You can't go in that room. "Why can't I?" "Because that's the orders; and you can't smoke in this room." Bart Stirling spoke in a definite, manly fashion. Lemuel Wacker dropped his hand from the door knob on which it rested, and put his pipe in his pocket, but his shoulders hunched up and his unpleasant face began to scowl. "Ho!" he snorted derisively, "official of the company, eh? Running things, eh?" "I am - for the time being," retorted Bart, cheerfully. "Well," said Wacker, with an ugly sidelong look, "I don't take insolence from anyone with the big head. I reckon ten year's service with...

That's the way to line 'em out, Ned! "Go on now! Take another! You can get home!" "Wow! That wins the game! Hurrah for Ned Wilding!" Those were some of the shouts, amid a multitude of others, that came from scores of boyish throats as they watched the baseball game between the Darewell High School and the Lakeville Preparatory Academy. The occasion was the annual championship struggle, and the cries resulted from Ned's successful batting of the ball far over the center fielder's head. It was a critical moment for the score was tie, it was the ending of the ninth inning, and there were two men...

It is very appropriate at this moment when radio has taken the country by storm, and aroused an enthusiasm never before equaled, that the possibilities for boys in this art should be brought out in the interesting and readable manner shown in the first book of this series. Radio is still a young science, and some of the most remarkable advances in it have been contributed by amateurs - that is, by boy experimenters. It is never too late to start in the fascinating game, and the reward for the successful experimenter is rich both in honor and recompense. Just take the case of E. H. Armstrong,...

Well, well, by all that's good! If it isn't Tom Fairfield back again! How are you, old man? "Oh, fine and dandy! My! but it's good to see the old place again, Morse," and the tall, good-looking lad whom the other had greeted so effusively held out his hand - a firm, brown hand that told of a summer spent in the open. "Any of our boys back, Morse?" went on Tom Fairfield, as he looked around the campus of Elmwood Hall. "I thought I'd meet Bert Wilson or Jack Fitch on my way up, but I missed 'em. How are you, anyhow?" "Fit as a fiddle. Say, you're looking as if you had enjoyed your vacation."

You can't go in that room. "Why can't I?" "Because that's the orders; and you can't smoke in this room." Bart Stirling spoke in a definite, manly fashion. Lemuel Wacker dropped his hand from the door knob on which it rested, and put his pipe in his pocket, but his shoulders hunched up and his unpleasant face began to scowl. "Ho!" he snorted derisively, "official of the company, eh? Running things, eh?" "I am - for the time being," retorted Bart, cheerfully. "Well," said Wacker, with an ugly sidelong look, "I don't take insolence from anyone with the big head. I reckon ten year's service with...

That's the way to line 'em out, Ned! "Go on now! Take another! You can get home!" "Wow! That wins the game! Hurrah for Ned Wilding!" Those were some of the shouts, amid a multitude of others, that came from scores of boyish throats as they watched the baseball game between the Darewell High School and the Lakeville Preparatory Academy. The occasion was the annual championship struggle, and the cries resulted from Ned's successful batting of the ball far over the center fielder's head. It was a critical moment for the score was tie, it was the ending of the ninth inning, and there were two men...

It is very appropriate at this moment when radio has taken the country by storm, and aroused an enthusiasm never before equaled, that the possibilities for boys in this art should be brought out in the interesting and readable manner shown in the first book of this series. Radio is still a young science, and some of the most remarkable advances in it have been contributed by amateurs - that is, by boy experimenters. It is never too late to start in the fascinating game, and the reward for the successful experimenter is rich both in honor and recompense. Just take the case of E. H. Armstrong,...

Well, well, by all that's good! If it isn't Tom Fairfield back again! How are you, old man? "Oh, fine and dandy! My! but it's good to see the old place again, Morse," and the tall, good-looking lad whom the other had greeted so effusively held out his hand - a firm, brown hand that told of a summer spent in the open. "Any of our boys back, Morse?" went on Tom Fairfield, as he looked around the campus of Elmwood Hall. "I thought I'd meet Bert Wilson or Jack Fitch on my way up, but I missed 'em. How are you, anyhow?" "Fit as a fiddle. Say, you're looking as if you had enjoyed your vacation."

"Hello there, Bristles " "Hello yourself, Fred Fenton " "Why, what ails you this fine summer morning, Bristles? You don't look as jolly as you might." "Well, I was only waiting to see if you cared to speak to me, Fred." "Why in the wide world shouldn't I, when you're one of my chums, Bristles Carpenter?"

"Now then, let's see who can put a shot through that round hole in the tree-trunk up there. Take a try, Sid." "Must be twenty yards away from here, if a foot, eh, Bristles?" "More like twenty-five to me, Colon; and looks farther than from first base to third, on the diamond." "Line up, everybody, and we'll soon find out who takes the cake at making a center shot. But hadn't we better bar out Fred Fenton?" "What for, Bristles?"