The High School Left End | Page 4

poorer fellows are in it."
"What nonsense!" ejaculated Greg Holmes disgustedly. "Why, Purcell
isn't in any such crowd. Of course, Purcell's father isn't rich beyond the
dreams of avarice, but the Purcells, as far as blood goes, are head and
shoulders above the families of any of the fellows on Dick's little list."
"If that's really what the disagreement is over," drawled Dan, "I see an
easy way out of it."
"Go ahead," nodded Dick.
"Let the 'soreheads' form the Sons of Tax-payers Eleven, and we'll
organize a Sons of poor but Honest Parents Eleven. Then we'll play
them the best two out of three games for the honor of representing

Gridley High School this year."
"Bright, but not practicable," objected Dick patiently. "The trouble is
that, if two such teams were formed and matched, neither team, in the
event of its victory, would have all of the best gridiron stuff that the
High School contains. No, no; what we want, if possible, is some plan
that will bring the whole student body together, all differences
forgotten and with the sole purpose of getting up the best eleven that
Gridley can possibly send out against the world."
"Well, we are willing," remarked Darrin grimly.
"No! No, we're not," objected Hazelton fiercely. "If the snobs don't
want to play with any of us on the team, then we don't want to play if
they come in."
"Gently, gently!" urged Dick. "Think of the honor of your school
before you tie your hands up with any of your own mean, small pride.
Our whole idea must be that Gridley High School is to go on winning,
as it has always done before. For myself, I had hoped to be on the
eleven this year. Yet, if my staying off the list will put Gridley in the
winning set, I'm willing to give up my own ambitions. I'm going to put
the honor of the school first, and myself somewhere along about
fourteenth."
"That's the only talk," approved Dave promptly. "Gridley must have the
winning football eleven."
"Well, the whole thing is a shame," blazed Reade indignantly.
"Oh, well, don't worry," drawled Dan Dalzell. "Keep cool, and the
whole thing will be fixed."
"Fixed?" insisted Reade. "How? How will it be fixed?"
"I don't know," Dan confessed, stifling a yawn behind his hand. "Just
leave the worry alone. Let Dick fix it."

"How can you fix it?" asked Reade, turning upon their leader.
"I don't know---yet," hesitated Prescott. But, like Dan, I believe there's
a way to be found."
"Going?" asked Hazelton. "Well, I'll trot along, too."
"Yes," nodded Greg. "It's a shame to stay here, hardening Dick's
mattress when he ought to be lying on it himself. It's time we were all
in bed. Good night, Dick, old fellow."
Four of the boys were speedily gone. Darrin, however, remained behind,
though he intended to stay only a few minutes. The two were earnestly
discussing the squally football "weather" when the elder Prescott's
voice sounded from the foot of the stairs.
"Dick?"
"Yes, sir," answered the boy, throwing open the door and springing to
the head of the stairs.
"Mr. Bradley, of 'The Blade,' wants to talk with you over the 'phone. In
a hurry, too, he says.
"I'll be right there, Dad. Coming, Dave?"
Darrin nodding, the two chums ran down the stairs to the bookstore.
Dick caught up the transmitter and answered.
"That you, Dick?" sounded the impatient voice of News Editor
Bradley.
"This is Dick Prescott, Mr. Bradley."
"Then, for goodness' sake, can you hustle up here?"
"Of course I can."
"Ask your father if you can take up a late night job for me. Then come

on the jump. My men are all out, and everything is at odds and ends in
the way of news. I can't get a single man, and I wish I had three at this
minute."
"Dave Darrin is here. Can I bring him along?"
"Yes; he's not a reporter---but he may be able to help. Hustle."
"I'll be walking in through the doorway," laughed Dick, "by the time
you've hung your transmitter up. Good-bye." Ting-a-ling-ling! "Now,
Dave, get your father on the jump, and ask his leave to go out on a late
night story with me."
Fortunately there was no delay about this. Dave received the
permission from home promptly enough. The two youngsters set out on
a run.
What healthy boy of sixteen doesn't love to prowl late a night? It is
twenty-fold more fascinating when there's a mystery on tap, and a
newspaper behind all the curiosity.
The longing of these sturdy chums for mystery and adventure was
swiftly to be gratified---perhaps more so than they could have wished!
News Editor Bradley was waiting for them in the doorway of "The
Blade" office,