“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”

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!