heard it in the new house up on the hill, and Reddy Cuddeback heard it in the mill settlement down by the river. Will Rogers heard it while he was dressing, and rushed out without stopping to complete his toilet. Thus the echoes of Cal's first summons had hardly died away before every Ranger in the village was tearing up or down the long street toward the engine-house, and yelling at the top of his voice.

The first to arrive got there even ahead of Evert Bangs, and were already running out the natty little red-and-gold engine as he drove up.

"Hold on!" he shouted. "I ruther guess your engine won't be wanted just yet. Seems to me you boys get het up terrible easy. No, your 'Hi-ho!' don't mean fire this time, nor nothing like it. What it means is bicycles, and here they be. I was calculating to have 'em all unloaded before any of you fellers showed up, as a sort of surprise, you understand; but seeing as you're on hand, I guess you'd better help."

Better help! Wouldn't they, though? and weren't they just glad of the chance? So many and so eager were the hands upraised to grasp the precious crates, that, even while some of the later arrivals were still asking, "where was the fire?" the last one was lifted out, carried into the engine-house, and there carefully deposited.

"How many are there?" asked "Cracker" Bob Jones, anxiously, as Evert Bangs drove off with his empty wagon, and the engine-house doors were closed to all except Rangers.

"I don't know," replied Will Rogers. "Let's count them."

As all began to count aloud at the same moment, it is not surprising that several different results were announced. "Fifteen!" shouted Si Carew. "Eight!" called little Cal Woody.

"Oh, pshaw!" laughed Will Rogers. "You fellows are so excited that I don't believe any one of you could say his A B C's straight through. Keep quiet for a moment and let me count them. One, two, three, four, fi— There! I believe I've missed one already. One, two, three—"

"Here's a letter for you, Will," shouted Hal Bacon, who had been to the post-office, and came running breathlessly in at that moment. "What's all this I hear about bicycles? Oh, my eye! What a lot! How did they get here?"

"Just wheeled themselves up from New York," laughed Will, at the same time tearing open his letter, which was postmarked at that city. After a hasty glance at its contents, he called for silence, and read the following:

Sincerely their friend,
L. A. Burgess.

"Ten bicycles for three hundred and fifty dollars!" cried "Cracker" Bob Jones. "And all of 'em first-class, A No. 1 machines. That beats anything I ever heard of. If Mr. Burgess has got any more to sell at the same price I'd like to take them off his hands, that's all."

"But he hasn't," declared Will Rogers. "Don't you remember that ten was the exact number he happened to have?"

"And it's the exact number that happens to make just one apiece for us," commented Abe Cruger. "Seems to me that's about as big a piece of luck as I ever ran across."

"If it is luck," added Hal Bacon, shrewdly.

"Let's open 'em right away," cried Cal Moody, jumping up and down in his excitement. "It doesn't seem as if I could wait another minute."

"Yes. Let's open 'em!" shouted half a dozen voices.

"Hold on," commanded Will Rogers. "We haven't time to open all the crates and put the machines together now. Besides, Pop Miller isn't here, nor lots of people who have helped us get these bicycles, and who would be awfully interested in seeing them opened. So I propose that we leave them just as they are until after school, and then hold what you might call an opening reception."

Although the Rangers agreed to this proposition, it was with reluctance; and that their thoughts remained with those precious crates all day was shown in more ways than one. In school, for instance, when little Cal Moody was asked to spell and define the word biennial, he promptly replied, with "Bi—bi, cy—cy, cle—cle—bicycle—a machine having two wheels;" and when "Cracker" Bob Jones was requested to favor the arithmetic class with an example in percentage he complied by stating, "that if ten bicycles, listed at $125 each, could be bought for $350, and sold at their listed price, the percentage of profit would be—" Just here he was interrupted by a shout of laughter, in which even the teacher, who thoroughly understood and sympathized with the situation, was forced to join.

When the hour for the opening of the crates at length arrived, half the village was there to see, and when the ten glittering bicycles, each of which bore a small silver plate inscribed with the name of its new owner, were finally put together and displayed to the admiring public of Berks, there were no happier nor prouder boys in the United States than the young Rangers who had earned them.

From that time on, they rode their bicycles during every leisure moment, and on the 30th of May they celebrated their birthday by giving an exhibition parade as bicycle fire scouts, that was pronounced the very finest thing of its kind ever seen in that section of country. In this parade each machine carried a fire bucket, and while some also bore axes, others were equipped with the rope-ladder that Will Rogers and Sam Ray had used so effectively, a fire-net, blankets, spades, and other articles to be used in an emergency.

The Chester Wheel Club came over to join in the parade, and with them came the bicycle-supply man, who was so impressed with the fact that Berks was becoming a bicycling centre that he at once established a branch of his business there, and appointed Pop Miller his agent.

Best of all was a visit from Tom Burgess, who came on from New York, not only to take part in the parade, but to unfold the gorgeous plan he had evolved for the summer vacation, and in which he wished his fellow Rangers to join. He first confided it privately to Will Rogers, and when he concluded, the latter exclaimed:

"Tom Burgess, it seems almost too good to be true, but with the experience we've already gained in Blue Billows I believe we can carry it through. If we only can, it will be the biggest thing the Rangers have undertaken yet."

[to be continued.]

GREAT MEN'S SONS.

BY ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS.

THE SON OF SHAKESPEARE.

Many years ago had you been, let us say, a tinker travelling with your wares or a knight riding by, you might have passed, upon a small arched bridge that spanned a little river in the heart of "Merrie England," a small boy, hanging over the railing, now watching the rippling water, or with eager eyes looking along the roadway that ran between green meadows toward that distant London, from which,