LITMIR.BIZ

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go slow," advised Roger. He, too, felt that Job Haskers might become very vindictive.

      Spring was now at hand, and a week later came the first baseball game of the season. It was a contest with Esmore Academy from Daytonville and held on the Oak Hall grounds. Quite a crowd was present, including some of the town folks. Gus Plum was in the pitcher's box for the Hall, and Sam Day was on first base, and Chip Macklin on third.

      "I hope we win!" cried Dave.

      "I hope you do," answered Vera Rockwell, who was present with some other girls. "But why are you not playing?" she went on.

      "Not this term," said our hero, with a smile, and then he spoke of his studies.

      "I suppose it is noble of you to give up this way," she said. "But--I'd like to see you play."

      The contest proved a well-fought one, and was won by Oak Hall by a score of eight runs to five. At the conclusion there was a great cheering for the victors.

      "This means bonfires to-night!" cried Roger, as the gathering broke up.

      "Yes, and a grand good time!" added Buster Beggs.

      CHAPTER XI

      BONFIRE NIGHT AT THE HALL

      It was certainly a night long to be remembered in the annals of Oak Hall,--and for more reasons than one.

      At the start, several bonfires were lit along the bank of the river, and around these the students congregated, to dance and sing songs, and "cut up" generally. None of the teachers were present, and it was given out that the lads might enjoy themselves within reasonable bounds until ten o'clock.

      "Let's form a grand march!" cried Gus Plum. "Every man with a torch!"

      "Yes, but don't set anything on fire," cautioned Roger.

      "Say, that puts me in mind of a story," came from Shadow. "A fellow went into a powder shop to buy some ammunition. He was smoking a pipe, and the proprietor----"

      "Whoop! Hurrah for Shadow!" yelled somebody from the rear, and the next instant the story-teller of the Hall found himself up on a pile of barrels which had not yet been set on fire.

      "Now then, tell your yarns to everybody!" came the cry.

      "Speak loud, Shadow!"

      "Give us all the details."

      "Tell us the story about the old man and the elephant."

      "No, give us that about the old maid and the mouse."

      "Let us hear about the fellow who was shipwrecked on the Rocky Mountains."

      "Or about how the fellow who couldn't swim fell into a flour barrel."

      "Say, what do you take me for?" roared Shadow. "I don't know any story about the Rocky Mountains, or a flour barrel either. If you want to hear----"

      "Sure we do!"

      "That's the very yarn we've been waiting for!"

      "Say, Shadow, won't you please tell it into a phonograph, so I can grind it out to my grandfather when I get home?"

      "Is that the story that starts on a foggy night, at noon?"

      "No, this one starts on a dusty day in the middle of the Atlantic."

      "Say, if you fellows want me to tell a story, say so!" grumbled Shadow. "Otherwise I'm going to get down."

      "No! no! Tell your best yarn, Shadow."

      "All right, then. Once two men went into a shoe store----"

      "Wow! That's fifty years old!"

      "I heard that when a child, at my grandson's knee."

      "Tell us something about smoke, Shadow!"

      "And fire. I love to hear about a fire. It's so warm and----"

      "Hi! let me get down! Do you want to burn me up?" yelled the story-teller of the school, suddenly, as, chancing to glance down, he saw that the barrels were on fire. "Let me down, I say!" And he made a leap from the barrels into the midst of the crowd.

      Shadow landed on the shoulders of Nat Poole, and both went down and rolled over. In a spirit of play some of the students near by covered the rolling pair with shavings and straw. Shadow took this in good part and merely laughed as he arose, but the money-lender's son was angry.

      "Hi, who threw those dirty shavings all over me?" he bawled. "I don't like it."

      "Don't mind a little bath like that, Nat!" called one of the students.

      "But I do mind it. The shavings are full of dirt, and so is the straw. The dirt is all over me."

      "Never mind, you can have a free bath, Nat," said another.

      "I'll lend you a cake of soap," added a third.

      "I don't want any of your soap!" growled the money-lender's son. "Say, the whole crowd of you make me sick!" he added, and walked off, in great disgust.

      "Phew! but he's touchy," was the comment of one of the students. "I guess he thinks he's better than the rest of us."

      "Let's give him another dose," came the suggestion, from the rear of the crowd.

      "Shavings?"

      "Yes, and straw, too. Put some down his neck!"

      "Right you are!"

      Fully a dozen students quickly provided themselves with shavings and straw, both far from clean, and made after Nat, who was walking up the river-front in the direction of the boathouse.

      Before the money-lender's son could do anything to defend himself, he found himself seized from behind and hurled to the ground.

      "Now then, give it to him good!" cried a voice, and in a twinkling a shower of shavings, straw, and dirt descended upon poor Nat, covering him from head to foot.

      "Hi! let up!" spluttered the victim, trying to dodge the avalanche. But instead of heeding his pleadings the other students proceeded to ram a quantity of the stuff into his ears and down his collar. Nat squirmed and yelled, but it did little good.

      "Now then, you are initiated into the Order of Straw and Shavings!" cried one merry student.

      "Just you wait, I'll get square, see if I don't," howled Nat, as he arose. Then he commenced to twist his neck, to free himself from the ticklish straw and shavings.

      "Come on and have a good time, old sport!" howled one of his tormentors; and then off the crowd ran in the direction of the bonfires, leaving Nat more disgusted than ever.

      "I'll fix them, just wait and see if I don't!" stormed the money-lender's son to himself, and then hurried to the Hall, to clean up and make himself comfortable.

      In the meantime the march around the campus had begun, each student carrying a torch of some kind. There was a great singing.

      "Be careful of the fire," warned Mr. Dale, as he came out. "Doctor Clay says you must be careful."

      "We'll take care!" was the cry.

      The marching at an end, some of the boys ran for the stables and presently returned with Jackson Lemond, the driver of the school carryall, commonly called Horsehair, because of the hairs which clung to his clothing.

      "Come on, Horsehair, join us in having a good time."

      "Give us a speech, Horsehair!"

      "Tell us all you know about the Wars of the Roses."

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