lle man was cured of all his ailments
by Brown's Blood Bitters."

"Can you hold your tongue a minute?" demanded Greg ironically.

"Not when I see you headed that way," retorted Reade. "I've been
fooled by the same style of exciting item, and I know how cheap
it makes a fellow feel when he comes to the name of the Bitters,
the Pills or the Sarsaparilla. Holmesy, I want to save your face
for you with this crowd."

"Will you keep quiet, for a moment, and let the other fellows
hear, even if you have to take a walk in order to save your own
ears?" demanded Greg, with sarcasm. "This piece is about Dick
Prescott, and he doesn't sign patent medicine test-----"

"Dick Prescott?" demanded Darrin. "Whoop! Let's have it!"

"It isn't a roast, is it?" demanded Danny Grin solemnly.

"No; it isn't," Greg went on. "Listen, while I read the headlines."

It was a four-line heading, beginning with "Dick Prescott's Fine
Nerve."

"There! I was afraid it was a roast, after all," sighed Danny
Grin.

"Take that fellow away and muzzle him," ordered Greg, then proceeded
to read the other sections of the headlines.

By this time Greg had a very attentive audience. Even Tom Reade
had ceased to scoff.

"Oh, bosh!" gasped Dick, when Greg was about one third of the
way through the column article.

"Isn't it true?" demanded Dave.

"After a fashion," Dick admitted.

"Then hold off and be good while the rest of us hear about yesterday's
doings."

So Dick stood by, his face growing redder and redder as the reading
proceeded.

"That's what I call a dandy story," declared Greg as he finished
reading.

"Dick, why didn't you tell us something about it last night?"
demanded Hazelton.

"What was the use?" asked Prescott. "And, though I've always
thought the 'Blade' a fine local newspaper, I don't quite approve
of Mr. Pollock's judgment of news values in this instance. I
suspect that Mr. Pollock must have been away, and that Mr. Bradley,
the news editor, ran this in."

"It sounds like some of Len Spencer's stuff," guessed Dave. "He's
great on local events."

"If they had to print the yarn, eight or ten lines would have
covered it," Dick declared. "Fellows, we've used up eighteen
minutes for our halt, instead of ten. Come on!"

Greg, however, after rising, and before starting, was careful
to fold the "Blade" neatly and to tuck it away in a pocket. He
meant to save that news story.

All of our readers are familiar wit