DICK FIRES BOTH BARRELS
"Oh---great Scott!" gasped Tom Reade, as he paused at an item in
"The Blade" the following morning.
That item had been written by Prescott. There could be no doubt
about it in Reade's mind.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom's father.
"Oh, Dick has been paying his respects to a certain clique in
the High School, I take it," Tom replied, with a grin. "I heard,
yesterday, that he was going to shoot into that crowd. But---and
here's a short editorial on the same subject, too. Wow! Dick
has fired into the enemy with both barrels!"
A moment later Tom passed the paper over to his father. Dick's
article read:
_There is a possibility that Gridley High School will not be in
the front ranks in football this year. Those who know state that
a "sorehead" combination has been formed by the young male representatives
of some of our wealthier families. These young men, having elected
themselves, so it is said, the salt of the earth, or the cream
of a new Gridley aristocracy, are going to refuse to play in the
football eleven this year.
Even young men who belong to "prominent" families may have some
gifts in the way of football ability. Three or four out of the
dozen or more "soreheads" are really needed if Gridley High School
is to maintain its standing this year. The remainder of the
"soreheads" may, with advantage to the High School eleven, be
excused from offering themselves.
The "soreheads," it is stated, feel that it would be beneath the
dignity of their families for them to play on an eleven which
must, in any event, be recruited largely from the sons of the
Gridley families less fortunately situated financially.
Strangely enough, though they don't intend to play football this
year, these "soreheads" have been training hard of late, one of
their practices being the taking of an early morning cross-country
run together.
The average young man at the High School is as eager as ever to
uphold the town's and the school's honor and dignity on the football
gridiron this year. Whether the so-called "soreheads" will reconsider
their proposed course of action and throw themselves in with the
common lot for the upholding of the Gridley name and the honor
of the High School will have been determined within the next few
days. It is possible, however, that this little coterie of self-appointed
"exclusives" will continue to refuse to cast their lot with the
commoner run of High School boys, to whom some of the "soreheads"
have referred as "muckers." A Gridley "mucker," it may be stated
in passing, is a Gridley boy of poor parents who desires to obtain
a decent education and better himself in life._
"Is that article true?" demanded Tom Reade's father.
"Yes, sir," Tom responded. "Dick wouldn't have written it, if
it hadn't been. But turn over to the editorial column, and see
that other little bit."
The editorial in question referred to the news printed in another
column, and stated that this information, if correct, showed a
state of affairs at the High School that needed bettering. The
editor continued:
_If there are in the High School any young snobs who display such
a mean and un-American spirit, then the thoughtful reader must
conclude that these young men are being unjustly educated at the
public expense, for such boys are certain to grow into men who
will turn nothing of value back into the community. Such young
men, if they really need to study, should be educated at the expense
of their families. Both the High School and the community can
easily dispense with the presence of snobs and snobbery._
"I guess there'll be some real soreness in some heads this morning,"
laughed Tom's father.
"Won't there!" ejaculated Tom, and hurried out into the street.
It did not take him long to find some of his chums and other
High School boys. Those who had not seen "The Blade" read the
two marked portions eagerly.
Bert Dodge had "The Blade" placed before him by his sister. Bert
read with reddening cheeks.
"That's what comes of letting a fellow like Dick Prescott write
for the papers," Bert stormed angrily. "That fellow ought to
be tarred and feathered!"
"Why don't you suggest it to the 'soreheads'?" asked his sister,
quizzically. Grace Dodge was an amiable, democratic, capable
girl who had gone through college with honors, and yet had not
gained a false impression of the importance conferred by a little
wealth.
"Grace, I believe you're laughing at me!" dared the young man
exasperatedly.
"No; I'm not laughing. I'm sorry," sighed the young woman. "But
I can imagine that a good many are laughing, this morning, and
that the number will grow. Bert, dear, do you think any young
man can hope to be very highly esteemed when he sets his own importance
above the good name and success of his school?"
Bert did not answer, but quit the house moodily. He encountered
some of "his own set," but they were not a very cheerful-looking
lot that morning. Not one of the "soreheads" could escape the
conviction that Dick Prescott held the whip hand of public opinion
over them. What none of them appreciated, was the moderation
with which young Prescott had wielded his weapon.
Dodge, Bayliss, Paulson and Hudson entered the High School grounds
together, that morning, ten minutes before opening time. As the
quartette passed, several of the little groups of fellow students
ceased their talk and turned away from the four "soreheads."
Then, after the quartette had passed, quiet little laughs were
heard.
All four mounted the steps of the building with heightening color.
Before the door, talking together, stood Fred Ripley and Purcell,
whom the "soreheads" had endeavored to enlist.
"Good morning, Purcell. Morning, Ripley," greeted Bayliss.
Fred and Purcell wheeled about, turning their backs without answering.
Once inside the building the four young fellows looked at each
other uneasily.
"Are the fellows trying to send us to coventry?" demanded Dodge.
"Oh, well," muttered Bayliss, "there are enough of us. We can
stand it!"
Yet, at recess, the "soreheads" found themselves extremely uncomfortable.
None of their fellow-students, among the boys, would notice them.
Whenever some of the "soreheads" passed a knot of other boys,
low-toned laughs followed. Even many of the girls, it proved,
had taken up with the Coventry idea.
"Fellows, come to my place after you've had your luncheons," Bayliss
whispered around among his cronies, after school was out for the
day. "I---I guess there are a---a few things that we want to
talk over among ourselves. So come over, and we'll use the carriage
house for a meeting place. Maybe we'll organize a club among
ourselves, or---or---do something that shall shut us out and away
from the common herd of this school."
When the dozen or more met in the Bayliss carriage house that
afternoon there were some defiant looks, and some anxious ones.
"I don't know how you fellows feel about this business," began
Hudson frankly. "But I've had a pretty hot grilling at home by
Dad. He asked me if I belonged to the 'sorehead' gang. I answered
as evasively as I could. Then dad brought his list down on the
table and told me he prayed that I wouldn't go through life with
any false notions about my personal dimensions. He told me, rather
explosively, that I would never be a bit bigger, in anyone's estimation
than I proved myself to be."
"Hot, was he?" asked Bayliss, with a half sneer.
"He started out that way," replied Hudson. "But pretty soon Dad
became dignified, and asked me where I had ever gotten the notion
that I amounted to any more than any other fellow of the same
brain caliber."
"What did you tell him? asked Bert Dodge, frowning.
"I couldn't tell him much," retorted Hudson, smiling wearily.
"Dad was primed to do most of the talking. When he stopped for
breath mother began."
"It's all that confounded Dick Prescott's doings! It's a shame!
It's a piece of anarchy---that's what it is!" muttered Paulson.
"On my way here I passed three men on the street. They looked
at me pretty hard, and laughed after I had gone by. Fellows,
are we going to allow that mucker, Dick Prescott, to make us
by-words in this town?"
"No siree, no!" roared Fremont.
"Good! That's what I like to hear," put in Hudson dryly. "And
what are we going to do to stop Dick Prescott and turn public
opinion our ways"
"Why-----"
"We-----"
"The way to-----"
"We'll-----"
Several spoke at once, then all came to a full stop. The "soreheads"
looked at each other in puzzled silence.
"What are we going to do?" demanded Fremont. "How are we going
to hit back at a fellow who has a newspaper that he can use as
a club on your head?"
"We might have a piece put in 'The Evening Mail,'" hinted Porter,
after a dazed silence. "That's the rival paper."
"Yes!" chimed in Bayliss, eagerly. "We can write a piece and
get it put in 'The Mail.' Our piece can say that there has been
a tendency, this year, or was believed to be one, to get a rowdyish
element of the High School into the High School eleven, and that
our move was really a move intended to sustain the past reputation
of the Gridley High School for gentlemanly playing in all school
sports. That will hit Dick & Co., and a lot of others, and will
turn the laugh back on the muckers."
This proposition brought forth several eager cries of approval.
"I see just one flaw in the plan," observed Hudson slowly.
"What is it?" demanded half a dozen at once.
"Why, 'The Evening Mail' is a paper designed to appeal to the more
rowdyish element in Gridley politics. 'The Mail's' circulation is
about all among the class of people who come nearest to being
'rowdyish.' So I'm pretty certain, fellows, that 'The Mail' wouldn't
take up our cause, and hammer our enemies with the word 'rowdy.' 'The
Blade' is the paper that circulates among the best people in Gridley."
"And Dick Prescott writes for 'The Blade'!"
A gloomy silence followed, broken by Bayliss's disconsolate query:
"Then, hang it! What can we do?"
And that query stuck hard!