There wasn’t time to jump out of the way of that second flying missile.

By an instinct of self-preservation young Prescott, instead of trying to leap out of the way, just collapsed, going down to his knees.

As he sank the missile struck the top of his cap, carrying it from his head.

“Hi!  Stop that, you blamed rascal!”

It was Dave Darrin’s voice that rang out, as that young man came rushing down the street behind Prescott.

Dick in another second was on his feet, crouching low, and running full tilt into the alleyway.

It was Dick’s way –­to run at danger, instead of away from it.

At his first bound into the alley, Prescott dimly made out some fellow running at the further end.

There was an outlet of escape down there –­two of them, in fact, as the indignant pursuer knew.  So he put on speed, but soon was obliged to halt, finding that his unknown enemy had gotten away.  Here Dick was joined by breathless Dave Darrin, who had followed swiftly.

“You go through there, Dave; I’ll take the other way,” urged Dick, again starting in pursuit.

The unknown one, however, had taken advantage of those few seconds of delay to get safely beyond chase.  So the chums met, soon, in a side street.

“His line of retreat was good,” muttered Dick, rather disgustedly.

“Who was it, anyway?” Dave indignantly inquired.

“I don’t know.  I didn’t see.”

“Do you suppose it could have been Tip Scammon?” asked Dave, shrewdly.

“Is Tip Scammon back from the penitentiary?”

“Got back this afternoon, and has been showing himself around town this evening,” nodded Dave.  “Say, I wonder if he could have been the one who ambushed you?”

“I don’t like to throw suspicion on anyone,” Dick replied.  “Still, I can’t imagine anyone else who would have as much temptation to try to lay me up.  Tip Scammon acted as Fred Ripley’s tool, last year, in trying to make me out a High School thief.  Tip was sent away, and Fred didn’t have to suffer at all, because Tip wouldn’t betray his employer.  But Tip must have felt sore at me many a time when he was breaking rock at the penitentiary.”

The two chums walked slowly back to Main Street, still talking.

“I saw you ahead of me, on the street,” Dave rattled on.  “I was trying to overtake you, without calling, when that thing came whizzing by your head.  Say, Dick, I wonder –­”

“What?” demanded Prescott.

“Oh, of course, it’s a crazy notion.  But I was wondering if Mr. Cantwell could have it in for you so hard that he’d put anyone up to lying in ambush for you.”

Dick started, then thought a few moments.  “No,” he decided.  “Cantwell may be erratic, and he certainly has a treacherous temper, and some mean ways.  But this was hardly the sort of trick he’d go in for.”

“Then it was Tip Scammon, all by himself,” declared Darrin, with great conviction.

“But to go back to Mr. Cantwell,” Dick resumed, with a grin, “I must tell you something really funny.  Prin. went to School Board tonight with a long, bright knife sharpened for me.  But he didn’t do a thing.”

Then Prescott confessed to being a “Blade” representative, and told of the principal’s visit to the Board, and of his hurried departure.

Dave laughed heartily, though what seemed to amaze him most of all was that Dick had found a chance to write for pay.

“Of course you can do it, Dick,” continued his loyal friend, “but I never thought that anyone as young as you ever got the chance.”

“It came my way,” Dick went on, “and I’m mighty glad it did.  So-----”

“Wow!” muttered Dave, suddenly, then started off at a sprint, as he muttered: 

“Here’s Tip Scammon now!”

Both boys moved along on a hot run.  Tip was walking slowly along Main Street, giving a very good imitation of one unconcerned.

He turned when he heard the running feet behind him, however.  His first impulse seemed to be to take to his heels.  But the young jailbird quickly changed his mind, and turned to face them, an inquisitive look on his hard cunning face.

“Good evenin’, fellers.  Where’s the fire?” he hailed.

“In my eyes!  See it?” demanded Dave Darrin.  His dark eyes certainly were flashing as he reached out and seized Tip by one shoulder.

“Now don’t ye git festive with me!” warned Tip.

“Oh, we don’t feel ready for anything more festive than a lynching party,” muttered Dave, hotly.  “See here, you-----”

“I s’pose ye think ye can do all ye wanter to me, jest because I’ve been doin’ my stretch?” demanded Tip, aggressively.  “But don’t be too sure.  Take yer hand offen my shoulder!”

Dave didn’t show any sign of immediate intention of complying.

“Take it off!” insisted Tip.

But Dave met the fellow’s baleful gaze with a cool, steady look.  Tip, muttering something, edged away from under Dave’s extended hand.

“Now, ye wanter understand,” continued young Scammon, “that I can’t be played with, jest because some folks think I’m down.  If you come fooling around me you’ll have to explain or apologize.”

“Tip,” questioned Dave Darrin, sharply, “why did you just throw two brickbats at Dick Prescott’s head?”

“I didn’t,” retorted Tip, stolidly.

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“Tip,” declared Dave, solemnly, “I won’t call you a liar.  I’ll just remark that you and truth are strangers.”

“I ain’t interested in what you fellers got to say,” flared Tip, sullenly.  “And I don’t like your company, neither.  So jest skate along.”

“We’re not going to linger with you, Tip, any longer than seems absolutely necessary,” promised Dave, coolly.  “But what I want to say is this:  If you make any more attempts to do Dick Prescott any harm our crowd will get you, no matter how far we have to go to find you.  Is that clear?”

“I s’pose it is, if you say so,” sneered young Scammon.

“We’ll get you,” pursued Dave, “and we’ll turn you over to the authorities.  One citizen like Dick Prescott is worth more than a million of your stamp.  If we find you up to any more tricks against Dick Prescott, or against any of us, for that matter, we’ll soon have you doing your second ‘stretch,’ as you have learned to call a term at the penitentiary.  Tip, your best card will be to turn over a very new leaf, and find an honest job.  Just because you’ve been in jail once don’t go along with the notion that it’s the only place where you can find your kind of company.  But whatever you do, steer clear of Dick Prescott and his chums.  I think you understand that.  Now, go!”

Tip tried to brazen it out, but there was a compelling quality in the clear, steady gaze of Dave Darrin’s dark eyes.  After a moment Tip Scammon let his own gaze drop.  He turned and shuffled away.

“Poor fellow!” muttered Dick.

“Yes, with all my heart,” agreed Dave.  “But the fellow doesn’t want to get any notion that he can go about terrorizing folks in Gridley!”