"Mother, I must do something, and that right quickly." It was Frank Newton who was talking. His voice was composed, but determined. His face was calm, but there was a resolute look in his eyes. It told that under the surface some unusual emotion was stirring Frank.

"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.

"Isn't it a grand and glorious feeling?" exclaimed Bob Layton, a tall stalwart lad of fifteen, as he stretched himself out luxuriously on the warm sands of the beach at Ocean Point and pulled his cap a little further over his eyes to keep out the rays of the sun. "I'll tell the world it is," agreed Joe Atwood, his special chum, as he burrowed lazily into the hollow he had scooped out for himself. "You don't have to put up any argument to prove it, Bob. I admit it from the start."

"Hello " exclaimed Fenn Masterson, as he opened the front door of his home, in response to a ring, and admitted his chum, Bart Keene. "Glad to see you, Bart. Come on in." "What's the matter with you?" demanded Bart, throwing a strap full of books into a corner of the hall, as if he cared very little for the volumes. "Why weren't you at school to-day, Stumpy?"

"Nothing to do till tomorrow " sang out Bob Layton, as he came out of high school at Clintonia on Friday afternoon, his books slung over his shoulder, and bounded down the steps three at a time. "And not much to do then, except just what we want to," chimed in Joe Atwood, throwing his cap into the air and catching it deftly as it came down. "You fellows do just love to work, don't you?" put in Herb Fennington, with an air of self-righteousness that was belied by the merry twinkle in his eyes.

"What are you looking so glum about this morning, Stumpy?" asked Ned Wilding as he greeted his chum, Fenn Masterson, otherwise known as "Stumpy" because of his short, stout figure. "Haven't you got your lessons, or are you going to be expelled?" "I'm not to be expelled but some one else is, Ned." "What's that? Some one going to be expelled?" asked Bart Keene, coming up in time to hear what Fenn said. "John Newton is," replied Stumpy.

"Hold on there Go easy, now, fellows," cautioned Bart Keene to his two chums, as they stole softly along in the darkness. "What are you making all that racket for, Ned?" "It wasn't me; it was Frank." "I couldn't help it," came from Frank Roscoe in a whisper. "I stumbled on a stone."

"All aboard." Ralph Fairbanks swung into the cab of No. with the lever hooked up for forward motion, and placed a firm hand on the throttle. It looked as though half the working force of the railroad, and every juvenile friend he had ever known in Stanley Junction, had come down to the little old depot that beautiful summer afternoon to especially celebrate the greatest event in his active railroad career.

"Get out of here " said Jack Knight, head towerman of the Great Northern Railroad, at Stanley Junction. "Why, I ain't doing no harm," retorted Mort Bemis, ex-leverman of the depot switch tower. "And stay out. Hear me?" demanded Knight, big as a bear, and quite as gruff. "What's the call for sitting down on a fellow this way, I'd like to know " muttered Bemis sullenly.

The Keene household was suddenly aroused from peacefulness, one quiet afternoon, by a loud thud as if something had fallen. It was followed by a report like an explosion. Then, from Bart's room, sounded a series of yells. "Wow Ouch Jimminities " "He's hurt " exclaimed his sister Alice, as she ran toward her brother's room. As she entered she saw him running about the apartment, which was filled with smoke, holding one hand in the other. Drops of blood were coming from his fingers.