The High School Pitcher Part 3

"I can't carry this infernal satchel back to school," groaned the princ.i.p.al, disgustedly. "Some of the boys, when they see me, will realize that the satchel is still loaded, and they'll know what has happened to me at the bank. It will make me look fearfully ridiculous to be caught in that fashion, with the joke against me a second time! And yet I have a cla.s.s immediately after recess.

What can I do?"

A moment later, however, he had solved the problem. There was a livery stable not far away, and he knew the proprietor. So to that stable Mr. Cantwell hurried, changing the satchel from one hand to the other whenever an arm ached too much.

"This satchel contains a lot of currency, Mr. Getchel," explained the poor princ.i.p.al. "I wish you could do me the favor of having a horse hitched up and take this to my wife. Will you do it?"

"Certainly," nodded the liveryman. "Just lock the satchel; that is all. I'll have the bag at your home within fifteen minutes."

So during the first period after recess Mrs. Cantwell was visited by Getchel, who handed her the satchel, merely remarking:

"Mr. Cantwell left this at my office, ma'am, and asked me to bring it down to you. It contains some money that your husband sent you."

Money? The good woman, who "loved" money too well to spend much of it, hefted the satchel. Gracious! There must be a big lot of the valuable stuff. But the satchel was locked. Mrs. Cantwell promptly hunted until she found another satchel key that fitted.

Then she opened the bag, staring at the contents with big eyes.

"What on earth can my husband have been doing?" she wondered.

"Surely he hasn't been robbing the Salvation Army Christmas boxes!

And the idea of sending me money all in pennies!"

The more she thought about it the more indignant did Mrs. Cantwell become. Finally, a little after noon, Mrs. Cantwell decided to take the stuff to the bank, have it counted and turned over into greenbacks. So she trudged up to the bank with it. The journey was something more than a mile in length. Mrs. Cantwell arrived at the bank, only to make the same discovery that her husband had made about the need of counting and wrapping the money before it could be deposited or exchanged. It was close to one o'clock, and the High School not far away. So, full of ire, Mrs. Cantwell started down to her husband's place of employment.

Once school let out for the day, a quarter of a thousand members of the student body went off, full of glee, to spread the news of the joke. As they hurried along many of the students noticed that Mrs. Cantwell was standing not far from the gate and that, at her feet, lay her husband's black satchel. Several of the students were quick to wonder what this new phase of the matter meant.

After school was dismissed Fred Ripley remained behind, strapping several books together. Then, as he pa.s.sed the princ.i.p.al's desk, he remarked:

"I suppose, Mr. Cantwell, that some of the students thought that a very funny trick that was played on you this morning. While I am speaking of it, I wish to a.s.sure you, sir, that I had no hand in the outrage."

"I am very glad to hear you say that, Mr. Ripley. Some day I hope I shall have a notion who _did_ originate the practical joke."

"I don't believe you would have to guess very long, sir," Ripley hinted.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, sir, whenever anything of that sort is hatched up in this school, it's generally a pretty safe guess that d.i.c.k & Co. are at the bottom of it all."

"d.i.c.k & Co.?" repeated Mr. Cantwell.

"d.i.c.k Prescott and his chums, sir," replied Ripley, rapidly naming the five partners. Then, having accomplished what he wanted, Fred sauntered out.

"I'll look into this further," thought Mr. Cantwell, angrily.

"If I can satisfy myself that Prescott was at the bottom of this wicked hoax then I---I may find it possible to make him want to cut his High School course short!"

Mrs. Cantwell was waiting at the gate.

"What on earth, Abner, did you mean by sending me this great cartload of pennies?" demanded the princ.i.p.al's spouse. "Here I've taken it up to the bank, and find they won't accept it---not in this form, anyway. Now, I've carried it this far, Abner, and you may carry it the rest of the way home."

"Why---er---er---" stammered the princ.i.p.al.

"Mr. Getchel brought the satchel to me, and told me it was money you had sent me. But I want to say, Abner, that of all the-----"

At this moment the princ.i.p.al picked up the hateful satchel and the pair pa.s.sed out of hearing of four young freshmen who had hidden near to learn what the mystery of the satchel meant.

It was not long, either, before the further joke had become known to a great many of the students.

CHAPTER II

d.i.c.k TAKES UP HIS PEN

d.i.c.k had no sooner ventured out on the street after dinner than he encountered the news of Mrs. Cantwell's meeting with her husband.

But d.i.c.k did not linger long to discuss the matter. His pockets now contained, in place of pennies, a few banknotes and many dimes, pennies and nickels, amounting in all to thirty-six dollars.

He was headed for "The Blade" office to settle with Mr. Pollock.

"I think I can tell you a little story now, that may be worth a paragraph or two," d.i.c.k announced after he had counted out the money and had turned it over to the editor.

"You played a little joke on your new and not wholly popular princ.i.p.al, didn't you?" Mr. Pollock asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Yes; has the thing reached you already?"

"I don't know the whole story of the joke," Mr. Pollock replied, "but perhaps I can tell you one side of it that you don't know."

Thereupon the editor described Mr. Cantwell's visit to the bank.

"Now, I've got a still further side to the story," d.i.c.k continued, and repeated the story told by the freshmen of how Mrs. Cantwell also had carried the money to the bank, and then, still carrying it, had waited for her husband at the school gateway.

Editor Pollock leaned back, laughing until the tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry for the good lady's discomfiture," explained the editor, presently. "But the whole story is very, very funny."

"Now, I guess you know all the facts," finished d.i.c.k Prescott, rising.

"Yes, but I haven't a single reporter about." Then, after a pause, "See here, Prescott, why couldn't you write this up for me?"

"I?" repeated d.i.c.k, astonished. "I never wrote a line for publication in my life."

"Everyone who does, has to make a start some time," replied Mr.

Pollock. "And I believe you could write it up all right, too.

See here, Prescott, just go over to that desk. There's a stack of copy paper there. Write it briefly and crisply, and, for delicacy's sake, leave out all that relates to Mrs. Cantwell. No use in dragging a woman into a hazing sc.r.a.pe."

d.i.c.k went over to the desk, picking up a pen. For the fist three or four minutes he sat staring at the paper, the desk, the floor, the wall and the street door. But Mr. Pollock paid no heed to him. Then, finally, d.i.c.k began to write. As he wrote a grin came to his face. That grin broadened as he wrote on. At last he took the pages over to Mr. Pollock.

"I don't suppose that's what you want," he said, his face very red, "but the main facts are all there."

Laying down his own pen Mr. Pollock read rapidly but thoughtfully.

The editor began to laugh again. Then he laid down the last sheet.

"Prescott, that's well done. There's a good reporter lurking somewhere inside of you."