"
"Bully for you, Prescott!" rang the voice of the coach.
"You here, Mr. Morton?" cried Dick, wheeling and seeking the submaster.
"Mr. Morton, you're not a boy, and you don't want to be mixed
up in such affairs. Why don't you start-----"
"My place, Captain Prescott, is with the team I'm coaching," replied
the submaster. "And I think the signs are that we're going to
need all the pairs of fists that we have, and, more, too."
The baggage wagon came to the door. Dick, Dave and Tom coolly
loaded the baggage on. The wagon started off at good speed.
Then the two stages drove up to the door.
"Pile in, boys!" called one of the drivers.
Neither of the stage drivers was in the secret of what was likely
to happen down the road.
The start was made, the horses moving barely faster than a walk.
By this time the athletic field was practically deserted. There
was no sign of the presence of the Fordham High School team,
nor of the bad element that Barnes had enlisted.
It was not until the stages had proceeded nearly four blocks that
Dave, sitting beside Dick on the driver's seat of the first stage,
caught sight of some bobbing heads further up the road.
"There they are," whispered Dave. "Lying in wait at the next
corner. They'll jump out when we get there."
"Let them!" muttered Dick. "They'll have to start it---but after
they do-----!"
The stages had almost reached the next corner.
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