“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.”