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[Illustration: "Now, I'm Going to Settle With You."
_Frontispiece._]
The Grammar School Boys of Gridley
OR
Dick & Co. Start Things Moving
By
H. IRVING HANCOCK
Author of The Grammar School Boys Snowbound, The Grammar School
Boys in the Woods, The High School Boys' Series, The West Point
Series, The Annapolis Series, The Young Engineers' Series,
The Boys of the Army Series, The Motor Boat Club Series, Etc., Etc.
Illustrated
PHILADELPHIA
HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY
Copyright, 1911, by Howard E. Altemus
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. "Old Dut" Tells a Story--Dick Another 7
II. A Brush on the Street 20
III. Football--Without Rules 39
IV. Ab. Dexter's Temper is Squally 53
V. Football Uniforms in Sight 63
VI. On the Trail of the Cab 73
VII. Dick Leads a Spirited Rush 80
VIII. Two Accidents--Or Traps? 90
IX. An Awesome River Discovery 104
X. A Problem in Footprints 115
XI. Dan Sees Bears--In His Mind 124
XII. The Boy With the Oakum Taste 130
XIII. A Great Football Pow-Pow 142
XIV. Dick Steps Into a Death-Trap 154
XV. What Grammar School Boys Can Do 161
XVI. Out for Hallowe'en Fun 170
XVII. The Newest Trick of All 180
XVIII. Carrying Fun To the Danger Limit 187
XIX. Ben Wants To Know Who "Blabbed" 198
XX. Dick's Accuser Gets Two Answers 208
XXI. Ab. Dexter Makes a New Move 218
XXII. Tricked Into Bad Company 226
XXIII. Dick Makes His Stand for Honor 235
XXIV. Conclusion 247
The Grammar School Boys of Gridley
CHAPTER I
"OLD DUT" TELLS A STORY--DICK ANOTHER
"Master Prescott, what are you doing?"
The voice of Mr. E. Dutton Jones rasped out rather sharply, jarring on
the generally studious air of the eighth-grade room of the Central
Grammar School.
"What were you doing, Master Prescott?" repeated the stern voice of the
principal.
Dick Prescott had glanced up, somewhat startled and confused. By this
time every boy's and girl's eyes had turned away from text-books toward
Dick Prescott.
"I was whispering, sir," confessed Dick.
"Oh, was that all?" demanded the somewhat ironical voice of Mr. E.
Dutton Jones, more commonly known as "Old Dut."
"Yes, sir."
"To whom were you whispering?"
"To Master Hazelton."
"If I am intruding on no confidences, what were you whispering about?"
continued Old Dut.
"I----" began Dick, and then his face turned still more red under the
curious gaze of some fifty boys and girls. "I was telling Master
Hazelton a funny story."
"Do you think it was very funny?" inquired Old Dut.
"The story? Yes, sir."
The broad grin that promptly spread over Harry Hazelton's face seemed to
confirm Dick's claim as to the humorous quality of the story.
"Master Prescott," adjudged the principal, "you may rise in your seat
and tell the story to the whole class, myself included. On this dull,
rainy day I feel certain that we all need a good laugh."
A smile that grew to a titter in some quarters of the room greeted Dick
as he struggled half-shamefacedly to his feet.
"Go on with the story," encouraged Old Dut. "Or, rather, begin at the
beginning. That's the right way to serve up a story."
"I--I'd rather not tell the story, sir," protested young Prescott.
"Why not?" demanded the principal sharply.
"Well, because, sir--I'd rather not. That's all."
Principal Jones frequently employed that grilling way of questioning one
of his pupils, and his implied sarcasm had a very effective way of
making young offenders squirm before the class.
Whispering, in itself, is not a criminal offense, yet it often has a sad
effect on the discipline of a schoolroom, and of late Old Dut had been
much annoyed by whisperers.
"So you won't tell us all that choice story, eh, Master Prescott?"
insisted the principal, half coaxingly.
"On account of its being such a very personal one I'd rather not, sir,"
Dick answered, still standing by his desk. "I might hurt some one's
feelings."
"Too bad!" murmured Old Dut. "And just after we had all been enlivened
by the hope of hearing something really funny! I know your rare quality
of humor, Master Prescott, and I had promised myself a treat. My own
disappointment in the matter may be cured, but what about the boys and
girls of this class? I know that they are all still eager to hear a
really funny story."
Old Dut paused, glancing impressively about the room. Dick, shifting
first to one foot and then to the other, had not yet succeeded in
parting with much of the fiery color that had flamed up to his cheeks,
temples and forehead.
"Master Prescott," announced the principal, "the class shall not be
deprived of its expected treat. I will tell a story, and I think you
will find some of the elements of humor in it. Will you kindly step this
way?"
Dick went forward, head up and chest thrown out, a look almost of
defiance in his clear, blue eyes as a titter ran around the room.
"Stand right here beside me," coaxed Old Dut. "Now, let me see if I can
remember the story. Yes; I believe I can. It runs something like this."
Then Old Dut began his story. It was a very ordinary one that had to do
with a boy's disobedience of his father's commands. But it had a
"woodshed" end to it.
"So," continued Old Dut, "Johnson took his boy out to the shed. There,
with a sigh as though his heart were breaking, the old man seated
himself on the chopping block. He gathered his son across his
knee--about like this."
Here Principal Jones suddenly caught Dick Prescott and brought that lad
across his own knee. The expectant class now tittered loudly.
"I can't tell this story unless I have quiet," announced Old Dut,
glancing up and around the room with a reproachful look.
Then, after clearing his throat, the principal resumed:
"'Johnny,' said the old man huskily, 'I know what my duty in the matter
really is. I ought to give you a good spanking, like this (_whack!_).
But I haven't the heart to give you such a blow as you deserve. (Whack!)
But the next time (whack!), I'm going to give you (whack!) just such a
good one (whack! whack!) as you deserve. (Whack! whack!) So, remember,
Johnny (whack!), and don't let me catch you (whack!) disobeying me
again. (Whack! whack!)."
Each "whack" Old Dut emphasized by bringing down his own broad right
hand on Dick's unprotected body.
A few flashing eyes there were in the young audience, and a few
sympathetic glances from the girls, but, for the most part, the class
was now in a loud roar of laughter.
"That's the story," announced Old Dut, gently restoring Dick Prescott to
his feet. "I think you all see the point to it. Perhaps there's a moral
to it, also. I really don't know."
Pallor due to a sense of outraged dignity now struggled for a place in
the red that covered Dick Prescott's face.
"You may go to your seat, Master Prescott."
Dick marched there, without a glance backward.
"Now, that we've had our little indulgence in humor," announced Old Dut
dryly, "we will all return to our studies."
There was silence again in the room, during which the rain outside began
to come down in a flood.
"I'll get the fellows to-night--for that--and we'll carry Old Dut's
front gate off and throw it in the river!" ran vengefully through Dave
Darrin's mind.
"Old Dut needn't look for his late posies to bloom until the frost comes
this year," reflected Greg Holmes, while he pored, apparently, over the
many-colored map of Asia. "I'll get some of the fellows out to-night,
and we'll make a wreck scene in Old Dut's flower beds."
Dick said nothing, even to himself, as he picked up his much-thumbed
book on physiology and turned the pages. He was smarting not only from
the indignity to which he had been treated, but quite as much from the
masterful way in which Old Dut had punctuated that "funny story" with
his broad right hand.
Once in a while Old Dut cast a sly glance in Dick's direction.
"That young man will bear watching," mused the principal, as he caught a
sudden flash in Prescott's eye, as the latter glanced up.
The recitation in arithmetic soon came along. This was one of Dick's
favorite studies, and, wholly forgetting his late experience, so it
seemed, he covered himself with glory in his blackboard demonstration of
an intricate problem in interest and discount.
Then the class settled down to twenty minutes' more study.
"Master Prescott," broke in Old Dut's voice, at last, "did you think my
story a funny one?"
"Pretty fair, sir," answered Dick, looking up and straight into the eyes
of the principal.
"Only 'pretty fair,' eh? Could you tell me a funnier story?"
"I'm pretty sure I could, yes, sir," answered Dick, with great
promptness. "Only--_I don't believe I'm big enough yet!_"
There was a moment's hush. Then the class caught the spirit of the
answer. A few titters sounded, cautiously--to be followed instantly by
an explosion of laughter. Even Old Dut had to join in the laugh.
"That young man will bear watching," thought the principal grimly. "He's
my best pupil, and one of the most mischievous. I'd rather have any
youngster mischievous than stupid."
Glancing at the clock, Principal Jones swung around, running a finger
down a line of push buttons in the wall back of his seat. In this
fashion did he announce to the schoolrooms of the seven lower grades
that morning recess time had come. Then he swung back.
"Attention, class!" he called. Tap! sounded a bell. The eighth-grade
boys and girls rose, standing by their seats.
Tap! At the second bell the lines filed out in orderly fashion to the
coatrooms, at the sides of the schoolroom.
But many of the young people soon came back. It was raining heavily
outdoors on this September morning. True, the boys' and girls' basements
served as playrooms in bad weather, but the basements were always
crowded at such times, and many of the young people preferred to pass
the recess time in the schoolroom.
"Old Dut's getting rather too fresh these days," growled Greg Holmes to
his chum. Then whispered in Dick's ear:
"We'll get hunk with him to-night. Some of us will go around and play
the wreck scene in his flower gardens."
"Nothing doing," retorted Dick briefly.
"I know a good one," whispered Dave Darrin, his dark eyes flashing with
anticipated mischief. "We'll switch Old Dut's new gate off and play
Moses in the bulrushes at the river bank."
"Say," demanded Dick, gazing curiously at his tempters, "since when have
you thought I don't know enough to pay back my own grudges!"
"Have you got a scheme?" demanded Tom Reade eagerly, while Harry
Hazelton and Dan Dalzell, sure that Dick had a "corker" of a scheme,
grinned as happily as though they had already seen it put through with a
rush.
"Have you got a scheme?" insisted Dave.
"Maybe," replied Dick evasively.
"Any of you fellows going down to the basement?" asked Hazelton after a
moment.
"What's the use?" questioned Dick. "Tramp down three flights of stairs,
and then climb the flights again in ten minutes."
With that Dick sauntered into the schoolroom. Old Dut was seated at his
desk, a half dozen of the girls standing about, eating apples or candy,
and talking with the principal.
"Only girls over there by Prin's desk," thought Dick with some
dissatisfaction. He wandered about for a few minutes, but at last went
up to Old Dut's desk as though being reluctantly drawn there by some
magnet.
"Get next," nudged Dave Darrin, poking Hazelton in the side. As Dave
sauntered over to the desk Harry followed. Tom Reade seemed interested
in the scene. Greg Holmes and Dan Dalzell strolled over, arm in arm.
Seeing such an invasion of boys, the girls gave back for a few feet,
though they did not quit the scene.
"Funny the Detroits didn't win the championship this year, isn't it?"
Dick asked innocently.
"The Detroits haven't any show," returned Darrin half disgustedly.
"They've got nearly a month to play yet, but the Detroits are no good
this year."
"If all the Detroits were in a class with Pendleton, their new pitcher,
this year," Dick contended, "the Detroits would show class enough."
Old Dut looked up with interest. A thoroughly skilled and capable
teacher, he had always believed in encouraging sports and athletics.
"That Pendleton fellow is more than a wonder with a ball," Dick went on
warmly. "I saw him pitch a game against the New Yorks this summer, and I
dreamed about it for a week after."
"What's Pendleton's strong point?" followed up Dave Darrin.
"Everything in the pitching line," Dick answered.
"But what is his best point of all, Prescott?" broke in Old Dut.
Even that experienced school principal had tumbled into the trap that
Dick Prescott had so ingeniously laid for him.
"Well, sir," replied Dick, wheeling around to the principal, every trace
of resentment gone from his young face, "I should say that Pendleton's
most noticeable trick is the way he twists and handles the ball when
he's getting ready to drive in his curve. I watched Pendleton's work
that day, and I think I stole the principle on which he uses his right
wrist."
"Show me," unsuspiciously invited Old Dut.
Dick started to curve an imaginary ball in his right hand, then glanced
over the principal's desk. A small, but thick, heavy book lay there.
"Well, I should say," Prescott resumed, "that Pendleton handles the ball
about like this."
Picking up the book, Dick used both hands in trying to give it the right
preliminary curve.
"But his delivery is, of course, the great feature," the lad went on.
"When Pendleton has the ball curved just right, he raises his right and
lets it go like this!"
Dick was facing the bevy of girls. They were so certain he was going to
hurl the book in their direction that they scattered with little cries
of alarm.
So forcefully had young Prescott prepared for the throw that the book
did leave his hand, though the boy made a frantic effort--apparently--to
recover the missile.
Not toward the retreating girls, however, did the book fly. It spun
nearly at right angles, and----
Smack! it went, full into the face of Principal E. Dutton Jones.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!" cried Dick in a voice ringing with
remorse. "That must hurt you very much, sir."
"It is nothing," replied Old Dut gamely, though the unexpected shock had
nearly taken his breath. Then he put one hand up to his injured face.
"Why, I believe my nose is bleeding," he added, making a quick dive for
his handkerchief.
In truth the nose was bleeding. Old Dut made a specialty of low-cut
vests and white, immaculate shirt-fronts. Before the handkerchief was in
place, three bright, crimson drops had fallen, rendering the shirt-front
a gruesome sight to look at.
"Oh, sir, I hope you will excuse me," followed up Dick.
"Oh, yes; certainly," dryly returned the principal, as he rose and made
for his private room. There was a handbowl in there, with hot and cold
water, and the principal of the Central Grammar School of Gridley was
soon busy repairing his personal appearance.
No sooner had he vanished behind the open door than Dave Darrin, Tom
Reade, Dan Dalzell, Greg Holmes, Harry Hazelton and several other boys
grinned broadly in their huge delight. Dick Prescott, however, admirable
actor that he was, still wore a look of concern on his rather fine young
face.
"One thing I've learned to-day, which I ought to have known before,"
grimly mused Old Dut, as he sopped a wet towel to his injured nose.
"Dick Prescott doesn't need any guardian. He can look out for himself!"
"Wasn't it awful?" repeated a girl's voice out in the schoolroom.
"No," replied her companion. "I don't think it was. After what he did it
served him just right!"
"I'm getting the usual sympathy that is awarded to the vanquished,"
smiled Old Dut to himself. "That's Laura Bentley's voice. She didn't
laugh when I was having my innings with Dick. She flushed up and looked
indignant."
Before Old Dut felt that he was in shape to present himself, all of the
eight grades had received seven minutes' additional recess.
At last studies were resumed. Old Dut, however, noted that whenever one
of the boys or girls looked up and caught sight of his expansive,
crimsoned shirt-front, a smile always followed.