The High School Boys Training Hike | Page 6

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