The High School Pitcher Part 13

Half a dozen pa.s.sers-by had already turned and were coming back to learn the meaning of this encounter. d.i.c.k understood how awkward the situation would be for the girls, so he glided forward, hailed the car, and led Laura and Belle out to it.

"But I'd rather stay," whispered Belle, in protest. "I want to make sure that Dave doesn't get into any trouble."

"He won't," d.i.c.k promised. "It'll save him annoyance if he knows you girls are not being stared at by curious rowdies."

d.i.c.k quickly helped the girls aboard the car, then nodded to the conductor to ring the bell. A second later d.i.c.k was bounding back to his chum's side.

Fred Ripley was on his feet, scowling at Dave Darrin. The latter, though his fists were not up, was plainly in an att.i.tude where he could quickly defend himself.

"That was an unprovoked a.s.sault, you rowdy!" Fred exclaimed wrathfully.

"I'd trust to any committee of _gentlemen_ to exonerate me," Dave answered coolly. "You acted the rowdy, Ripley, and you'd show more sense if you admitted it and reformed."

"What did he do?" demanded one of the curious ones in the crowd.

"He addressed a young lady with offensive familiarity," Dave replied hotly.

"What did _you_ do?" demanded another in the crowd.

"I knocked him down," Dave admitted coolly.

"Well, that's about the proper thing to do," declared another bystander. "The Ripley kid has no kick coming to him. Move on, young feller!"

Fred started, glaring angrily at the speaker. But half a dozen pressed forward about him. Ripley's face went white with rage when he found himself being edged off the sidewalk into the gutter.

"Get back, there, you, and leave me alone!" he ordered, hoa.r.s.ely.

A laugh from the crowd was the first answer. Then some one gave the junior a shove that sent him spinning out into the street.

Ripley darted by the crowd now, his caution and his dread of too much of a scene coming to his aid. Besides, some one had just called out, banteringly:

"Why not take him to the horse trough?"

That decided Fred on quick retreat. Ducked, deservedly, by a crowd on Main Street, Ripley could never regain real standing in the High School, and he knew that.

As soon as they could d.i.c.k and Dave walked on to "The Blade" office.

Here Darrin took a chair in the corner, occasionally glancing almost enviously at Prescott, as the latter, seated at a reporter's table, slowly wrote the few little local items that he had picked up during the afternoon. When d.i.c.k had finished he handed his "copy" to Mr. Pollock, and the chums left the office.

"d.i.c.k, old fellow," hinted Dave, confidentially, "I'm afraid I ought to give you a tip, even though it does make me feel something like a spy."

"Under such circ.u.mstances," smiled Prescott, "it might be well to think twice before giving the tip."

"I've thought about it _seventeen_ times already," Dave a.s.serted, gravely, "and you're my chum, anyway. So here goes. When we were in the department store, do you remember that the girls were looking over some worsteds, or yarns, or whatever you call the stuff?"

"Yes," Prescott nodded.

"Well, I couldn't quite help hearing Laura Bentley say to Belle that the yarn she picked up was just what she wanted for you."

"What on earth did that mean?" queried d.i.c.k, looking almost startled.

"It means that you're going to get a Christmas present from Laura,"

Dave answered.

"But I never had a present from a girl before!"

"Most anything is likely to happen," laughed Dave, "now that you're a soph.o.m.ore---and a reporter, too."

"Thank goodness I'm earning a little money now," murmured d.i.c.k, breathing a bit rapidly. "But, say, Dave!"

"Well?"

"What on earth does one give a girl at Christmas?"

"Tooth-powder, scented soap, ribbons---oh, hang it! I don't know,"

floundered Dave hopelessly. "Anyway, I don't have to know. It's your sc.r.a.pe, d.i.c.k Prescott!"

"Yours, too, Dave Darrin!"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, I saw Belle buying some of that yarny stuff, too."

"Great Scott!" groaned Dave. "Say, what do you suppose they're planning to put up on us for a Christmas job? Some of those big-as-all-outdoors, wobbly, crocheted slippers?"

CHAPTER VIII

HUH? WOOLLY CROCHETED SLIPPERS

The night before Christmas d.i.c.k Prescott attended a ball, in his new capacity of reporter.

Being young, also "green" in the ways of newspaper work, he imagined it his duty to remain rather late in order to be sure that he had all the needed data for the brief description that he was to write for "The Blade."

Christmas morning the boy slept late, for his parents did not call him. When, at last, d.i.c.k did appear in the dining room he found some pleasing gifts from his father and mother. When he had sufficiently examined them, Mrs. Prescott smiled as she said:

"Now, step into the parlor, Richard, and you'll find something that came for you this morning."

"But, first of all, mother, I've something for you and Dad."

d.i.c.k went back into his room, bringing out, with some pride, a silver-plated teapot on a tray of the same material. It wasn't much, but it was the finest gift he had ever been able to make his parents. He came in for a good deal of thanks and other words of appreciation.

"But you're forgetting the package in the parlor," persisted Mrs.

Prescott presently.

d.i.c.k nodded, and hurried in, thinking to himself: