HUH? WOOLLY CROCHETED SLIPPERS
The night before Christmas Dick 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, Dick 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."
Dick 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.
Dick nodded, and hurried in, thinking to himself:
"The worsted slippers from the girls, I suppose."
To his surprise the boy found Dave Darrin sitting in the room,
while, on a chair near by rested a rather bulky package.
After exchanging "Merry Christmas" greetings with Darrin, Dick
turned to look at the package. To it was tied a card, which read:
"From Laura Bentley and Isabelle Meade, with kindest Christmas
greetings."
"That doesn't look like slippers, Dave," murmured Dick, as he
pulled away the cord that bound the package.
"I'll bet you're getting a duplicate of what came to me," Darrin
answered.
"What was that?"
"I'm not going to tell you until I see yours."
Dick quickly had the wrapper off, unfolding something woolleny.
"That's it!" cried Dave, jubilantly. "I thought so. Mine was
the same, except that Belle's name was ahead of Laura's on the
card."
Dick felt almost dazed for an instant. Then a quick rush of color
came to his face.
The object that he held was a bulky, substantial, woven "sweater."
Across the front of it had been worked, in cross-stitch, the
initials, "G.H.S."
"Gridley High School! Did you get one just like this, Dave?"
"Yes."
"But we can't wear 'em," muttered Dick. "The initials are allowed
only to the students who have made some school team, or who have
captured some major athletic event. We've never done either."
"That's just the point of the gift, I reckon," beamed Darrin.
"Oh, I see," cried Dick. "These sweaters are our orders to go
ahead and make the baseball nine."
"That's just it," declared Dave.
"Well, it's mighty fine of the girls," murmured Dick, gratefully.
"Are you---going to accept yours, Dave?"
"Accept?" retorted Dave. "Why, it would be rank not to."
"Of course," Prescott agreed.. "But you know what acceptance
carries with it? Now, we've got to make the nine, whether or
not. We pledge ourselves to that in accepting these fine gifts."
"Oh, that's all right," nodded Dave, cheerily. "You're going
to make the team."
"If there's any power in me to do it," declared Dick.
"And you're going to drag me in after you. Dick, old fellow,
we've absolutely as good as promised that we will make the nine."
Dick Prescott was now engaged in pulling the sweater over his
head. This accomplished, he stood surveying himself in the glass.
"Gracious! But this is fine," gasped young Prescott. "And now,
oh, Dave, but we've got to hustle! Think how disgusted the girls
will be if we fail."
"We can't fail, now," declared Dave earnestly. "The girls, and
the sweaters themselves, are our mascots against failure."
"Good! That's the right talk!" cheered Prescott, seizing his
chum's hand. "Yes, sir! We'll make the nine or bury ourselves
under a shipload of self-disgust!"
"Both of the girls must have a hand in each sweater," Dave went
on, examining Dick's closely. "I can't see a shade of difference
between yours and mine. But I'm afraid the other fellows in Dick
& Co. will feel just a bit green with envy over our good luck."
"It's a mighty fine gift," Dick went on, "yet I'm almost inclined
to wish the girls hadn't done it. It must have made a big inroad
in their Christmas money."
"That's so," nodded Darrin, thoughtfully. "But say, Dick! I'm
thundering glad I got wind of this before it happened. Thank
goodness we didn't have to leave the girls out. Though we would
have missed if it hadn't been for you."
"I wonder how the girls like their gifts?" mused Dick.
It was sheer good luck that had enabled these youngsters to make
a good showing. A new-style device for women, consisting of heater
and tongs for curling the hair, was on the market this year.
Electric current was required for the heater, but both Laura and
Belle had electric light service in their homes. This new-style
device was one of the fads of this Christmas season. The retail
price was eight dollars per outfit, and a good many had been sold
before the holidays. The advertising agent for the manufacturing
concern had been in town, and had presented "The Blade" with two
of these devices. Despite the eight-dollar price, the devices
cost only a small fraction of that amount to manufacture, so the
advertising agent had not been extremely generous in leaving the
pair.
"What on earth shall we do with them?" grunted Pollock, in Dick's
hearing. "We're all bachelors here."
"Sell 'em to me, if you don't want 'em," spoke up Dick, quickly.
"What'll you take for 'em? Make it low, to fit a schoolboy's
shallow purse."
"Hm! I'll speak to the proprietor about it," replied Pollock,
who presently brought back the word:
"As they're for you, Dick, the proprietor says you can take the
pair for two-fifty. And if you're short of cash, I'll take fifty
cents a week out of your space bill until the amount is paid."
"Fine and dandy!" uttered Dick, his eyes glowing.
"One's for your mother," hinted Mr. Pollock teasingly. "_But
who's the girl_?"
"Two girls," Dick corrected him, unabashed. "My mother never
uses hair-curlers."
"_Two girls_?" cried Mr. Pollock, looking aghast. "Dick! Dick!
You study history at the High School, don't you?"
"Yes, sir; of course."
"Then don't you know, my boy, how often _two girls_ have altered
the fates of whole nations? Tremble and be wise!"
"I haven't any girl," Dick retorted, sensibly, "and I think a
fellow is weak-minded to talk about having a girl until he can
also talk authoritatively on the ability to support a wife. But
there's a good deal of social life going on at the High School,
Mr. Pollock, and I'm very, very glad of this chance to cancel
my obligations so cheaply and at the same time rather handsomely."
So Laura and Belle had each received, that Christmas morning,
a present that proved a source of delight.
"Yet I didn't expect the foolish boys to send me anything like
this," Laura told herself, rather regretfully. "I'm sure they've
pledged their pocket money for weeks on this."
When Belle called, it developed that she had received an identical
gift.
"It's lovely of the boys," Belle admitted. "But it's foolish,
too, for they've had to use their pocket money away ahead, I'm
certain."
Dick and Dave had sent their gifts, as had the girls, in both
names.
Christmas was a day of rejoicing among all of the High School
students except the least-favored ones.
Fred Ripley, however, spent his Christmas day in a way differing
from the enjoyments of any of the others. A new fever of energy
had seized the young man. In his fierce determination to carry
away the star pitchership, especially from Dick Prescott, Ripley
employed even Christmas afternoon by going over to Duxbridge
and taking another lesson in pitching from the great Everett.