The High School Boys Fishing Trip | Page 2

chance to slip into the house,
get upstairs, undressed and be in bed before your father has time to get
over the surprise that's coming to him."
"What are you going to-----" Timmy began breathlessly, but Tom
interrupted him with:
"Keep quiet, and be ready to follow orders fast."
As they gained the front gate of the Finbrink yard Tom's keen eyes
noted a brick lying on the grass. As that was just what he wanted, he
pounced upon it.
"Now, Timmy, do you know where you can find a fairly good-sized
bottle---without going into the house or taking the risk of being seen by
your father?"

"Yes; there's one back of the house, with the ashes," Timmy answered
eagerly.
"Go and get it, and don't make any noise."
Timmy disappeared in the darkness beyond, but soon returned carrying
an empty quart bottle.
"Good enough!" whispered Reade, eyeing the bottle with cordial
interest. Then he noiselessly approached the house, laying the brick on
the grass under one of the front windows.
"Now, Timmy, you slip around to the back of the house," whispered the
young schemer. "Just as soon as you hear a crash you watch your
swiftest chance to slip into the house and upstairs to bed. Understand?"
"Sure! What you-----"
"Don't stop to ask questions. Get on your mark and look out for your
own best interests!"
Rejoicing in the possession of such a valuable ally as Tom Reade,
Timmy vanished in the darkness. Tom Reade waited until he judged
that the youngster must be in position near the back door. Now Tom
gripped the bottle in his left hand, crouching over the brick.
With his felt hat in his right hand, Tom reached up, hitting a window
pane smartly with the hat. At the same instant he brought the bottle
crashing down over the brick.
As the bottle smashed against the brick Mr. Finbrink, in the dining
room of the house, jumped up so quickly that he dropped his pipe.
"Some young rascal has smashed a front window!" he gasped, as he
bolted into the parlor.
That was just what the noise had sounded like, and Tom Reade had
intended that it should do so.

"I'll catch the young scamp!" gasped Mr. Finbrink, making a rush for
the front door, which he pulled open.
Pausing an instant, he heard the sound of running feet in the distance.
"The young scoundrel went west, and he has a good start," grunted Mr.
Finbrink, as he gave chase in that direction. "Hang it, I don't believe I
can catch him!"
That guess proved well founded. After running a short distance Mr.
Finbrink halted. He had not caught sight of the fugitive, nor could he
now hear the running steps.
"I wonder how many panes of glass the young scamp broke?" muttered
the irate Mr. Finbrink.
Retracing his steps quickly, Mr. Finbrink halted in front of his house,
scanning the windows. Not a crack in a window pane could he discern,
which was not remarkable, in view of the fact that no panes of glass
had been broken.
"I need a lantern," Mr. Finbrink said to himself, and went inside the
house. Soon afterwards he came out with a lighted lantern, and began
his inspection. Three windows showed no sign of damage. Nor did the
fourth. Then Mr. Finbrink chanced to glance down at the ground. There
rested the brick, the fragments of the broken bottle lying around it.
"Say, what's that? What's that?" ejaculated Mr. Finbrink, much puzzled.
Soon, however, he began to see light on the riddle. His lips parted in a
grin; the grin became a chuckle.
"Humph! That goes ahead of anything I ever had the brains to think up
when I was a boy," laughed the man. "That's a good one! It sounded for
all the world as though someone had smashed one of my windows with
a brick-bat. Ha, ha, ha! That's an all right one! I'd be willing to shake
hands with the boy who put up that joke on me. How about my own
Timmy, I wonder? No; Timmy wouldn't be smart enough for this
one---but he may have smart friends. I'll look up that young hopeful of

mine!"
With that purpose in view, the lantern still in his hand, Mr. Finbrink
passed into the house and then up the back stairs. On the next floor he
pushed open the door of a room, holding the lantern high as he scanned
the bed.
There lay Master Timmy, covered only with a sheet, his head sunk in
the depths of a pillow, eyes tightly closed, and breathing with almost
mechanical rhythm.
"Oh, you're asleep, aren't you?" demanded his father, in a low, ironical
voice. "How long have you been asleep, Tim?"
But Timmy's only answer was the