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Read Ebook: The High School Boys' Fishing Trip by Hancock H Irving Harrie Irving
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Ebook has 1846 lines and 50845 words, and 37 pages
TOM READE HAS A "BRAND-NEW ONE"
"Hello, Timmy!"
"'Lo, Reade."
"Warm night," observed Tom Reade, as he paused not far from the street corner to wipe his perspiring face and neck with his handkerchief.
"Middling warm," admitted Timmy Finbrink.
Yet the heat couldn't have made him extremely uncomfortable, for Tom Reade, amiable and budding senior in the Gridley High School, smiled good naturedly as he stood surveying as much as he could make out of the face of Timmy Finbrink in that dark stretch of the street.
Timmy was merely a prospective freshman, having been graduated a few days before from the North Grammar School in Gridley.
Tom, himself, had been graduated, three years before, from the fine old Central Grammar, whence, in his estimation, all the "regular" boys came. As a North Grammar boy, Timmy was to be regarded only with easygoing indifference. Yet a tale of woe quickly made Tom Reade his young fellow citizen's instant ally.
"Aren't you out pretty late, Timmy, for a boy who isn't even a regular high school freshman as yet?" inquired Reade, with another smile. "It's almost nine-thirty, you know."
"Don't I know?" wailed Timmy Finbrink, with something of a shiver. "It's getting later every minute, too, and I'm due for a trouncing when I do go in, so what's the odds?"
"Who's going to give you that trouncing?" Tom demanded.
"My father," replied Timmy Finbrink.
"What have you been doing?"
"Pop told me to be upstairs and in bed by nine o'clock, without fail," Timmy explained. "I came along just five minutes ago, and found that pop has the house planted for me. I can't slip in without his knowing it."
"Oho! So your father has the other members of the family stationed where they can see you, whichever way you go into the house?" asked Reade, with genuine interest in the unfortunate Timmy.
"Nope," explained Timmy, with another shiver. "Mother and sister are away visiting, and pop is all alone in the house."
"But he can't watch both the front and back doors at the same time," Reade suggested hopefully.
"Timmy, you're a fearfully slow boy," Tom drawled.
"What do you mean?"
"I can fix it so you can get into the house while your father is doing something else," Tom declared.
"Can you? How? Ring the front door bell, while I slip in at the back door?"
"Nothing as stale as that," scoffed Tom Reade. "That wouldn't call for any brains, you see. Come along and we'll look over the lay of the land. Cheer up, Timmy! You'll have plenty of chance to slip into the house, get upstairs, undressed and be in bed before your father has time to get over the surprise that's coming to him."
"Keep quiet, and be ready to follow orders fast."
As they gained the front gate of the Finbrink yard Tom's keen eyes noted a brick lying on the grass. As that was just what he wanted, he pounced upon it.
"Yes; there's one back of the house, with the ashes," Timmy answered eagerly.
"Go and get it, and don't make any noise."
Timmy disappeared in the darkness beyond, but soon returned carrying an empty quart bottle.
"Good enough!" whispered Reade, eyeing the bottle with cordial interest. Then he noiselessly approached the house, laying the brick on the grass under one of the front windows.
"Now, Timmy, you slip around to the back of the house," whispered the young schemer. "Just as soon as you hear a crash you watch your swiftest chance to slip into the house and upstairs to bed. Understand?"
"Don't stop to ask questions. Get on your mark and look out for your own best interests!"
Rejoicing in the possession of such a valuable ally as Tom Reade, Timmy vanished in the darkness. Tom Reade waited until he judged that the youngster must be in position near the back door. Now Tom gripped the bottle in his left hand, crouching over the brick.
With his felt hat in his right hand, Tom reached up, hitting a window pane smartly with the hat. At the same instant he brought the bottle crashing down over the brick.
As the bottle smashed against the brick Mr. Finbrink, in the dining room of the house, jumped up so quickly that he dropped his pipe.
"Some young rascal has smashed a front window!" he gasped, as he bolted into the parlor.
That was just what the noise had sounded like, and Tom Reade had intended that it should do so.
"I'll catch the young scamp!" gasped Mr. Finbrink, making a rush for the front door, which he pulled open.
Pausing an instant, he heard the sound of running feet in the distance.
"The young scoundrel went west, and he has a good start," grunted Mr. Finbrink, as he gave chase in that direction. "Hang it, I don't believe I can catch him!"
That guess proved well founded. After running a short distance Mr. Finbrink halted. He had not caught sight of the fugitive, nor could he now hear the running steps.
"I wonder how many panes of glass the young scamp broke?" muttered the irate Mr. Finbrink.
Retracing his steps quickly, Mr. Finbrink halted in front of his house, scanning the windows. Not a crack in a window pane could he discern, which was not remarkable, in view of the fact that no panes of glass had been broken.
"I need a lantern," Mr. Finbrink said to himself, and went inside the house. Soon afterwards he came out with a lighted lantern, and began his inspection. Three windows showed no sign of damage. Nor did the fourth. Then Mr. Finbrink chanced to glance down at the ground. There rested the brick, the fragments of the broken bottle lying around it.
"Say, what's that? What's that?" ejaculated Mr. Finbrink, much puzzled. Soon, however, he began to see light on the riddle. His lips parted in a grin; the grin became a chuckle.
With that purpose in view, the lantern still in his hand, Mr. Finbrink passed into the house and then up the back stairs. On the next floor he pushed open the door of a room, holding the lantern high as he scanned the bed.
There lay Master Timmy, covered only with a sheet, his head sunk in the depths of a pillow, eyes tightly closed, and breathing with almost mechanical rhythm.
"Oh, you're asleep, aren't you?" demanded his father, in a low, ironical voice. "How long have you been asleep, Tim?"
But Timmy's only answer was the beginning of a snore.
"Are you very tired, Timmy?" continued his father craftily.
Still no answer.
Mr. Finbrink held the lantern so that the rays shone fully against the boy's closed eyelids. Any youngster genuinely asleep would have opened his eyes instantly, and Mr. Finbrink knew it. But Timmy began to snore in earnest.
"I'm glad you sleep so soundly," went on Mr. Finbrink. "It shows, boy, what a clear conscience you have! No guile in your heart! But I wish you'd wake up and tell me who broke the bottle against the brick and made me sprint down the street."
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