!"

Dick was facing the bevy of girls. They were so certain he was going to
hurl the book in their direction that they scattered with little cries
of alarm.

So forcefully had young Prescott prepared for the throw that the book
did leave his hand, though the boy made a frantic effort--apparently--to
recover the missile.

Not toward the retreating girls, however, did the book fly. It spun
nearly at right angles, and----

Smack! it went, full into the face of Principal E. Dutton Jones.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!" cried Dick in a voice ringing with
remorse. "That must hurt you very much, sir."

"It is nothing," replied Old Dut gamely, though the unexpected shock had
nearly taken his breath. Then he put one hand up to his injured face.
"Why, I believe my nose is bleeding," he added, making a quick dive for
his handkerchief.

In truth the nose was bleeding. Old Dut made a specialty of low-cut
vests and white, immaculate shirt-fronts. Before the handkerchief was in
place, three bright, crimson drops had fallen, rendering the shirt-front
a gruesome sight to look at.

"Oh, sir, I hope you will excuse me," followed up Dick.

"Oh, yes; certainly," dryly returned the principal, as he rose and made
for his private room. There was a handbowl in there, with hot and cold
water, and the principal of the Central Grammar School of Gridley was
soon busy repairing his personal appearance.

No sooner had he vanished behind the open door than Dave Darrin, Tom
Reade, Dan Dalzell, Greg Holmes, Harry Hazelton and several other boys
grinned broadly in their huge delight. Dick Prescott, however, admirable
actor that he was, still wore a look of concern on his rather fine young
face.

"One thing I've learned to-day, which I ought to have known before,"
grimly mused Old Dut, as he sopped a wet towel to his injured nose.
"Dick Prescott doesn't need any guardian. He can look out for himself!"

"Wasn't it awful?" repeated a girl's voice out in the schoolroom.

"No," replied her companion. "I don't think it was. After what he did it
served him just right!"

"I'm getting the usual sympathy that is awarded to the vanquished,"
smiled Old Dut to himself. "That's Laura Bentley's voice. She didn't
laugh when I was having my innings with Dick. She flushed up and looked
indignant."

Before Old Dut felt that he was in shape to present himself, all of the
eight grades had received seven minutes' additional recess.

At last studies were re