moment's hush. Then the class caught the spirit of the answer. A few titters sounded, cautiously—to be followed instantly by an explosion of laughter. Even Old Dut had to join in the laugh.

"That young man will bear watching," thought the principal grimly. "He's my best pupil, and one of the most mischievous. I'd rather have any youngster mischievous than stupid."

Glancing at the clock, Principal Jones swung around, running a finger down a line of push buttons in the wall back of his seat. In this fashion did he announce to the schoolrooms of the seven lower grades that morning recess time had come. Then he swung back.

"Attention, class!" he called. Tap! sounded a bell. The eighth-grade boys and girls rose, standing by their seats.

Tap! At the second bell the lines filed out in orderly fashion to the coatrooms, at the sides of the schoolroom.

But many of the young people soon came back. It was raining heavily outdoors on this September morning. True, the boys' and girls' basements served as playrooms in bad weather, but the basements were always crowded at such times, and many of the young people preferred to pass the recess time in the schoolroom.

"Old Dut's getting rather too fresh these days," growled Greg Holmes to his chum. Then whispered in Dick's ear:

"We'll get hunk with him to-night. Some of us will go around and play the wreck scene in his flower gardens."

"Nothing doing," retorted Dick briefly.

"I know a good one," whispered Dave Darrin, his dark eyes flashing with anticipated mischief. "We'll switch Old Dut's new gate off and play Moses in the bulrushes at the river bank."

"Say," demanded Dick, gazing curiously at his tempters, "since when have you thought I don't know enough to pay back my own grudges!"

"Have you got a scheme?" demanded Tom Reade eagerly, while Harry Hazelton and Dan Dalzell, sure that Dick had a "corker" of a scheme, grinned as happily as though they had already seen it put through with a rush.

"Have you got a scheme?" insisted Dave.

"Maybe," replied Dick evasively.

"Any of you fellows going down to the basement?" asked Hazelton after a moment.

"What's the use?" questioned Dick. "Tramp down three flights of stairs, and then climb the flights again in ten minutes."

With that Dick sauntered into the schoolroom. Old Dut was seated at his desk, a half dozen of the girls standing about, eating apples or candy, and talking with the principal.

"Only girls over there by Prin's desk," thought Dick with some dissatisfaction. He wandered about for a few minutes, but at last went up to Old Dut's desk as though being reluctantly drawn there by some magnet.

"Get next," nudged Dave Darrin, poking Hazelton in the side. As Dave sauntered over to the desk Harry followed. Tom Reade seemed interested in the scene. Greg Holmes and Dan Dalzell strolled over, arm in arm.

Seeing such an invasion of boys, the girls gave back for a few feet, though they did not quit the scene.

"Funny the Detroits didn't win the championship this year, isn't it?" Dick asked innocently.

"The Detroits haven't any show," returned Darrin half disgustedly. "They've got nearly a month to play yet, but the Detroits are no good this year."

"If all the Detroits were in a class with Pendleton, their new pitcher, this year," Dick contended, "the Detroits would show class enough."

Old Dut looked up with interest. A thoroughly skilled and capable teacher, he had always believed in encouraging sports and athletics.

"That Pendleton fellow is more than a wonder with a ball," Dick went on warmly. "I saw him pitch a game against the New Yorks this summer, and I dreamed about it for a week after."

"What's Pendleton's strong point?" followed up Dave Darrin.

"Everything in the pitching line," Dick answered.

"But what is his best point of all, Prescott?" broke in Old Dut.

Even that experienced school principal had tumbled into the trap that Dick Prescott had so ingeniously laid for him.

"Well, sir," replied Dick, wheeling around to the principal, every trace of resentment gone from his young face, "I should say that Pendleton's most noticeable trick is the way he twists and handles the ball when he's getting ready to drive in his curve. I watched Pendleton's work that day, and I think I stole the principle on which he uses his right wrist."

"Show me," unsuspiciously invited Old Dut.

Dick started to curve an imaginary ball in his right hand, then glanced over the principal's desk. A small, but thick, heavy book lay there.

"Well, I should say," Prescott resumed, "that Pendleton handles the ball about like this."

Picking up the book, Dick used both hands in trying to give it the right preliminary curve.

"But his delivery is, of course, the great feature," the lad went on. "When Pendleton has the ball curved just right, he raises his right and lets it go like this!"

Dick was facing the bevy of girls. They were so certain he was going to hurl the book in their direction that they scattered with little cries of alarm.

So forcefully had young Prescott prepared for the throw that the book did leave his hand, though the boy made a frantic effort—apparently—to recover the missile.

Not toward the retreating girls, however, did the book fly. It spun nearly at right angles, and——

Smack! it went, full into the face of Principal E. Dutton Jones.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!" cried Dick in a voice ringing with remorse. "That must hurt you very much, sir."

"It is nothing," replied Old Dut gamely, though the unexpected shock had nearly taken his breath. Then he put one hand up to his injured face. "Why, I believe my nose is bleeding," he added, making a quick dive for his handkerchief.

In truth the nose was bleeding. Old Dut made a specialty of low-cut vests and white, immaculate shirt-fronts. Before the handkerchief was in place, three bright, crimson drops had fallen, rendering the shirt-front a gruesome sight to look at.

"Oh, sir, I hope you will excuse me," followed up Dick.

"Oh, yes; certainly," dryly returned the principal, as he rose and made for his private room. There was a handbowl in there, with hot and cold water, and the principal of the Central Grammar School of Gridley was soon busy repairing his personal appearance.

No sooner had he vanished behind the open door than Dave Darrin, Tom Reade, Dan Dalzell, Greg Holmes, Harry Hazelton and several other boys grinned broadly in their huge delight. Dick Prescott, however, admirable actor that he was, still wore a look of concern on his rather fine young face.

"One thing I've learned to-day, which I ought to have known before," grimly mused Old Dut, as he sopped a wet towel to his injured nose. "Dick Prescott doesn't need any guardian. He can look out for himself!"

"Wasn't it awful?" repeated a girl's voice out in the schoolroom.

"No," replied her companion. "I don't think it was. After what he did it served him just right!"

"I'm getting the usual sympathy that is awarded to the vanquished," smiled Old Dut to himself. "That's Laura Bentley's voice. She didn't laugh when I was having my innings with Dick. She flushed up and looked indignant."

Before Old Dut felt that he was in shape to present himself, all of the eight grades had received seven minutes' additional recess.

At last studies were resumed. Old Dut, however, noted that whenever one of the boys or girls looked up and caught sight of his expansive, crimsoned shirt-front, a smile always followed.