The Grammar School Boys Snowbound | Page 8

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