The High School Boys Fishing Trip | Page 3

beginning of a snore.
"Are you very tired, Timmy?" continued his father craftily.
Still no answer.
Mr. Finbrink held the lantern so that the rays shone fully against the
boy's closed eyelids. Any youngster genuinely asleep would have
opened his eyes instantly, and Mr. Finbrink knew it. But Timmy began
to snore in earnest.
"I'm glad you sleep so soundly," went on Mr. Finbrink. "It shows, boy,
what a clear conscience you have! No guile in your heart! But I wish
you'd wake up and tell me who broke the bottle against the brick and
made me sprint down the street."
Still young Master Timmy snored.
"In your sleeve you're laughing, to think how you fooled your father,
aren't you?" murmured Mr. Finbrink. "Well, it was a good joke, and I
admit it, young man, so I'm not going to trounce you this time. But I'd
be glad if you'd wake up and tell me who put you up to that game."
Master Timmy, however, was disobliging enough to slumber on.

"All right, then," nodded the father. "I say again, it was a good joke.
Good night!"
Only a little louder snore served as the son's answer. Mr. Finbrink went
out, closed the door and his footsteps sounded down the hallway.
"Whew!" gasped Master Timmy, opening his eyes presently. "That was
a mighty narrow squeak! But I got out of it this time. That Tom Reade
is a sure enough wonder!"
Mr. Finbrink, however, had slipped back, catfooted, and was now
outside the door, where he could hear the barely audible mutterings of
his son and heir.
"So it was Tom Reade, eh?" murmured Mr. Finbrink, as he started for
the stairs in earnest this time. "I might have guessed it was Tom Reade.
He has genius enough for even greater things than that. But Timmy has
certainly helped, at least, to earn a right not to be strapped this time."
Then the father returned to his chair downstairs, to resume his
interrupted smoke. Within the next half hour Mr. Finbrink chuckled
many a time over the remembrance of the pranks of his boyhood days.
"But we had no Tom Reade in our crowd in those good old days," he
repeated to himself several times. "If we had had a Tom Reade among
us, I think we would have beaten any crowd of boys of to-day!"
Meanwhile Tom's love of mischief was speeding him into other
experiences ere he reached his bed that night. Some of the
consequences of his mischievous prank were to be immediate, others
more remote.
"Humph! But that did sound just like a window breaking," Tom
chuckled as he slowed down to a walk. "Whee! I'd like to show that one
to Dick Prescott. I wonder if he is up yet?"
Whereupon Tom walked briskly over to the side street, just off Main
Street, whereon stood the book store of Prescott, Senior, with the
Prescotts' living rooms overhead.

"Good evening, Mr. Prescott. Good evening, Mrs. Prescott," was Tom's
greeting as he walked into the store. "Is Dick up yet?"
"He went upstairs not more than two minutes ago," Mrs. Prescott
replied. "He can't be asleep yet. Shall I call upstairs to see?"
"On second thought, perhaps not," Tom replied. "Thank you, just as
much. But I've something new that I'd like to show Dick. Do you mind
if I slip out around the back of the store and try a new trick on him? It
won't hurt anyone; there'll be a crash of glass, but it won't break any
good glass---merely a bottle."
"I think that perhaps our son needs a little enlivening," smiled Mr.
Prescott.
"Thank you," answered Tom. "You won't be startled, will you, Mrs.
Prescott?"
"I don't see how I can possibly be startled, when I've been so kindly
warned," laughed Mrs. Prescott.
Then, as Reade darted from the store, Mrs. Prescott added, to her
husband:
"I think the back of Tom Reade's head contains more pranks than that
of any other boy I ever knew."
"I don't imagine our own son is any too far behind him," replied Mr.
Prescott dryly.
A minute or two passed. Then there sounded under one of the store's
rear windows a most realistic crash of glass. With it mingled another
sound, not so easy to determine, followed by a loud yell and the noise
of running feet. Now, out in the street the cry sounded:
"There he goes! Get him!"
"Throw him down and hold him!" yelled another voice.

"Mercy!" gasped Mrs. Prescott.
"Don't be alarmed, my dear," smiled Mr. Prescott. "It's only the natural
aftermath of Tom Reade's newest startler."
Was it?
Dick Prescott, after yawning twice, and before starting to disrobe, had
decided that his adjustable screen was not fixed in the window of his
bedroom as