Part 17 (2/2)

”Wonder where we could s.h.i.+p it to, so the other fellows wouldn't get on to what was doing?” mused d.i.c.k.

”Why not s.h.i.+p it to Mr. Sanderson?” suggested Sam. The man he mentioned was a farmer living some distance from the college. The boys had once done the farmer's daughter Minnie a great favor, saving her from insults at the hands of Jerry Koswell and Dudd Flockley.

”That's the talk!” cried Tom. ”He'll take care of it and let us put it together in one of his open fields. Then we can make the fellows at Brill open their eyes.”

The new idea pleased all the youths immensely, and the next day a long letter of explanation was sent to Mr. Sanderson, and he was asked to telegraph a reply. The biplane was taken apart and packed up for transportation, and then the boys packed their trunks and dress-suit cases, and got ready to ”go back to the greasy grind,” as Tom expressed it.

It must not be supposed that the lads had forgotten to write to the Stanhopes and the Lanings, and to their college friends. Numerous letters had been mailed and about an equal number had been received. The girls were all going to Hope, but one week later than the boys would have to depart for Brill. Nothing more had been seen or heard of Crabtree or Sobber, for which all were thankful.

”Here's a letter from William Philander Tubbs,” said Tom. ”I sent him a letter just for fun, asking him the style in socks this fall. Listen to his reply.” And he read the following:

”I have been making diligent inquiries about the shades in socks, my dearest Thomas, but the storekeepers seem to be a little undecided. Some think that Rambler Red will prevail while others favor Nile Green and a new shade called Baby's Breath. Personally I favor Baby's Breath and have purchased one dozen of that shade. If I get any more definite news about shades I will wire you, because I know what a dreadful thing it is not to have the shade that is really and truly fas.h.i.+onable.”

”Three cheers for William Philander and his Baby's Breath socks!” cried Sam. ”He's the true and only artist!”

”Baby's Breath!” murmured Tom. ”Now wouldn't that get your scalp-lock?”

And then there was a merry laugh all around.

There was likewise a letter from Max Spangler, and another from Stanley Browne, stating they were already on their way to Brill. Then, just before the boys were ready to leave home, came a letter from Songbird Powell.

”I'll bet it's in verse,” said d.i.c.k. ”Songbird couldn't write prose to save his life.”

”We'll soon see,” said Sam, who held the communication, and he tore it open. ”You win,” he added, and then read the following, after the date line:

”My dearest boys I'm filled with joys To think that we Together shall be In a week or more!

Oh, the fun in store!

And also the work-- Which we can't s.h.i.+rk-- And the pleasant meetings, And pleasant greetings,----”

”He was thinking of Minnie Sanderson when he wrote that,” interrupted Tom.

”Sure thing,” returned d.i.c.k; for all of the Rovers knew that the would-be poet was deeply smitten with the farmer's daughter. He had written several poems about her, and had also given her several presents.

”Well, there are twelve pages of the doggerel,” said Sam, glancing over the sheets. ”Here, you can read over my shoulders,” and this was done, amid much merriment. Songbird had but little news and promised to be at college when they arrived.

”Oh, I hope the _Dartaway_ carries us there in good shape,” murmured Tom. ”It will be an arrival worth remembering!”

Before he left home d.i.c.k had a long talk with his father and his Uncle Randolph. When he rejoined his brothers he was unusually sober.

”What is it, dad's business affairs?” queried Sam.

”Yes, Sam.”

”Are they in bad shape?” questioned Tom, quickly. ”What's gone wrong?”

”It's something about those mining shares that dad and Uncle Randolph invested in,” answered d.i.c.k. ”I'll give you the particulars later. They don't want Aunt Martha to know about it, for it will only make her worry without doing any good. I'm afraid dad and Uncle Randolph are in it bad,” went on d.i.c.k, soberly.

”Can't something be done?” asked Tom.

<script>