Early one evening in mid-week, Dick sat at his desk in “The Blade” office, “grinding out” some local copy.  He was in a hurry to finish, for he was due to be in bed soon.  Every member of team and squad was pledged to keep early hours of retiring on every night but Saturday.

In another chair, near by, sat Dave Darrin, who dropped in to speak with his chum, and was now waiting until they could stroll down Main Street together.

“I’ve just thought of something I want to do, Dick,” muttered Dave suddenly.  “I’ll jump out and attend to it, now.  Walk down Main Street, when you’re through, and you’ll run into me.”

Prescott, nodding, went on with his writing, turning out page after page.  Then he rose, placing the sheets on News Editor Bradley’s desk.

“I’m pretty sure you’ll find it all right, Mr. Bradley,” declared Dick.  “Now, I must get home, for I’m due in bed in half an hour.”

“Training and newspaper work don’t go well together,” laughed the news editor.  “However, your football season will soon be over.  This time next year you’ll be through with High School, and I hope you’ll be with us then altogether.”

“I don’t know about that, Mr. Bradley,” smiled Dick, picking up his hat and starting for the door.  “But I do know that I like newspaper work mighty well.  When a fellow is writing for a paper he seems to be alive all the time, and right up to the minute.”

“That youngster may come to us for a while, after he gets out of High School,” called Mr. Pollock, across the room, after Prescott had, gone out.  “But he won’t stay long on a small daily.  A youngster with all his hustle is sure to pull out, soon, for one of the big city dailies.  The country towns can’t hold ’em.”

Dick went briskly down the street, whistling blithely, as a boy will do when he’s healthy and his conscience is clear.

A block below another boy, betraying the hang-dog spirit only too plainly, turned the corner into Main Street.

It was Phin Drayne, out for one of his night walks.  Fearing that he might be insulted, and get into a fight with some one, Drayne had armed himself with one of his father’s canes.  The stick had a crook for a handle.

Prescott caught a glimpse of the other boy’s face; then he turned away, hastening on.

“I’m not even worth looking at,” muttered Phin to himself.

Just as Dick went past, Phin seized the cane by the ferule end, and lunged out quickly.

The crook caught neatly around one of Dick’s ankles just as the foot was lifted.

Like a flash Prescott went down.  One less nimble, and having had less training, might have been in for a split kneecap.  But Dick was too much master of his body and its movements.  He went down to his hands, then touched lightly on his knees.

Phin laughed sneeringly as Dick sprang up, unhurt.

“Keep out of my way, after this—–­you less-than-nothing!” muttered Dick between his teeth.  “I don’t want to have to even hit a thing like you!”