E-text prepared by Jim Ludwig

The High School Boys' Training Hike
or
Making Themselves "Hard as Nails"

By H. Irving Hancock

CONTENTS

CHAPTERS
I. Mr. Titmouse Doesn't Know Dick
II. The Deed of a Hero
III. The Peddler and the Lawyer's Half
IV. Peddler Hinman's Next Appearance
V. Dave Does Some Good Work
VI. The No-Breakfast Plan
VII. Making the Tramps Squirm
VIII. When the Peddler Was "Frisked"
IX. Dick Imitates a Tame Indian
X. Reuben Hinman Proves His Mettle
XI. Tom Idealizes Working Clothes
XII. Trouble With the Rah-Rah-Rahs
XIII. A Snub and the Quick Retort
XIV. Dick & Co Make an Apple "Pie"
XV. Making Port in a Storm
XVI. Home, Hospital and Almshouse
XVII. Two Kinds of Hobo
XVIII. Dick Prescott, Knight Errant
XIX. "I'll Fight Him for This Man!"
XX. In the Milksop Class?
XXI. The Revenge Talk at Miller's
XXII. Under the Sting of the Lash
XXIII. Timmy, the Gentleman, at Home
XXIV. Conclusion

CHAPTER I

MR. TITMOUSE DOESN'T KNOW DICK

"We thought ten dollars would be about right," Dick Prescott announced.

"Per week?" inquired Mr. Titmouse, as though he doubted his hearing.

"Oh, dear, no! For the month of August, sir."

Mr. Newbegin Titmouse surveyed his young caller through half-closed eyelids.

"Ten dollars for the use of that fine wagon for a whole month?" cried Mr. Titmouse in astonishment. "Absurd!"

"Very likely I am looking at it from the wrong point of view," admitted Prescott, who fingered a ten dollar bill and was slowly smoothing it out so that Mr. Titmouse might see it.

"That wagon was put together especially for the purpose," Mr. Titmouse resumed. "It has seats that run lengthwise, and eight small cupboards and lockers under the seats. There is a place to secure the cook stove at the rear end of the wagon, and the stove rests on zinc. Though the wagon is light enough for one horse to draw it, it will hold all that several people could require for camping or for leading a regular gipsy life. There is a special awning that covers the wagon when needed, so that on a rainy day you can travel without using umbrellas or getting wet. You can cook equally well on the stove whether in camp or on the road. There are not many vehicles in which you can cook a full meal when traveling from one point to another."

"Nor is it every stewpan or kettle that would refrain from slipping off the stove when driving the wagon over rough roads," laughed Dick good-humoredly.

"Well—-er—-of course, one has to choose decent roads when touring with a wagon of that sort," admitted the owner.

"Then you don't think ten dollars a fair price?" Dick Prescott inquired thoughtfully.

"For a month's use of the wagon? I do not," replied Mr. Newbegin
Titmouse with emphasis.

"And so you decline our offer of ten dollars?" Prescott asked, looking still more thoughtful.

"I certainly do," replied Mr. Titmouse.

Then the owner of the wagon began to descant glowingly upon the many advantages of going on a road hike aided by the service that such a specially constructed wagon would give. In fact, Mr. Titmouse dwelt so enthusiastically upon the value of his wagon that Dick shrewdly told himself:

"He's very anxious—-unusually so—-to rent us that wagon. I've already found out that he hasn't used the wagon in two years, nor has he succeeded in renting it to anyone else. The wagon is so much useless lumber in his stable."

"I wouldn't rent that wagon to everyone," Mr. Titmouse wound up.

"No, sir," Dick agreed heartily, yet with a most innocent look in his face. "Not everyone would want the wagon."

"I—-I don't mean that!" Mr. Titmouse exclaimed.

"In fact, sir," Dick went on very smoothly, "I have learned that you have been offering the wagon for sale or hire during the last two summers, without getting any customers."

"Eh?" demanded Mr. Titmouse in some astonishment.

"Naturally, sir," Dick went on, "before coming here to see you I made a few inquiries in Tottenville. I discovered that in this vicinity the wagon is something of a joke."

"What's that?" questioned the other sharply. "My camping wagon a joke? Nothing of the sort. And, if it is a joke, why did you want to get it?"

"Oh, all of our fellows can stand a joke," laughed young Prescott "So I came over to see just what terms we could make for the use of your wagon during the month of August."

"Well, I'll be as fair with you as I can," Mr. Titmouse replied. "From men—-grown men—-I would want at least thirty dollars a month for the wagon—-probably thirty-five. Of course I know that money is not as plentiful with boys. I'll let you have the wagon for the month of August at the bottom price of twenty-five dollars."

Dick smilingly shook his head.

"I've named the best price I could think of taking," insisted Mr. Titmouse. "Come into the wagon shed and have another look at it."

"Thank you, sir, but there is no use in looking at the wagon again, when such a price as twenty-five dollars is asked for a month's hire," Dick answered promptly.

"Come inside and look at it again, anyway," urged Mr. Titmouse.

"Thank you, sir, but I must get back to Gridley at the earliest possible moment."

"If you didn't want to hire the wagon," asked Mr. Titmouse testily, "what was the use of taking up my time?"

"I do want to hire it," Dick admitted, "but since hearing your price I have realized that I don't want the wagon half as much as I did at the outset."

It was notable about Mr. Titmouse that he would gladly talk for three hours in order to gain a dollar's advantage in any trade in which he was interested. He was a small man, with small features and very small eyes which, somehow, suggested gimlets. He bore about with him always an air of injury, as though deeply sensitive over the supposed fact that the whole world was concerned in getting the better of him.

Though Mr. Titmouse had acquired, through sharp dealing, usury and in many other ways a considerable sum of money and property in the course of his life, yet he was not the man to part with any of it needlessly.

The special wagon now resting in the wagon shed at his home place in Tottenville had been designed by him at a time when people all through the state had been much interested in outdoor life. The Titmouse wagon had been built as the result of much thought on the part of its designer. It certainly was a handy kind of wagon for campers to use on the road. Mr. Titmouse had spent four weeks of wandering life, going from point to point and trying to talk up the merits of his wagon. He had hoped to establish a small factory, there to build such wagons to order at high prices.

For some reason he had met with no success in that enterprise. After his realization of failure Newbegin Titmouse had felt that he would be content if he could sell the wagon at anything like a good price. Failing to sell it, he hoped to be able to get his money back through renting the wagon.

Now he stood watching this high school boy from Gridley, wondering just how much rental he could extort from this wiry, athletic-looking football player.

"There will be a car along in about five minutes," mused Dick aloud. "I must try to take that car. Thank you very much for your kindness, Mr. Titmouse."

"But we haven't come to any understanding yet," cried the wagon's owner as Dick turned and walked away.

"Why, yes, we have, sir," Prescott answered pleasantly over his shoulder. "We have come to the understanding that you can't afford to come down to our price, and that we can't go up to yours. So I'm going back to make some other arrangements for a wagon."

"Wait a minute!" interjected Newbegin Titmouse, stepping after the boy from Gridley. "Maybe I can drop off a dollar or so on the price."

"Much obliged, sir; but it wouldn't help us any, and it's almost time for the car," was Prescott's answer.

"What's your best offer? Make it!" urged Mr. Titmouse restlessly.

"Seven dollars for the wagon for the month of August," Prescott replied.

"Seven? Why, only a minute or two ago you offered me ten dollars!"

"I know it, sir," said Dick coolly. "You will recall that you declined that offer, so I am at liberty to make a new offer."

"You'll have to make a better——-"

"If you decline seven dollars," Dick smiled pleasantly, "my next offer, if I make one, will not go above six."

Mr. Titmouse felt, of a sudden, very certain that the high school boy would stand by that threat.

"Seven dollars doesn't land me clear for the season," complained Newbegin Titmouse. "I've spent nine dollars already in advertising the wagon."

"Then, if you don't take my seven dollars," Prescott proposed, "you'll be out quite a bit of money, Mr. Titmouse. I see my car coming in the distance. So good——-"

"I'll take ten!" called Mr. Titmouse, as Dick once more turned away.

"Six," smiled Dick significantly. "But I haven't time to stay here and dicker, sir. Good——-"

"Hold on!" fairly screamed Mr. Titmouse, as Dick, nodding at him, started to run to the corner.

"Then I'll stop and talk it over with you, sir," answered Prescott, going back. "But I don't say that I'll agree to take the wagon."

"Now, don't you try to work the price down any lower," exclaimed
Mr. Titmouse, looking worried.

"No, sir; I won't do that," Dick promised. "I won't say, yet, that I'll take the wagon, but I will agree that I'll either take it at six dollars or refuse the chance altogether. I've just happened to think of something that I want to make sure about"

"What is it?" asked Mr. Titmouse apprehensively.

"I forgot to look at the tires on the wheels," Prescott went on. "I want to make sure that they're sound, so that we fellows won't have to take the chance of paying a blacksmith to make new ones before we've been out a week."

The tires were in excellent condition, so the little man had no objection whatever to showing them.

"Good, so far," nodded Prescott. "Now, next, I'd enjoy looking at the axles and the hub-nuts."

"You're not the lad who is going to allow himself to be cheated," laughed Mr. Titmouse admiringly. "The hubs and axles are all right, so I've no objection to showing them to you."

"I'm satisfied with the wagon," Dick declared, a few minutes later. "Now, Mr. Titmouse, I'll pay you the six dollars if you'll make out a satisfactory receipt for the money."

"Come into the office and tell me what you want me to say in the receipt," urged Newbegin Titmouse, leading the way across the stable into a little room in the furthermost corner.

The receipt was soon made out, the money paid and the receipt in Dick's pocket.

"I'll either come for the wagon myself, or send one of the other fellows," Dick promised. "If I send for it I'll also send a written order."

"I hope you boys will have a pleasant time this summer," chirped Mr. Titmouse, who, though he had been badly out-generaled in the trade, had at least the satisfaction of knowing that there was some money in his pocket that had come to him by sheer good luck.

"We're going to try to have the finest good time that a crowd of fellows ever had," Dick replied, after nodding his thanks. "I've missed that car, and shall have quite a little wait."

"Perhaps you'd like to sit under a tree and eat a few apples," suggested Mr. Titmouse.

Dick was about to accept the invitation with thanks when Mr. Titmouse added:

"I've a lot of fine summer apples I gathered yesterday. I'll let you have three for five cents."

This attempt at petty trade, almost in the guise of hospitality, struck Dick as being so utterly funny that he could not help laughing outright.

"Thank you, Mr. Titmouse," he replied. "I don't believe I'll eat any apples just now."

"I might make it four for a nickel," coaxed the little man, "if you agree not to pick out the largest apples."

"Thank you, but I don't believe I'll eat any apples at all just now," Dick managed to reply, then made his escape in time to avoid laughing in Mr. Titmouse's face.

Once out on the street, and knowing that he had some twenty minutes to wait for the next car, Dick strolled slowly along.

"I didn't know that boy," muttered Newbegin Titmouse, looking after Prescott with a half admiring gaze, "and I didn't size him up right. He offered me ten dollars, and then got the wagon for six. Whew! I don't believe I ever before got off so badly as that in a trade. But I really did spend five-fifty in advertising the wagon in the Tottenville and Gridley papers this summer, so I'm fifty cents ahead, anyway, and a fifty-cent piece is always equivalent to half a dollar!"

With which sage reflection Mr. Newbegin Titmouse went out into his small orchard to see whether he had overlooked any summer apples that were worth two dollars a barrel.

Dick sauntered down the street for a few blocks ere he heard the whirr of a Gridley-bound trolley car behind him. He quickened his pace until he reached the next corner. There he signaled to the motorman.

As the car slowed down Dick swung himself on nimbly, remarking to the conductor:

"Don't make a real stop for me. Drive on!"

As Prescott passed inside the car he was greeted by a pleasant-faced, well-dressed young man. It was Mr. Luce, one of the sub-masters of Gridley High School. Dick dropped into a seat beside him.

"Been tramping a bit, Prescott?" inquired the sub-master.

"No, sir; I've been over here on a little matter of business, but I expect to start, in a day or two, on a few weeks of tramping."

Thereupon young Prescott fell to describing the trip that he, Dave Darrin, Greg Holmes, Dan Dalzell, Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton had mapped out for themselves.

"Just for pleasure?" asked Mr. Luce.

"No, sir; for training. We all hope to make the football team this fall. We're all of us in pretty good shape, too, I think, sir; but we're going out on this training hike to see if we can't work ourselves down as hard as nails."

"I'd like to go with you," nodded the sub-master.

"Can't you do it, sir?" asked Dick eagerly, for Mr. Luce was a favorite with all the boys.

"Unfortunately, I can't," replied the submaster. "I'm expected at home. My mother and sister claim me for this month. But I wish I could go, just the same."

"You would be most welcome I assure you, sir," replied Dick warmly.

"Thank you, Prescott," returned Mr. Luce with a smile. "I appreciate your invitation and regret that I cannot accept it."

The conversation again turned to the subject of the coming football season, and an animated discussion ensued, as Sub-master Luce was an enthusiastic advocate of football.

Suddenly, Dick, glancing ahead out of the window, turned pale. Without a word of explanation he sprang from his seat and made a bound for the nearer car door, the rear one.

"Everyone off! Stop the car! Hustle!" shouted the high school boy. "Mr. Luce! Come on. Quick!"

By the time the last words were uttered Dick had made a flying leap from the car platform.

By good luck, rather more than by expert work, he landed on his feet. Not an instant did he lose, but dashed along at full speed.

John Luce, though he had no inkling of what had caused the excitement, sprang after Dick.

Dick, however, had not waited to see if the sub-master had followed him. His horror-filled eyes, as he ran, were turned straight ahead.

It needed but a few steps to carry him across the road. He bounded into a field where a loaded hay wagon stood near an apple tree.

The horses had been led away to be fed. Seated on the top of the hay were a boy of barely six and a girl not more than four years old. They were awaiting the return of the farmer.

Down below a six-year-old boy, barefooted and brown as a gipsy, had appeared on the scene during the farmer's absence.

"For fun" this youngster had been lighting match after match, making believe to set the hay afire. As he held the matches as close to the dried hay as he dared, this urchin on the ground called to the two babies above that he would "burn 'em up."

Not all of this did Dick Prescott know, but his glance through the car window had shown him the boy on the ground just as that tiny fellow had lighted another match, shouting tantalizingly to the two children on top of the load of hay.

Just as he called up to them the mischievous youngster tripped slightly. Throwing out his right hand to save himself the boy accidentally touched the bottom of the load at one side with the lighted match.

At this fateful instant it was out of the question to think of putting out the flame that leaped from wisp to wisp of the dried grass.

"Jump!" shouted the young match-burner, but the children above did not hear, or else did not realize their plight.

"Fire! Fire!" screamed the little incendiary, as he ran panic-stricken toward the farm house.

And now Dick was racing as he had never done before, even over the football gridiron. On his speed depended the lives of the two children.

CHAPTER II

THE DEED OF A HERO

At the moment of Dick's leap from the car, Sub-master Luce did not know what had happened. He realized in an instant what was the matter, and made frantic efforts to reach the scene at the same moment with Prescott.

Dick, however, kept the lead.

As the flames shot up through the hay the children on top of the hay began to gather a sense of their awful danger.

Seconds—-fractions of seconds—-were of priceless value now—-if lives were to be saved.

There was still time for the two children to jump over the side on which the flames had not yet appeared, but they were too badly frightened to know what to do.

If they should jump where the flames were leaping up they were almost certain to have their clothing catch fire, with fatal burns as a result.

Dick felt that he did not have time to shout to the frightened children. Besides, his commands would likely serve only to confuse them the more.

Terror-stricken the two little ones clasped each other and stood screaming with fear on the top of the load.

Dick's quick eye had taken in the only chance in this terrifying situation.

Straight for the apple tree he bounded, his first leap carrying him into a crotch in the tree a few feet above the ground.

Out he sprang, now, on a limb of the tree that most nearly overhung the load of hay.

That limb sagged under him—-creaked—-threatened to snap off under his weight.

But young Prescott, wholly heedless of his own safety, and with only one object in mind, scrambled out on the creaking limb as far as he could; then, with a prayer on his lips, he made a wild, strenuous leap.

Sub-master Luce turned white as he saw what Dick had attempted to do. Had he been made of more timorous stuff the high school teacher would have closed his eyes for that awful instant.

As it was, John Luce saw young Prescott land at the rear end of the load.

Dick felt himself slipping. For one frenzied second, he feared that he had failed. Young Strongheart that he was, he braced all his muscles for the supreme effort—-and drew himself up to safer footing on the hay.

Then, like an eagle, he swooped down upon the children. The little girl he snatched from her tiny brother's clasp.

"Here!" called Sub-master Luce from the further side.

Brief as the time was Dick Prescott calculated the distance like lightning. There was no time to call back to Mr. Lucen—-nor need to do so.

Aiming with all the precision at his command, Dick threw the child from him.

His aim splendidly true, he had the joy of seeing the child land in Mr. Luce's arms.

Without a moment's loss of time Prescott now snatched up the shrieking boy.

"Ready!" shouted Dick, and a second little body was thrown through the air.

Again did John Luce do credit to his college baseball training, for, hurriedly placing the girl baby on the ground he put up his hands to receive the boy.

"Jump yourself, Prescott!" bawled the submaster hoarsely.

But Dick was already in the air. With the flames shooting up and seeming fairly to lick his face, Dick had had no time to calculate his jump.

On the ground, some feet beyond the wagon, Prescott landed, sprawling on all fours.

He leaped up, however, his face twitching yet with a laugh on his lips.

Behind him the whole load of hay now flared up, crackling and hissing.

"Hurry back out of the heat!" yelled John Luce, leaping forward, seizing young Prescott and dragging him several yards away.

Dick turned in time to see the whole glowing mass cave in.

Had he arrived on the scene a few seconds later than he did both children would have perished miserably.

Now, from the house came a white-faced man, running as though some demon animated him. Behind him came a woman even paler.

Toward father and mother ran the pair of little tots, wholly unmindful of their rescuers.

As for the older, match-burning boy, that youngster half scared to death, had dashed away into hiding to escape the wrath that he knew must soon seek him.

"That was simply magnificent, Prescott!" said the sub-master enthusiastically. "But I honestly believed that it would be your last good deed."

While the sub-master spoke he was running both hands up and down over the high school boy's clothing, putting out many glowing sparks that had found lodgment in the cloth.

"It was easy," smiled Dick. "Thank goodness I saw the trouble in time!"

"There are others who are thankful that you saw it in time," uttered John Luce, as he looked toward the parents, now coming up as fast as they could, each with a child clasped in arms.

From the road went up a loud cheer. The trolley car had been halted and backed down to the scene. Though there were few people on the car, they made up amply in enthusiasm for their lack of numbers.

As for the farmer and his wife, though they tried to thank Dick and Mr. Luce, they were too completely overcome with emotion to express themselves intelligibly.

The wagon that had held the hay was now blazing fiercely. As for the hay, that had already burned to a fine powder.

"How—-how did you ever get here in time?" cried the rejoicing mother brokenly.

It was the conductor of the trolley car, just reaching the spot, who told how Dick Prescott and Mr. Luce had leaped from the moving car. The sub-master described Dick's feat in climbing the apple tree and leaping from the limb of the tree to the top of the loaded hay wagon.

"It was a nervy thing for any man to do!" choked the farmer, tears of joy running down his cheeks.

"It was just like Dick Prescott," replied John Luce simply.

As soon as possible Dick and the sub-master made their escape from the earnest protestations of gratitude of the farmer and his wife, though they did not go until Mr. Luce had persuaded the parents not to whip the mischievous match-burner, but to content themselves with pointing out to the little rascal the dreadful possibilities of such pranks.

At last, however, Dick and Mr. Luce returned to the car followed by the other passengers. The conductor gave the go-ahead signal, and the motor-man started in to try to make up some of the time lost from his schedule.

Dick, as soon as he reached Gridley, went up to Greg Holmes' house, where he knew his chums would be waiting to learn the result of his Tottenville trip.

That evening Sub-master Luce chanced to take a stroll up Main
Street. As the offices of the "Morning Blade" were lighted up,
Mr. Luce stepped inside, seeking Editor Pollock in the editorial
room.

"Is Prescott about?" asked Mr. Luce, for Dick, as our readers know, earned many a dollar as a "space-writer"; that is, he was paid so much a column for furnishing and writing up local news.

"Dick went out about ten minutes ago," replied Mr. Pollock.

"Was he here long?"

"About fifteen minutes."

"By the way, Mr. Pollock," the sub-master went on, "what do you think of Dick's latest feat?"

"Which one?"

"His fine work over on the Tottenville road this afternoon?"

"I haven't heard of it," replied Mr. Pollock, opening his eyes.

"Come to think of it," rejoined John Luce, "and knowing young
Prescott as I do, I don't suppose you have heard of it—-not from
Prescott, at all events."

Then the sub-master told the story of the burning load of hay in a way that made the "Blade's" editor reach hastily for pencil and paper that he might take notes.

"That's just the kind of story that Dick Prescott never could be depended upon to bring in here—-if he was the central character in it," observed the editor quietly.

Despite the failure of Dick to bring in this particular story, however, the "Blade," the next morning, printed more than a column from the data furnished by Mr. Luce.

Dick, however, didn't hear of it—-in Gridley. It was Harry Hazelton, who, at four o'clock, mounted a horse he had hired for the trip and rode over to Tottenville, where the camp wagon was obtained from Mr. Newbegin Titmouse. Hazelton wasted no time on the road, but drove as fast as the horse could comfortably travel.

It was but a few minutes after six o'clock, that August morning, when Dick Prescott and his five chums, collectively famous as Dick & Co., drove out of Gridley.

Harry Hazelton was now the driver, the other five high school boys walking briskly just ahead of the wagon.

Mr. Titmouse's special vehicle carried all that Dick & Co. would need in the near future, and the six boys were setting out on what was destined to be their most famous vacation jaunt.

CHAPTER III

THE PEDDLER AND THE LAWYER'S HALF

Just before leaving Gridley, Greg Holmes had bought a copy of the "Blade" from a newsboy.

Three miles out, the chums enjoyed their first halt.

"Ten minutes' rest under this tree," Dick announced, for already the August morning sun was beating down upon them.

Greg drew out his copy of the newspaper, unfolding it.

"Say!" he yelled suddenly.

"Stop that," commanded Tom Reade, "or you'll make the horse run away and wreck our outfit."

"But this paper says——-"

"Stop it," ordered Tom with a scowl. "I know what you're going to do. You'll read us some exciting stuff, and get us all worked up, and then in the last paragraph you'll stumble on the fact that some well-known Tottenville man was cured of all his ailments by Brown's Blood Bitters."

"Can you hold your tongue a minute?" demanded Greg ironically.

"Not when I see you headed that way," retorted Reade. "I've been fooled by the same style of exciting item, and I know how cheap it makes a fellow feel when he comes to the name of the Bitters, the Pills or the Sarsaparilla. Holmesy, I want to save your face for you with this crowd."

"Will you keep quiet, for a moment, and let the other fellows hear, even if you have to take a walk in order to save your own ears?" demanded Greg, with sarcasm. "This piece is about Dick Prescott, and he doesn't sign patent medicine test——-"

"Dick Prescott?" demanded Darrin. "Whoop! Let's have it!"

"It isn't a roast, is it?" demanded Danny Grin solemnly.

"No; it isn't," Greg went on. "Listen, while I read the headlines."

It was a four-line heading, beginning with "Dick Prescott's Fine
Nerve."

"There! I was afraid it was a roast, after all," sighed Danny
Grin.

"Take that fellow away and muzzle him," ordered Greg, then proceeded to read the other sections of the headlines.

By this time Greg had a very attentive audience. Even Tom Reade had ceased to scoff.

"Oh, bosh!" gasped Dick, when Greg was about one third of the way through the column article.

"Isn't it true?" demanded Dave.

"After a fashion," Dick admitted.

"Then hold off and be good while the rest of us hear about yesterday's doings."

So Dick stood by, his face growing redder and redder as the reading proceeded.

"That's what I call a dandy story," declared Greg as he finished reading.

"Dick, why didn't you tell us something about it last night?" demanded Hazelton.

"What was the use?" asked Prescott. "And, though I've always thought the 'Blade' a fine local newspaper, I don't quite approve of Mr. Pollock's judgment of news values in this instance. I suspect that Mr. Pollock must have been away, and that Mr. Bradley, the news editor, ran this in."

"It sounds like some of Len Spencer's stuff," guessed Dave. "He's great on local events."

"If they had to print the yarn, eight or ten lines would have covered it," Dick declared. "Fellows, we've used up eighteen minutes for our halt, instead of ten. Come on!"

Greg, however, after rising, and before starting, was careful to fold the "Blade" neatly and to tuck it away in a pocket. He meant to save that news story.

All of our readers are familiar with the lives and doings of Dick
Prescott and his friends up to date.

"Dick & Co.," as the boys styled their unorganized club of chums, was made up of the six boys, who had been fast friends back in their days of study at the Central Grammar School of Gridley.

They had been together in everything, and notably so in athletics
and sports. All that befell them in their later days at Central
Grammar School is told fully in the four volumes of the "Grammar
School Boys Series."

Yet it was when these same boys entered Gridley High School that they came into the fullest measure of their local fame and popularity. Even as freshmen they found a chance to accomplish far more for school athletics than is usually permitted to freshmen. It was due to their efforts that athletics were put on a sound financial basis in the Gridley High School. All this and more is described in the first volume of the "High School Boys Series," entitled "The High School Freshmen."

But it was in the second volume of that series, "The High School Pitcher," that our readers found Dick & Co. entered fully in the training squads of one of the most famous of American high schools. As described in the third volume, "The High School Left End," Dick & Co. were transferred from the baseball nine to the gridiron eleven, and by this time had become the undisputed athletic leaders of Gridley High School. These honors they had not won without tremendous opposition, especially by the formation of the notorious "Sorehead Squad" to oppose their hard earned supremacy in football. Yet Dick & Co. ever went strenuously forward, in manly, clean-cut fashion, working unceasingly for the furthering of honest American sport. Between the plottings of their enemies and a host of adventures on all sides, the school life of Dick & Co. proved exciting indeed.

In the "High School Boys' Vacation Series" our readers have followed the summer doings of Dick & Co. as distinguished from the doings of their crowded school years. The first volume devoted to the vacations of Dick & Co., "The High School Boys' Canoe Club," describes the adventures of our lads in an Indian war canoe which even their slender financial resources enabled them to buy at an auction sale of the effects of a stranded Wild West Show. In the second volume of this series, "The High School Boys In Summer Camp," our readers came upon an even more exciting narrative of keenly enjoyed summer doings, replete with lively adventures. In that volume the activities of Tag Mosher, a strangely odd character, kept Dick & Co. continually on the alert. In the third volume of the vacation series, entitled "The High School Boys' Fishing Trip," were chronicled the things that befell Dick & Co. while away on a fishing expedition that became famous in the annals of Gridley school days. This third volume was full to the brim with the sort of adventures that boys most love. Some old enemies of Dick & Co. appeared; how they were put to rout is well known to all our readers. How Dick & Co. played a huge joke, and several smaller ones upon their enemies, is described in that volume.

In this present volume will be recounted all that befell Dick & Co. in August after completing their junior year in Gridley High School, just as the preceding or third volume dealt with the happenings of July of that same summer.

After that first halt Dick & Co. plodded on for another hour. But Prescott, noting that Hazelton was still on the driver's seat of the camp wagon, blandly inquired:

"Harry, if you sit up there, lazily holding the reins, how do you expect to get your share of the training work of this hike?"

"Perhaps I'd rather have the comfort than the training work," laughed Hazelton.

"That will never do!" smiled Dick. "Suppose you climb down and let Danny Grin take your place at the reins until the next halt. I suspect that Danny boy already has a few pebbles in his shoes, and that he'll be glad enough to look over the world from the driver's seat."

"I'm willing to sacrifice myself for the good of the expedition, anyway," sighed Dalzell, as Harry drew rein. "Come down with you, Hazy, and begin to share the delights of this walking match!"

The change of drivers made, Dick & Co. plodded on again.

"It seems to me that we ought to put on more speed," suggested
Dave Darrin.

"Are you in a hurry to get somewhere, Darry?" drawled Tom Reade.

"No," Dave replied, "but, if we're out for training, it seems to me that we had better do brisker walking than we're doing now, even if the horse can't keep up with us."

"We're making about three miles and a half an hour," Dick responded.

"But will that be work enough to make us as hard as nails?" persisted
Darry.

"We're getting over the ground as fast as the troops of the regular army usually travel," Prescott rejoined. "I believe our regulars are generally regarded as rather perfect specimens in the walking line. We might move along at a speed of six miles, and might keep it up for an hour. Then we'd be footsore, and all in. If the first hour didn't do it, the second hour would. But if we plug along in this deliberate fashion, and get over fifteen, eighteen or twenty miles a day, and keep it up, I don't believe any one of you fellows will complain, September first, that he isn't as hard and solid as he wants to be—-even for bucking the football lines, of other high schools."

"I know that I can be satisfied with this gait," murmured Reade.

"If Darry wants to move faster," suggested Hazelton, "why not tell him where to wait for us, and let him gallop ahead?"

"I'll stay with the rest of you," Darry retorted. "All I want to make sure of is that we're going to get the most out of our training work this summer."

"I'll tell you what you might do, Dave, by way of extra exercise and hardening," offered Tom.

"What?" asked Dave suspiciously.

"I believe we're going to halt every hour for a brief rest"

"Yes."

"While the five of us are resting under the trees, Darry, you might climb the trees, swinging from limb to limb and leaping from tree to tree. Of course you'll select trees that are not directly over our heads."

"Humph!" retorted Dave.

"Try it, anyway," urged Tom, "it's fine exercise, even if you give it up after a while."

"I'll try it as often as you do," Darrin agreed with a grin.

Their second halt found the high school boys more than six miles from their starting point.

On this trip they were not heading in the direction they had followed on their fishing trip. Instead, they were traveling in the opposite direction from Gridley, through a fairly populous farming region.

At a quarter-past ten o'clock Dick called for another halt. The road map that the boys had brought along showed them that they were now eleven miles from Gridley.

"Pretty fair work," muttered Tom, "considering that these roads were built by men who had never seen any better kind."

"We can more than double the distance," suggested Dave, "before we go into camp for the night."

"If we hike a couple more miles this morning, then halt, get the noon meal and rest until two o'clock," replied young Prescott, "I think we shall do better."

"If we've gone only eleven miles," protested Darrin, "then I'm certainly good for twenty-five miles in all to-day, and I believe the rest of you are, too."

"Wait until we've done eighteen or twenty miles," Prescott proposed.
"Then we can take a vote about making it twenty-five."

"For one thing," Darry objected, "none of us actually walks twenty-five miles when we cover that distance. We take turns riding on the wagon, and, as there are six of us, that means that each fellow rides something like four miles of the distance covered."

"What Darry is driving at," proposed Danny Grin, "is that he wants to devote himself wholly to walking hereafter. He doesn't care about driving the horse."

"I'm big enough and cranky enough to do my own talking, when there is any reason for my entering into the conversation," smiled Dave.

At a little after eleven that morning, when thirteen and a half miles had been covered, all hands were willing enough to halt and rest, prepare luncheon and rest again.

"But I still hope we shall cover the twenty-five miles to-day,"
Darry insisted.

"No difficulty about that, either," declared Harry Hazelton. "Darry, while we are swapping stories over the campfire this evening you can take a lantern and do an extra five miles by way of an evening walk. Then you'll be tired enough to sleep."

"I'll see about it," Darrin laughed.

"And that's the last we'll hear about it," Tom predicted dryly.

"It is the experience of every military commander, so I've read," Dick went on, "that a long march the first day of a big hike is no especially good sign of how the soldiers will hold out to the end. On the contrary, military men have found that it's better to march a shorter distance on the first day and to work up gradually to a good standard of performance."

"All right," agreed Hazelton. "For one, I'm willing to take a rest after eating, and then take the afternoon for getting acquainted with this pretty grove."

"We won't quite do that, either, if I have my way," Prescott laughed. "We ought to do a few miles this afternoon, but not set out to do any record-breaking or back-breaking stunt."

"There goes hazy's dream up in the air," laughed Greg. "I just knew that Hazy was planning how to spend the afternoon napping."

"I'll volunteer to drive all the way, this afternoon," Harry offered. "That will give all of you fellows a chance to harden yourselves more on the first day."

"If you want to know a good definition of 'generosity,' then ask
Hazy," snorted Dalzell.

"Come on!" cried Dick good-humoredly. "Scatter. Some for wood, some for water. Tom and I will get the kitchen kit ready for a meal. But we must have the wood and water before we can prepare luncheon."

At that suggestion of something to eat there was a general rush to get things in readiness. As soon as a fire was going in the stove in the wagon, Dick put on a frying pan. Into this he dropped several slices of bacon. Tom, over a fire built on the ground, set the coffee-pot going. In a pot on the stove Dick put potatoes to cook.

Now Dave rattled out the dishes, as soon as Greg and Hazy had set up the folding table. Dan placed the chairs.

"Get ready!" called Dick, as soon as he had fried two platters full of bacon and eggs. Tom, will you try the potatoes?"

"Done," responded Reade, after prodding the potatoes with a fork.

"What shall we do with the food that's left over?" asked Danny
Grin, as he began to eat.

"There isn't going to be any food left over," Dick laughed. "You fellows will be lucky, indeed, if you get as much as you want."

Everyone was satisfied, however, by the time that the meal was finished.

"Greg and Harry may have the pleasure of washing the dishes,"
Dick suggested.

"Oh, dear!" grunted Hazy, but he went at his task without further remarks.

Before one o'clock everything was in readiness for going forward again, save for putting the horse between the shafts of the wagon. Prescott, however, put a proposition to rest until two o'clock before his chums. It was unanimously carried.

Despite his desire for a walking record that day, Darry proved quite willing to lie off at full length in the shade of the trees and doze as much as the flies would permit.

Dick and Tom strolled slowly down toward the road, halting by a couple of trees.

"There's something you don't often see, nowadays," spoke up Tom after a while.

He nodded back up the road. Coming in the same direction that the boys themselves had traveled was a faded, queer-looking old red wagon, much decorated on the outside by a lot of hanging, swinging tin and agate ware.

"That's the old-fashioned tin-peddler that I've heard a good deal about as being a common enough character some forty years ago," said Prescott. "Our grandmothers used to save up meat-bones, rags and bottles and trade them off to the peddler, receiving tinware in return."

"The man on that wagon was doing business forty years ago," remarked Tom. "In fact, judging by his appearance, he must have been quite a veteran at the business even forty years ago."

A bent, little old man it was who was perched upon the seat of the red wagon. Once upon a time his hair had been tawny. Now it was streaked liberally with gray. He was smoking a black little wooden pipe and paying small attention to the sad-eyed, bony horse between the shafts. There was a far-away, rather dull look in the old peddler's eyes.

Just before he reached the boys, whom he had not seen, he took a piece of paper from his pocket, pulled his spectacles down from his forehead and read the paper.

"I don't understand it," muttered the peddler, aloud. "I can't understand it. I wish I had someone to give me the right of it."

"Could we be of any service, sir?" Reade inquired.

Hearing a human voice so close at hand the peddler started for an instant. Then he pulled in the horse.

"I dunno whether you can be of much use to me," answered the peddler slowly. "You don't look old enough to know much about business."

"Still, I know more than anyone would think, from just looking at me," volunteered Reade, reddening a bit as he saw the laughter in Dick Prescott's eyes.

"Maybe you can explain this riddle," went on the peddler, extending the sheet of white paper. "It can't do any harm to give you a chance. You see, I had a bill of twenty dollars against Bill Peterson. The bill had been running three years, and I couldn't get anything out of Bill but promises without any exact dates tied to 'em. I needed the money as bad as Bill did, so at last I went to Lawyer Stark to see what could be done about it. Lawyer Stark said he'd tackle the job if I'd give him half. I agreed to that, for half a loaf is better'n nothing at all, as you may have heard. Then weeks went by, and I heard nothing from Squire Stark. So the other night I writ a letter, asking him how the collection of the bill was coming on. This is the answer he sends me."

So Tom read aloud, from the typewritten sheet, the following remarkably brief communication:

"Dear Sir: Answering your letter of yesterday's date, I have to advise you that I have collected my half of the Peterson bill. Your half I regard as extremely doubtful."

This was signed with the name of Lawyer Stark.

Tom Reade glanced through the note again, then gave vent to a shout of laughter.

"Eh?" asked the peddler looking puzzled.

"I beg your pardon, sir," replied Reade instantly. "I shouldn't have laughed, but this struck me, at first, as one of the funniest letters I ever saw. So the lawyer has collected his half of the twenty and regards the collection of your half as exceedingly doubtful!"

"Shouldn't Lawyer Stark give me half of the ten he got from Bill
Peterson?" asked the peddler anxiously.

"Undoubtedly he should," Tom assented, "and just as undoubtedly he hasn't any idea of doing so."

"What do you say, young man?" inquired the peddler, turning to young Prescott.