"I see you're limping again, Fred." "That's right, Bristles. I stubbed my toe at the very start of this cross-country run, and that lost me all chance of coming in ahead. That's why I fell back, and have been loafing for a stretch." "And let me catch up with you; eh? Well, I reckon long-legged Colon will have a cinch in this race, Fred." "Seems that way. He can get over ground for a certain time like a deer, you know."

"Where to now, Jack?" "Oh, I just thought I'd run into town and see what's going on, Tom. Want to come along?" "I'd like to-but this Latin-" "Oh, bother the Latin " and Jack Fitch, the chum and roommate of Tom Fairfield, snatched the book from the scarcely resisting grasp of his friend. "Come along. You're up well enough. Besides, we haven't that old tyrant Skeel to deal with now in the classics."

"You fellows want to be sure to come round to my house to-night and listen in on the radio concert," said Bob Layton to a group of his chums, as they were walking along the main street of Clintonia one day in the early spring. "I'll be there with bells on," replied Joe Atwood, as he kicked a piece of ice from his path. "Trust me not to overlook anything when it comes to radio. I'm getting to be more and more of a fan with every day that passes. Mother insists that I talk of it in my sleep, but I guess she's only fooling."

"Hi, Tom, give us a ride in your boat; will you?" "Take us across to the other side of the river." The request and the suggestion came from two lads who were walking toward a small boathouse, on the edge of a rather wide river. The youth to whom they spoke looked up from a small motorboat, the engine of which he was cleaning.

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.

"Jiminy, but this is hot work " exclaimed Bob Layton, as he laid down the hammer he was using and wiped his perspiring forehead. "Hot is right," agreed his friend, Joe Atwood, as he also took a moment's breathing space. "You might almost think it was August instead of early June. Old Sol must have got mixed up in his calendar."

"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...

"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."