The Grammar School Boys of Gridley | Page 4

the ball
about like this."
Picking up the book, Dick used both hands in trying to give it the right
preliminary curve.
"But his delivery is, of course, the great feature," the lad went on.
"When Pendleton has the ball curved just right, he raises his right and
lets it go like this!"
Dick was facing the bevy of girls. They were so certain he was going to
hurl the book in their direction that they scattered with little cries of
alarm.
So forcefully had young Prescott prepared for the throw that the book
did leave his hand, though the boy made a frantic effort--apparently--to

recover the missile.
Not toward the retreating girls, however, did the book fly. It spun
nearly at right angles, and----
Smack! it went, full into the face of Principal E. Dutton Jones.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!" cried Dick in a voice ringing with remorse.
"That must hurt you very much, sir."
"It is nothing," replied Old Dut gamely, though the unexpected shock
had nearly taken his breath. Then he put one hand up to his injured face.
"Why, I believe my nose is bleeding," he added, making a quick dive
for his handkerchief.
In truth the nose was bleeding. Old Dut made a specialty of low-cut
vests and white, immaculate shirt-fronts. Before the handkerchief was
in place, three bright, crimson drops had fallen, rendering the shirt-front
a gruesome sight to look at.
"Oh, sir, I hope you will excuse me," followed up Dick.
"Oh, yes; certainly," dryly returned the principal, as he rose and made
for his private room. There was a handbowl in there, with hot and cold
water, and the principal of the Central Grammar School of Gridley was
soon busy repairing his personal appearance.
No sooner had he vanished behind the open door than Dave Darrin,
Tom Reade, Dan Dalzell, Greg Holmes, Harry Hazelton and several
other boys grinned broadly in their huge delight. Dick Prescott,
however, admirable actor that he was, still wore a look of concern on
his rather fine young face.
"One thing I've learned to-day, which I ought to have known before,"
grimly mused Old Dut, as he sopped a wet towel to his injured nose.
"Dick Prescott doesn't need any guardian. He can look out for himself!"
"Wasn't it awful?" repeated a girl's voice out in the schoolroom.

"No," replied her companion. "I don't think it was. After what he did it
served him just right!"
"I'm getting the usual sympathy that is awarded to the vanquished,"
smiled Old Dut to himself. "That's Laura Bentley's voice. She didn't
laugh when I was having my innings with Dick. She flushed up and
looked indignant."
Before Old Dut felt that he was in shape to present himself, all of the
eight grades had received seven minutes' additional recess.
At last studies were resumed. Old Dut, however, noted that whenever
one of the boys or girls looked up and caught sight of his expansive,
crimsoned shirt-front, a smile always followed.
CHAPTER II
A BRUSH ON THE STREET
By the time that the noon dismissal bell rang the rain had ceased, and
the sun was struggling out.
Out in the coatroom Dick snatched his hat from the nail as though he
were in haste to get away.
"I'll race you home, as far as we go together," proposed Dave Darrin.
"Go you!" hovered on the tip of Prescott's tongue, but just then another
thought popped into Dick's mind. It was a manly idea, and he had
learned to act promptly on such impulses.
"Wait a moment," he answered Darrin. "I've got something to do."
With that Dick marched back into the schoolroom. Old Dut, looking up
from the books that he was placing in a tidy pile on the platform desk,
smiled.
"I came back to ask, sir, if your nose pains?"

Old Dut shot a keen glance at young Prescott, for long experience had
taught the school-teacher that malice sometimes lurks behind the most
innocent question from a boy. Then he answered:
"I'm glad to be able to report, Master Prescott, that my nose is causing
me no trouble whatever."
"I'm very glad of that, sir. I've been a bit uncomfortable, since recess,
thinking that perhaps my--that my act had broken your nose, and that
you were just too game to let any one know. I'm glad no real harm was
done, sir."
Then Dick turned, anxious to get out into the open as quickly as
possible.
"One moment, Master Prescott!"
Dick wheeled about again.
"Are you sure that the book-throwing was an accident?"
"I--I am afraid it wasn't, sir," Dick confessed, reddening.
"Then, if you threw the book into my face on purpose, why did you do
it!"
"I was a good deal provoked, Mr. Jones."
"Oh! Provoked over the