfather left her there's the strip called Hobson's woods, you know. The forest is a pretty big affair. In fact, it's what's generally called wild country. But there are a thousand acres of the woods, worth about four dollars an acre, that now belong to Mrs. Dexter. She authorized me to find a buyer for that bit of the forest, but it seems to be out of the question. Now, on Mrs. Dexter's land, in about the middle of it, and less than two hundred feet off the main trail, is one of the few real old log cabins left in this part of the United States. The cabin is in pretty good repair, too, I fancy, for Mrs. Dexter's grandfather used to do logging out that way. Later in his life, when he had amassed money, the old gentleman used to go out to that cabin to live for a while, two or three times in every year. The place was in excellent repair when he died. It is still, I imagine."
There was a breathless silence as the lawyer ceased speaking. How the thought of that log cabin, out in the deep forest, appealed to the imaginations of such Grammar School boys as these!
"Well, sir?" asked Greg breathlessly, at last.
"Young men, if your parents should consent to your going on such a wild, madcap picnic in mid-winter, I would let you have the use of that cabin. But you may have the use of the cabin at any other time, as long as the cabin remains in Mrs. Dexter's name, so I would suggest your going in the spring or summer."
"Oh, pshaw!" leaped to Greg Holmes's lips, but he choked back the exclamation. What use would boys have for a log cabin in summer, when there was a chance to use it in mid-winter? Besides, the summer seemed a long way off.
"Is there any water near the cabin, Mr. Ripley?" asked Tom Reade, who possessed a practical head in such matters.
"Yes; a spring, within perhaps twenty or thirty feet of the doorway," nodded the lawyer. "Inside the cabin is one of the big, old-fashioned fire-places——"
"O-o-oh! A-a-ah!" gasped the youngsters in chorus.
"There are also eight bunks in the place, each with a straw or dry-leaf mattress," continued Mr. Ripley. "There are table and chairs, hand made and of the crudest kind, and some few tools."
"Say, wouldn't that make an ideal camp?" demanded Dick Prescott, turning to his chums, his eyes glowing.
All their faces were flushed with the excitement of the thing. Now that it was so close, and practical, all the boys of Dick & Co. felt a wild desire to be up and away for camp at once.
"And you say we may have the cabin, sir, and the right to cut some firewood in the forest?" Dick asked.
"I said you could, if you had your parents' full and free permission to go," replied Lawyer Ripley. "That, I fancy, is a very different thing."
"But if we get that permission, sir," urged Dick, "and come back and tell you so, then you will let us——"
"If you get home permission, you won't need to come back to me at all," replied Lawyer Ripley, smiling, as he rose. "Just go and help yourselves to the cabin and what few improvements it contains. But I am afraid, boys, you are going to be very much disappointed if you expect that your parents will consent. I think it very unlikely that you'll get any such permission. I will send your thanks to Mrs. Dexter, and will also tell her what I have told you about the use of the camp. As to-morrow will be Christmas, I shall not be back here to-day. If you go camping, boys—which I don't believe you will—don't burn the old cabin down unless you find it necessary in order to keep warm enough."
As Lawyer Ripley now made it plain that he was about to leave, the boys hastily repeated their thanks and left the office.
Not until they got down into the street did any of them feel like speaking.
"Say, fellows, if that isn't the grandest——" suddenly blazed forth Greg.
"It's all right," nodded Tom.
"I'm going camping, if I can get any of you fellows to go with me," announced Dave Darrin.
"If your folks will let you, you mean," interrupted Hazelton.
"They will," Dave contended. "And so will yours, Dick."
"I—I hope so," sighed Dick, his eyes dancing. "I never before in my life wanted to do anything as much as I now want to go camping."
"With the still woods, all snow-covered!" cried Dan enthusiastically.
"And the cold nights, with the great fire roaring up the chimney!" supplied Greg.
"And some hunting!"
"And the jolly fun of cooking our own food!"
These youngsters, as they hurried along the street, were in grave danger of being lost in the depths of their own excitement.
"Say, I wonder if there'd be any fishing out there—through the ice?" demanded Harry Hazelton.
"There'd be some rabbit hunting, anyway," supplied Dan.
"If we can only get leave to go!" groaned Greg anxiously.
"See here, fellows," muttered Dick, halting suddenly. "We've simply got to get that leave from our parents!"
"But how?" challenged Dan.
"That's what we've got to think out right now. And, by hookey! I believe I have an idea. Fellows, we have ten dollars apiece."
"My mother will say that I must put that in bank," grunted Dan.
"Wait! Of course, with ten dollars apiece, we've got to consult our parents as to how the money is to be spent," Dick went on. "Now, that is a matter that will call for a little diplomacy. Some of what our principal, Old Dut, calls 'finish'—no, 'finesse.'"
"What's that?" Dan wanted to know.
"Oh, it's a Latin or a Greek word, or something of the sort, meaning to put a fine edge on a piece of business," Dick explained tranquilly. "What I mean is this, fellows: Each one of us will go home and show the money to his father—his father only. Then each one of us will ask permission to spend five dollars of the money on a present for his mother, to be given to her to-morrow morning as a surprise. Then we'll ask our dads for leave to use the other five dollars towards provisioning our camp. Fellows, if you go about it the right way, I'm sure you can each get leave for the camping expedition! I feel just about sure on my own account."
"But how about our mothers?" inquired Dan dubiously.
"Don't you think the present will smooth the way with the mothers?" laughed Dave Darrin.
"It ought to," smiled Tom Reade.
"Don't you think we could get our mothers something pretty nice with two dollars apiece?" asked Harry Hazelton speculatively.
"I couldn't get anything nice enough for my mother with two dollars, when I have more money," Dick replied promptly.
Hazelton's money-saving plan was promptly voted down.
"So now," proposed Dick, "all we have to do is to hurry home and hustle! Beat your way to it, fellows!"
"Hurrah!" Greg gasped.
Hurrying along Main Street, through the crowds of Christmas shoppers, the Grammar School boys were on the point of parting, to go their several ways homeward, when they came upon a scene that halted them.
More than two dozen people, mostly women, had gathered around a shabby-looking man who was clutching wildly at a lamp post, and yet seemed in momentary danger of falling. His lips were thickly covered with foam, his eyes glaring, and the fellow was talking wildly, in low tones, as though to himself.
"Come away and leave him. He's intoxicated," announced one woman shrilly.
"He's not intoxicated," responded another matron indignantly. "There is no odor of liquor about the poor man. And drunken men don't froth at the mouth. This poor fellow is ill—very ill. It must be a fit—maybe epilepsy. Some of you women who have a little more brains and heart than others help me to take this poor fellow to the drug store."
There were willing hands enough, now, among the women. Three or four tried to take hold of the sufferer at once. That victim of an unknown malady clutched and gripped at the good Samaritans as they tried to steer him along the street toward the drug store. To hold him up was all four women could do together, so progress along the street was slow indeed.
"Here comes Dr. Bentley in his auto. Stop him, some one!"
The doctor quickly ran his car in toward the curb and leaped out. A fine man and a busy physician, Dr. Bentley was never too much occupied to stop and help an unfortunate man.
Dr. Bentley's big frame and broad shoulders loomed up in the crowd.
"Let me have the man on one side," urged the doctor. "One of you ladies might help hold him on the other side."
"What's the matter with the man, doctor?" cried several.
"Really, ladies, I can't tell until I've had a chance to examine the man. It may be a fit of some sort. I think likely it is. But we will get him to the drug store first, and into the back room. Then I can examine the poor chap comfortably."
Though seemingly "out of his head," the sufferer succeeded in throwing his arms about a great deal.
Then, suddenly, Dick, who had been following and watching with wide-open eyes, called out lustily:
"Dr. Bentley, your overcoat is open, your chain is hanging with no watch on it, and your scarf pin is gone!"
That announcement electrified the situation. Dr. Bentley glanced down swiftly, then threw one hand up to his necktie.
"My purse is gone from my chatelaine!" cried one of the women who had been helping.
"My purse is gone, too!"
It was amazing to see how quickly the sufferer from the fit galvanized into action. He straightened up suddenly, gave himself a violent wrench and shook himself free of those who had sought to aid him.
With a bound the fellow was off and away. As he sprang he spat from his mouth the piece of soap that had supplied the foam to his lips.
"Catch him, fellows!" yelled Dick.
But only Tom and young Prescott were near enough to the path of flight. Tom Reade leaped valiantly in, but was shoved off and sent spinning by one of the burly fists of the rough.
It was up to Dick to make the catch.
Dick had his skates, strapped together, swinging from his right wrist. He swung the skates back to strike at the fugitive. Ere he could do it the man drove a big, hammer-like fist straight between Dick Prescott's eyes in a way that sent that boy down like a log.
The impact of that blow was heard by all.
CHAPTER III
THE CAMPAIGN TO COAX PARENTS
