id="id00154">Dick turned in time to see the whole glowing mass cave in.

Had he arrived on the scene a few seconds later than he did both children would have perished miserably.

Now, from the house came a white-faced man, running as though some demon animated him. Behind him came a woman even paler.

Toward father and mother ran the pair of little tots, wholly unmindful of their rescuers.

As for the older, match-burning boy, that youngster half scared to death, had dashed away into hiding to escape the wrath that he knew must soon seek him.

"That was simply magnificent, Prescott!" said the sub-master enthusiastically. "But I honestly believed that it would be your last good deed."

While the sub-master spoke he was running both hands up and down over the high school boy's clothing, putting out many glowing sparks that had found lodgment in the cloth.

"It was easy," smiled Dick. "Thank goodness I saw the trouble in time!"

"There are others who are thankful that you saw it in time," uttered John Luce, as he looked toward the parents, now coming up as fast as they could, each with a child clasped in arms.

From the road went up a loud cheer. The trolley car had been halted and backed down to the scene. Though there were few people on the car, they made up amply in enthusiasm for their lack of numbers.

As for the farmer and his wife, though they tried to thank Dick and Mr. Luce, they were too completely overcome with emotion to express themselves intelligibly.

The wagon that had held the hay was now blazing fiercely. As for the hay, that had already burned to a fine powder.

"How—-how did you ever get here in time?" cried the rejoicing mother brokenly.

It was the conductor of the trolley car, just reaching the spot, who told how Dick Prescott and Mr. Luce had leaped from the moving car. The sub-master described Dick's feat in climbing the apple tree and leaping from the limb of the tree to the top of the loaded hay wagon.

"It was a nervy thing for any man to do!" choked the farmer, tears of joy running down his cheeks.

"It was just like Dick Prescott," replied John Luce simply.

As soon as possible Dick and the sub-master made their escape from the earnest protestations of gratitude of the farmer and his wife, though they did not go until Mr. Luce had persuaded the parents not to whip the mischievous match-burner, but to content themselves with pointing out to the little rascal the dreadful possibilities of such pranks.

At last, however, Dick and Mr. Luce returned to the car followed by the other passengers. The conductor gave the go-ahead signal, and the motor-man started in to try to make up some of the time lost from his schedule.

Dick, as soon as he reached Gridley, went up to Greg Holmes' house, where he knew his chums would be waiting to learn the result of his Tottenville trip.

That evening Sub-master Luce chanced to take a stroll up Main
Street. As the offices of the "Morning Blade" were lighted up,
Mr. Luce stepped inside, seeking Editor Pollock in the editorial
room.

"Is Prescott about?" asked Mr. Luce, for Dick, as our readers know, earned many a dollar as a "space-writer"; that is, he was paid so much a column for furnishing and writing up local news.

"Dick went out about ten minutes ago," replied Mr. Pollock.

"Was he here long?"

"About fifteen minutes."

"By the way, Mr. Pollock," the sub-master went on, "what do you think of Dick's latest feat?"

"Which one?"

"His fine work over on the Tottenville road this afternoon?"

"I haven't heard of it," replied Mr. Pollock, opening his eyes.

"Come to think of it," rejoined John Luce, "and knowing young
Prescott as I do, I don't suppose you have heard of it—-not from
Prescott, at all events."

Then the sub-master told the story of the burning load of hay in a way that made the "Blade's" editor reach hastily for pencil and paper that he might take notes.

"That's just the kind of story that Dick Prescott never could be depended upon to bring in here—-if he was the central character in it," observed the editor quietly.

Despite the failure of Dick to bring in this particular story, however, the "Blade," the next morning, printed more than a column from the data furnished by Mr. Luce.

Dick, however, didn't hear of it—-in Gridley. It was Harry Hazelton, who, at four o'clock, mounted a horse he had hired for the trip and rode over to Tottenville, where the camp wagon was obtained from Mr. Newbegin Titmouse. Hazelton wasted no time on the road, but drove as fast as the horse could comfortably travel.

It was but a few minutes after six o'clock, that August morning, when Dick Prescott and his five chums, collectively famous as Dick & Co., drove out of Gridley.

Harry Hazelton was now the driver, the other five high school boys walking briskly just ahead of the wagon.

Mr. Titmouse's special vehicle carried all that Dick & Co. would need in the near future, and the six boys were setting out on what was destined to be their most famous vacation jaunt.

CHAPTER III

THE PEDDLER AND THE LAWYER'S HALF

Just before leaving Gridley, Greg Holmes had bought a copy of the "Blade" from a newsboy.

Three miles out, the chums enjoyed their first halt.

"Ten minutes' rest under this tree," Dick announced, for already the August morning sun was beating down upon them.

Greg drew out his copy of the newspaper, unfolding it.

"Say!" he yelled suddenly.

"Stop that," commanded Tom Reade, "or you'll make the horse run away and wreck our outfit."

"But this paper says——-"

"Stop it," ordered Tom with a scowl. "I know what you're going to do. You'll read us some exciting stuff, and get us all worked up, and then in the last paragraph you'll stumble on the fact that some well-known Tottenville man was cured of all his ailments by Brown's Blood Bitters."

"Can you hold your tongue a minute?" demanded Greg ironically.

"Not when I see you headed that way," retorted Reade. "I've been fooled by the same style of exciting item, and I know how cheap it makes a fellow feel when he comes to the name of the Bitters, the Pills or the Sarsaparilla. Holmesy, I want to save your face for you with this crowd."

"Will you keep quiet, for a moment, and let the other fellows hear, even if you have to take a walk in order to save your own ears?" demanded Greg, with sarcasm. "This piece is about Dick Prescott, and he doesn't sign patent medicine test——-"

"Dick Prescott?" demanded Darrin. "Whoop! Let's have it!"

"It isn't a roast, is it?" demanded Danny Grin solemnly.

"No; it isn't," Greg went on. "Listen, while I read the headlines."

It was a four-line heading, beginning with "Dick Prescott's Fine
Nerve."

"There! I was afraid it was a roast, after all," sighed Danny
Grin.

"Take that fellow away and muzzle him," ordered Greg, then proceeded to read the other sections of the headlines.

By this time Greg had a very attentive audience. Even Tom Reade had ceased to