The High School Pitcher Part 4

Thrusting one hand down into a pocket Mr. Pollock brought out a half-dollar, which he tendered to d.i.c.k.

"What am I to do with this?" asked the young soph.o.m.ore.

"Anything you please," replied the editor. "The money's for you."

"For me?" gasped d.i.c.k.

"Yes, of course. Didn't you write this yarn for me? Of course 'The Blade' is only a country daily, and our s.p.a.ce rates are not high. But see here, Prescott, I'll pay you a dollar a column for anything you write for us that possesses local interest enough to warrant our printing it. Now, while going to the High School, why can't you turn reporter in your spare time, and earn a little pocket money?"

Again d.i.c.k gasped. He had never thought of himself as a budding young journalist. Yet, as Mr. Pollock inquired, "Why not?" Why not, indeed!

"Well, how do you think you'd like to work for us?" asked Mr.

Pollock, after a pause. "Of course you would not leave the High School. You would not even neglect your studies in the least.

But a young man who knows almost everybody in Gridley, and who goes about town as much as you do, ought to be able to pick up quite a lot of newsy stuff."

"I wonder if I could make a reporter out of myself," d.i.c.k pondered.

"The way to answer that question is to try," replied Mr. Pollock.

"For myself, I think that, with some training, you'd make a good reporter. By the way, Prescott, have you planned on what you mean to be when you're through school?"

"Why, it isn't settled yet," d.i.c.k replied slowly. "Father and mother hope to be able to send me further than the High School, and so they've suggested that I wait until I'm fairly well through before I decide on what I want to be. Then, if it's anything that a college course would help me to, they'll try to provide it."

"What would you like most of all in the world to be?" inquired the editor of "The Blade."

"A soldier!" replied young Prescott, with great promptness and emphasis.

"Hm! The soldier's trade is rather dull these days," replied the editor. "We're becoming a peaceful people, and the arbitrator's word does the work that the sword used to do."

"This country has been in several wars," argued d.i.c.k, "and will be in others yet to come. In times of peace a soldier's duty is to fit himself for the war time that is to come. Oh, I believe there's plenty, always, that an American soldier ought to be doing."

"Perhaps. But newspaper work is the next best thing to soldiering, anyway. Prescott, my boy, the reporter of to-day is the descendant of the old free-lance soldier of fortune. It takes a lot of nerve to be a reporter, sometimes, and to do one's work just as it should be done. The reporter's life is almost as full of adventure as the soldier's. And there are no 'peace times' for the reporter.

He never knows when his style of 'war' will break out. But I must get back to my work. Are you going to try to bring us in good matter at a dollar a column?"

"Yes, I am, thank you," d.i.c.k replied, unhesitatingly, now.

"Good," nodded Mr. Pollock, opening one of the smaller drawers over his desk. "Here's something you can put on and wear."

He held out to the boy an oblong little piece of metal, gold plated.

"It's a badge such as 'The Blade' reporters wear, and has the paper's name on it," continued the editor. "You can pin it on your vest."

"I guess I'd better leave that part out for a while," laughed d.i.c.k, drawing back. "The fellows at school wouldn't do a thing to me if they caught me wearing a reporter's badge."

"Oh, just as you please about that," nodded Mr. Pollock, tossing the badge back into the drawer. "But don't forget to bring us in something good, Prescott."

"I won't forget, Mr. Pollock."

As d.i.c.k went down the street, whistling blithely, he kept his hand in his pocket on the half-dollar. He had had much more money with him a little while before, but that was to pay to some one else. This half-dollar was wholly his own money, and, with the prospect it carried of earning more, the High School boy was delighted.

Pocket money had never been plentiful with young Prescott. The new opportunity filled him with jubilation.

It was not long, however, before a new thought struck him. He went straight to his parents' bookstore, where he found his mother alone, Mr. Prescott being out on business.

To his mother d.i.c.k quickly related his new good fortune. Mrs.

Prescott's face and words both expressed her pleasure.

"At first, mother, I didn't think of anything but pocket money,"

d.i.c.k admitted. "Then my head got to work a bit. It has struck me that if I can make a little money each week by writing for 'The Blade,' I can pay you at least a bit of the money that you and Dad have to spend to keep me going."

"I am glad you thought of that," replied Mrs. Prescott, patting her boy's hand. "But we shan't look to you to do anything of the sort. Your father and I are not rich, but we have managed all along to keep you going, and I think we can do it for a while longer. Whatever money you can earn, Richard, must be your own.

We shall take none of it. But I trust you will learn how to handle your own money wisely. _That_ is one of the most valuable lessons to be learned in life."

To his chums, when he saw them later in the afternoon, d.i.c.k said nothing of Mr. Pollock's request. The young soph thought it better to wait a while, and see how he got along at amateur reporting before he let anyone else into the secret.

But late that afternoon d.i.c.k ran into a matter of interest and took it to "The Blade" office.

"That's all right," nodded Mr. Pollock, after looking over d.i.c.k's "copy." "Glad to see you have started in, my boy. Now, I won't pay you for this on the nail. Wait until Sat.u.r.day morning, cutting all that you have printed out of the 'The Blade.' Paste all the items together, end on end, and bring them to me. That is what reporters call a 's.p.a.ce string.' Bring your 'string' to me every Sat.u.r.day afternoon. We'll measure it up with you and settle."

d.i.c.k hurried away, content. He even found that evening that he could study with more interest, now that he found he had a financial place in life.

In the morning Gridley read and laughed over d.i.c.k's item about the High School hoax. But there was one man who saw it at his breakfast table, and who went into a white heat of rage at once.

That man was Abner Cantwell, the princ.i.p.al.

He was still at white heat when he started for the High School; though, warned by prudence, he tried to keep his temper down.

Nevertheless, there was fire in Mr. Cantwell's eyes when he rang the bell to bring the student body to attention to begin the morning's work.

CHAPTER III

MR. CANTWELL THINKS TWICE---OR OFTENER

"Young ladies and young gentlemen," began the princ.i.p.al, "a very silly hoax was perpetrated on me yesterday. I do not believe you will have any difficulty in understanding what I mean. But the matter went beyond this school room. An account of the hoax was published in the morning paper, and that holds me up to severe ridicule. I trust that we shall not have any repet.i.tion of such childish, so-called jokes. I do not know yet what action I may or may not take in this matter, and can promise nothing. I can and do promise, however, that if any more such hoaxes are attempted I shall do all in my power to ferret out and summarily punish the offenders!-----"

Here the princ.i.p.al's own sense of prudence warned him that he had gone quite as far as was necessary or prudent. So he choked down his rising words and called for the morning singing. Yet, as Mr. Cantwell uttered his last words his glance fell very sternly on one particular young member of the soph.o.m.ore cla.s.s. d.i.c.k Prescott.

"Prin. has it in for you, old fellow!" whispered Dave Darrin, as he and d.i.c.k jostled on the way to a recitation. "But if he has---humph---it won't be long before he finds out that you had some help. You shan't be the scapegoat for all of d.i.c.k & Co."

"Don't say anything," d.i.c.k whispered back. "I'll find a way to take care of myself. If any trouble is to come, I think I can take care of it. Anyway, I won't have anyone else dragged into it."

But the princ.i.p.al said nothing more during that school session.

In the afternoon, however, when Mr. Cantwell took his accustomed walk after dinner, he met several acquaintances who made laughing or casual references to the yarn in the morning's "Blade."

"I've got to stamp this spirit out in the school," decided the princ.i.p.al, again at a white heat. "If I don't I'll soon have some real trouble on hand with these young jackanapes! The idea of their making me---the princ.i.p.al---ridiculous in the town!

No school princ.i.p.al can submit to hoaxes like that one without suffering in public esteem. I'll sift this matter down and nip the whole spirit in the bud."

In this Mr. Cantwell was quite possibly at error in judgment.