“Rah! rah! Gri-i-idley!”

Again and again the whole of the rousing, inspiring High School yell smote the air.

It was but a little after noon on Saturday.

It seemed as though two thirds of the school, including most of the girls, had come down to the railway station to see the High School eleven off on its way to Tottenville.  That city was some thirty miles away from Gridley, but there was a noon express train that went through in forty minutes.

Coach Morton and Captain Wadleigh had rounded up the whole of the school team.  All of the subs were there.  The coach and members of the team were at no expense in the matter, since their expenses were to be paid out of the gate receipts of the home eleven.

To many of the boys and girls of Gridley High School, however, the affair bore a different look.  The round trip by rail would cost each of these more than a dollar, with another fifty cents to pay for a seat on the grand stand at Tottenville.

Hence, despite the fine representation of High School young folks at the railway station, not all of them were so fortunate as to look forward to going to the game.

In addition to those of the young people who could go, there were more than three hundred grown-ups who had bought tickets.  The railroad company, having been notified by the local agent, had added a second section to the noon express.

And now they waited, enthusiasm finding vent in volleys of cheers and the school war-whoop.

Dick Prescott and his chums stood at one end of the platform.  Nor were they alone.  Many admirers had gathered about them.  Laura Bentley and Belle Meade, who were going with the rest to Tottenville, were chatting with Dick and Dave.  Each of the girls carried the Gridley High School colors to wave during the expected triumphs of the afternoon.

“I’m glad you’re playing today,” Laura almost whispered to young Prescott.

“Why?” smiled Dick

“Why, I believe you’re one of those fortunate people who always carry their mascot with them,” rejoined Miss Bentley earnestly.  “With you there, Dick, I feel absolutely certain that even Tottenville must go down in the dust.  Gridley will bring back the score –­and not a tied score, either.”

“I certainly hope I am as big a mascot, or possess as big a mascot as you seem to believe,” laughed young Prescott.

“You and Dave are each other’s mascots,” declared Belle Meade, with a laugh.  “I remember that last year when you were both on the baseball nine Gridley never lost a game in which you and Dave both played.”

“Nor did the nine lose any other game,” returned Dick, “though there were some games when Dave and I weren’t on the batting list.  The nine didn’t lose a game last season, Miss Belle, and had only one tied score.”

“Anyway,” declared Laura, with great conviction, “it all comes back to this –­that Gridley can’t lose today because both Prescott and Darrin are to play.”

“And I believe, young ladies, that you’re both much nearer to the truth than you have any idea of.  In today’s game a great deal does depend on Prescott and Darrin.”

It was Captain “Hen” Wadleigh, who, passing to the rear of the group, had overheard Laura’s remark, and had made this addition to her prophecies.

“Here comes the train!” yelled one youth, who was fortunate enough to have a ticket for the day.

Soon after the sound of the whistle had been heard the express rolled in.  But this was the first section of the regular train.  By some effort the football crowd was kept off the train.  Soon after the second section of the train was sighted as it rolled toward the station.

“Team assemble!” roared Captain Wadleigh.

There was a rush of husky, mop-headed youths in his direction.

Just then a hand rested on Dick’s arm.

“Let me speak with you, just a moment Prescott.”

As Dick turned he found himself looking into the face of Hemingway, plan clothes man to Chief Coy of the Police department.

Dick’s face blanched.  He scented bad news instantly, though he could not imagine what it was.

“Anyone sick –­any accident at home?” asked the young left end.

“Team aboard, first day coach behind the smoker!” roared Captain Wadleigh, and the fellows made a rush.

Dick saw light in an instant.

“Sworn out a warrant for your arrest,” nodded Hemingway.

Laura and Belle did not hear or see this.  They were hurrying rearward along the train.

Few of the football fellows saw the trouble, for they were busy boarding the car named by Captain Wadleigh.

Dave Darrin was the only one to pay urgent heed.

“See here, Hemingway,” began Dave, “Dick will come back –­you know that.  He’s desperately needed today.  Won’t it do just as well-----”

“No,” broke in the plain-clothes man, reluctantly.  “I’d have done that if possible, but Dodge’s father put the warrant in my hand and insisted.”

“He?” echoed Darrin, bitterly.  “The very man that Dick and I rescued when he was out of his head and in the clutches of scoundrels He?  Oh, this is infamous –­or crazy!”

“Hustle aboard, there, you Prescott and Darrin!” roared Captain Wadleigh’s voice from an open window.

“You hear, Hemingway?” urged Dave.

“Yes; but I can’t help it,” sighed the policeman.

“You go, Dave –­you must!” commanded Dick.  “Hurry!  The train is starting.  Hustle!  Play for both of us.”

Dick gave his chum a push that was compelling.  Dave yielded, boarding the step as the end of the car went by him.

“I’ll explain,” panted Darrin angrily.

The train was now in full motion.

“Hey, dere!  Stop dot train, quick!  Me!  I am not off board, yet!”

It was Herr Schimmelpodt, hot, perspiring and gasping, who now raced upon the platform.  For one of his weight, combined with his lack of nimbleness, it was hazardous to attempt to board the moving train.

Yet Herr Schimmelpodt made a wild dash for the train.  He would have been mangled or killed, had not Officer Hemingway caught the anxious German and pulled him back.

“Hey, you!  Vot for you do dot?” screamed Herr Schimmelpodt.  “Hey?  Answer me dot vun, dumm-gesicht!” (Foolish-faced one.)

“I did it to save you from going under the wheels,” retorted Officer Hemingway dryly.

“Und now I don’t go me by dot game today!” groaned Herr Schimmelpodt.  “Me!  I dream apout dot game all der veek, und now I don’t see me by it.”

“Hal’s maul.” (Literally’ “Shut your mouth!”)

“Me!  Und I Couldn’t lose dot game for ein dollar!” glared the prosperous German.

He stared after the departed second section, from the open windows of which fluttered or wildly waved many a banner; for few of the Gridley crowd had yet discovered that one of the most prized members of the team had been left behind.

Herr Schimmelpodt it was, who, a wealthy retired contractor, had found his second youth in his enthusiasm over the High School baseball nine the season before.

Though thrifty enough in most matters, the German had become a liberal contributor to the High School athletic fund, to the great dismay of his good wife, who feared that his new outdoor fads would yet land them both in the poorhouse.

“Vot you doing here, Bresgott?” demanded Herr Schimmelpodt, turning upon the young prisoner.  “Vy you ain’t by dot elefen?  How dey going to vin bis you are behint left?”

“You have company in your misery, sir,” said Officer Hemingway.  “I’m awfully sorry to say that Dick Prescott can’t see today’s game, either.  It’s a whopping shame, but sometimes the law is powerless to do right.”

“What foolishness are you talking mit, vonce alretty?” demanded Herr Schimmelpodt, looking bewildered.

“I’ve just been arrested, on a false charge of assault,” Dick stated quietly.

“You?  Und you don’t blay by der game yet’ By der beard of Charlemagne,” howled Herr Schimmelpodt excitedly, “ve see apoud dot!”

Digging down into a trouser’s pocket this enthusiastic old High School “rooter” brought up a roll of bills almost as large around as a loaf of bread.