The High School Boys' Training Hike
or
Making Themselves "Hard as Nails"
By H. Irving Hancock
CONTENTS
CHAPTERS
I. Mr. Titmouse Doesn't Know Dick
II. The Deed of a Hero
III. The Peddler and the Lawyer's Half
IV. Peddler Hinman's Next Appearance
V. Dave Does Some Good Work
VI. The No-Breakfast Plan
VII. Making the Tramps Squirm
VIII. When the Peddler Was "Frisked"
IX. Dick Imitates a Tame Indian
X. Reuben Hinman Proves His Mettle
XI. Tom Idealizes Working Clothes
XII. Trouble With the Rah-Rah-Rahs
XIII. A Snub and the Quick Retort
XIV. Dick & Co Make an Apple "Pie"
XV. Making Port in a Storm
XVI. Home, Hospital and Almshouse
XVII. Two Kinds of Hobo
XVIII. Dick Prescott, Knight Errant
XIX. "I'll Fight Him for This Man!"
XX. In the Milksop Class?
XXI. The Revenge Talk at Miller's
XXII. Under the Sting of the Lash
XXIII. Timmy, the Gentleman, at Home
XXIV. Conclusion
CHAPTER I
MR. TITMOUSE DOESN'T KNOW DICK
"We thought ten dollars would be about right," Dick Prescott announced.
"Per week?" inquired Mr. Titmouse, as though he doubted his hearing.
"Oh, dear, no! For the month of August, sir."
Mr. Newbegin Titmouse surveyed his young caller through half-closed
eyelids.
"Ten dollars for the use of that fine wagon for a whole month?"
cried Mr. Titmouse in astonishment. "Absurd!"
"Very likely I am looking at it from the wrong point of view,"
admitted Prescott, who fingered a ten dollar bill and was slowly
smoothing it out so that Mr. Titmouse might see it.
"That wagon was put together especially for the purpose," Mr.
Titmouse resumed. "It has seats that run lengthwise, and eight
small cupboards and lockers under the seats. There is a place
to secure the cook stove at the rear end of the wagon, and the
stove rests on zinc. Though the wagon is light enough for one
horse to draw it, it will hold all that several people could require
for camping or for leading a regular gipsy life. There is a special
awning that covers the wagon when needed, so that on a rainy day
you can travel without using umbrellas or getting wet. You can
cook equally well on the stove whether in camp or on the road.
There are not many vehicles in which you can cook a full meal
when traveling from one point to another."
"Nor is it every stewpan or kettle that would refrain from slipping
off the stove when driving the wagon over rough roads," laughed
Dick good-humoredly.
"Well---er---of course, one has to choose decent roads when touring
with a wagon of that sort," admitted the owner.
"Then you don't think ten dollars a fair price?" Dick Prescott
inquired thoughtfully.
"For a month's use of the wagon? I do not," replied Mr. Newbegin
Titmouse with emphasis.
"And so you decline our offer of ten dollars?" Prescott asked,
looking still more thoughtful.
"I certainly do," replied Mr. Titmouse.
Then the owner of the wagon began to descant glowingly upon the
many advantages of going on a road hike aided by the service that
such a specially constructed wagon would give. In fact, Mr. Titmouse
dwelt so enthusiastically upon the value of his wagon that Dick
shrewdly told himself:
"He's very anxious---unusually so---to rent us that wagon. I've
already found out that he hasn't used the wagon in two years,
nor has he succeeded in renting it to anyone else. The wagon
is so much useless lumber in his stable."
"I wouldn't rent that wagon to everyone," Mr. Titmouse wound up.
"No, sir," Dick agreed heartily, yet with a most innocent look
in his face. "Not everyone would want the wagon."
"I---I don't mean that!" Mr. Titmouse exclaimed.
"In fact, sir," Dick went on very smoothly, "I have learned that
you have been offering the wagon for sale or hire during the last
two summers, without getting any customers."
"Eh?" demanded Mr. Titmouse in some astonishment.
"Naturally, sir," Dick went on, "before coming here to see you
I made a few inquiries in Tottenville. I discovered that in this
vicinity the wagon is something of a joke."
"What's that?" questioned the other sharply. "My camping wagon
a joke? Nothing of the sort. And, if it is a joke, why did you
want to get it?"
"Oh, all of our fellows can stand a joke," laughed young Prescott
"So I came over to see just what terms we could make for the use
of your wagon during the month of August."
"Well, I'll be as fair with you as I can," Mr. Titmouse replied.
"From men---grown men---I would want at least thirty dollars
a month for the wagon---probably thirty-five. Of course I know
that money is not as plentiful with boys. I'll let you have the
wagon for the month of August at the bottom price of twenty-five
dollars."
Dick smilingly shook his head.
"I've named the best price I could think of taking," insisted
Mr. Titmouse. "Come into the wagon shed and have another look
at it."
"Thank you, sir, but there is no use in looking at the wagon again,
when such a price as twenty-five dollars is asked for a month's
hire," Dick answered promptly.
"Come inside and look at it again, anyway," urged Mr. Titmouse.
"Thank you, sir, but I must get back to Gridley at the earliest
possible moment."
"If you didn't want to hire the wagon," asked Mr. Titmouse testily,
"what was the use of taking up my time?"
"I do want to hire it," Dick admitted, "but since hearing your
price I have realized that I don't want the wagon half as much
as I did at the outset."
It was notable about Mr. Titmouse that he would gladly talk for
three hours in order to gain a dollar's advantage in any trade
in which he was interested. He was a small man, with small features
and very small eyes which, somehow, suggested gimlets. He bore
about with him always an air of injury, as though deeply sensitive
over the supposed fact that the whole world was concerned in getting
the better of him.
Though Mr. Titmouse had acquired, through sharp dealing, usury
and in many other ways a considerable sum of money and property
in the course of his life, yet he was not the man to part with
any of it needlessly.
The special wagon now resting in the wagon shed at his home place
in Tottenville had been designed by him at a time when people
all through the state had been much interested in outdoor life.
The Titmouse wagon had been built as the result of much thought
on the part of its designer. It certainly was a handy kind of
wagon for campers to use on the road. Mr. Titmouse had spent
four weeks of wandering life, going from point to point and trying
to talk up the merits of his wagon. He had hoped to establish
a small factory, there to build such wagons to order at high prices.
For some reason he had met with no success in that enterprise.
After his realization of failure Newbegin Titmouse had felt that
he would be content if he could sell the wagon at anything like
a good price. Failing to sell it, he hoped to be able to get
his money back through renting the wagon.
Now he stood watching this high school boy from Gridley, wondering
just how much rental he could extort from this wiry, athletic-looking
football player.
"There will be a car along in about five minutes," mused Dick
aloud. "I must try to take that car. Thank you very much for
your kindness, Mr. Titmouse."
"But we haven't come to any understanding yet," cried the wagon's
owner as Dick turned and walked away.
"Why, yes, we have, sir," Prescott answered pleasantly over his
shoulder. "We have come to the understanding that you can't afford
to come down to our price, and that we can't go up to yours.
So I'm going back to make some other arrangements for a wagon."
"Wait a minute!" interjected Newbegin Titmouse, stepping after
the boy from Gridley. "Maybe I can drop off a dollar or so on
the price."
"Much obliged, sir; but it wouldn't help us any, and it's almost
time for the car," was Prescott's answer.
"What's your best offer? Make it!" urged Mr. Titmouse restlessly.
"Seven dollars for the wagon for the month of August," Prescott
replied.
"Seven? Why, only a minute or two ago you offered me ten dollars!"
"I know it, sir," said Dick coolly. "You will recall that you
declined that offer, so I am at liberty to make a new offer."
"You'll have to make a better-----"
"If you decline seven dollars," Dick smiled pleasantly, "my next
offer, if I make one, will not go above six."
Mr. Titmouse felt, of a sudden, very certain that the high school
boy would stand by that threat.
"Seven dollars doesn't land me clear for the season," complained
Newbegin Titmouse. "I've spent nine dollars already in advertising
the wagon."
"Then, if you don't take my seven dollars," Prescott proposed,
"you'll be out quite a bit of money, Mr. Titmouse. I see my car
coming in the distance. So good-----"
"I'll take ten!" called Mr. Titmouse, as Dick once more turned
away.
"Six," smiled Dick significantly. "But I haven't time to stay
here and dicker, sir. Good-----"
"Hold on!" fairly screamed Mr. Titmouse, as Dick, nodding at him,
started to run to the corner.
"Then I'll stop and talk it over with you, sir," answered Prescott,
going back. "But I don't say that I'll agree to take the wagon."
"Now, don't you try to work the price down any lower," exclaimed
Mr. Titmouse, looking worried.
"No, sir; I won't do that," Dick promised. "I won't say, yet,
that I'll take the wagon, but I will agree that I'll either take
it at six dollars or refuse the chance altogether. I've just
happened to think of something that I want to make sure about"
"What is it?" asked Mr. Titmouse apprehensively.
"I forgot to look at the tires on the wheels," Prescott went on.
"I want to make sure that they're sound, so that we fellows won't
have to take the chance of paying a blacksmith to make new ones
before we've been out a week."
The tires were in excellent condition, so the little man had no
objection whatever to showing them.
"Good, so far," nodded Prescott. "Now, next, I'd enjoy looking
at the axles and the hub-nuts."
"You're not the lad who is going to allow himself to be cheated,"
laughed Mr. Titmouse admiringly. "The hubs and axles are all
right, so I've no objection to showing them to you."
"I'm satisfied with the wagon," Dick declared, a few minutes later.
"Now, Mr. Titmouse, I'll pay you the six dollars if you'll make
out a satisfactory receipt for the money."
"Come into the office and tell me what you want me to say in the
receipt," urged Newbegin Titmouse, leading the way across the
stable into a little room in the furthermost corner.
The receipt was soon made out, the money paid and the receipt
in Dick's pocket.
"I'll either come for the wagon myself, or send one of the other
fellows," Dick promised. "If I send for it I'll also send a written
order."
"I hope you boys will have a pleasant time this summer," chirped
Mr. Titmouse, who, though he had been badly out-generaled in the
trade, had at least the satisfaction of knowing that there was
some money in his pocket that had come to him by sheer good luck.
"We're going to try to have the finest good time that a crowd
of fellows ever had," Dick replied, after nodding his thanks.
"I've missed that car, and shall have quite a little wait."
"Perhaps you'd like to sit under a tree and eat a few apples,"
suggested Mr. Titmouse.
Dick was about to accept the invitation with thanks when Mr. Titmouse
added:
"I've a lot of fine summer apples I gathered yesterday. I'll
let you have three for five cents."
This attempt at petty trade, almost in the guise of hospitality,
struck Dick as being so utterly funny that he could not help laughing
outright.
"Thank you, Mr. Titmouse," he replied. "I don't believe I'll
eat any apples just now."
"I might make it four for a nickel," coaxed the little man, "if
you agree not to pick out the largest apples."
"Thank you, but I don't believe I'll eat any apples at all just
now," Dick managed to reply, then made his escape in time to avoid
laughing in Mr. Titmouse's face.
Once out on the street, and knowing that he had some twenty minutes
to wait for the next car, Dick strolled slowly along.
"I didn't know that boy," muttered Newbegin Titmouse, looking
after Prescott with a half admiring gaze, "and I didn't size him
up right. He offered me ten dollars, and then got the wagon for
six. Whew! I don't believe I ever before got off so badly as
that in a trade. But I really did spend five-fifty in advertising
the wagon in the Tottenville and Gridley papers this summer,
so I'm fifty cents ahead, anyway, and a fifty-cent piece is always
equivalent to half a dollar!"
With which sage reflection Mr. Newbegin Titmouse went out into
his small orchard to see whether he had overlooked any summer
apples that were worth two dollars a barrel.
Dick sauntered down the street for a few blocks ere he heard the
whirr of a Gridley-bound trolley car behind him. He quickened
his pace until he reached the next corner. There he signaled
to the motorman.
As the car slowed down Dick swung himself on nimbly, remarking
to the conductor:
"Don't make a real stop for me. Drive on!"
As Prescott passed inside the car he was greeted by a pleasant-faced,
well-dressed young man. It was Mr. Luce, one of the sub-masters
of Gridley High School. Dick dropped into a seat beside him.
"Been tramping a bit, Prescott?" inquired the sub-master.
"No, sir; I've been over here on a little matter of business,
but I expect to start, in a day or two, on a few weeks of tramping."
Thereupon young Prescott fell to describing the trip that he,
Dave Darrin, Greg Holmes, Dan Dalzell, Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton
had mapped out for themselves.
"Just for pleasure?" asked Mr. Luce.
"No, sir; for training. We all hope to make the football team
this fall. We're all of us in pretty good shape, too, I think,
sir; but we're going out on this training hike to see if we can't
work ourselves down as hard as nails."
"I'd like to go with you," nodded the sub-master.
"Can't you do it, sir?" asked Dick eagerly, for Mr. Luce was a
favorite with all the boys.
"Unfortunately, I can't," replied the submaster. "I'm expected
at home. My mother and sister claim me for this month. But I
wish I could go, just the same."
"You would be most welcome I assure you, sir," replied Dick warmly.
"Thank you, Prescott," returned Mr. Luce with a smile. "I appreciate
your invitation and regret that I cannot accept it."
The conversation again turned to the subject of the coming football
season, and an animated discussion ensued, as Sub-master Luce
was an enthusiastic advocate of football.
Suddenly, Dick, glancing ahead out of the window, turned pale.
Without a word of explanation he sprang from his seat and made
a bound for the nearer car door, the rear one.
"Everyone off! Stop the car! Hustle!" shouted the high school
boy. "Mr. Luce! Come on. Quick!"
By the time the last words were uttered Dick had made a flying
leap from the car platform.
By good luck, rather more than by expert work, he landed on his
feet. Not an instant did he lose, but dashed along at full speed.
John Luce, though he had no inkling of what had caused the excitement,
sprang after Dick.
Dick, however, had not waited to see if the sub-master had followed
him. His horror-filled eyes, as he ran, were turned straight
ahead.
It needed but a few steps to carry him across the road. He bounded
into a field where a loaded hay wagon stood near an apple tree.
The horses had been led away to be fed. Seated on the top of
the hay were a boy of barely six and a girl not more than four
years old. They were awaiting the return of the farmer.
Down below a six-year-old boy, barefooted and brown as a gipsy,
had appeared on the scene during the farmer's absence.
"For fun" this youngster had been lighting match after match,
making believe to set the hay afire. As he held the matches as
close to the dried hay as he dared, this urchin on the ground
called to the two babies above that he would "burn 'em up."
Not all of this did Dick Prescott know, but his glance through
the car window had shown him the boy on the ground just as that
tiny fellow had lighted another match, shouting tantalizingly
to the two children on top of the load of hay.
Just as he called up to them the mischievous youngster tripped
slightly. Throwing out his right hand to save himself the boy
accidentally touched the bottom of the load at one side with the
lighted match.
At this fateful instant it was out of the question to think of
putting out the flame that leaped from wisp to wisp of the dried
grass.
"Jump!" shouted the young match-burner, but the children above
did not hear, or else did not realize their plight.
"Fire! Fire!" screamed the little incendiary, as he ran panic-stricken
toward the farm house.
And now Dick was racing as he had never done before, even over
the football gridiron. On his speed depended the lives of the
two children.