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"I thought of it before I tried it out at Dick's," Reade rejoined, and explained how he had helped Timmy Finbrink out of a scrape. "What did you say the fellow's name is, Tom?" Dick asked. "His name is Timmy Finbrink," Reade rejoined, "and he looks the part. Just one glance at Timmy, and you know that he's all that the name implies."
But I wish you'd wake up and tell me who broke the bottle against the brick and made me sprint down the street." Still young Master Timmy snored. "In your sleeve you're laughing, to think how you fooled your father, aren't you?" murmured Mr. Finbrink. "Well, it was a good joke, and I admit it, young man, so I'm not going to trounce you this time.
No; Timmy wouldn't be smart enough for this one -but he may have smart friends. I'll look up that young hopeful of mine!" With that purpose in view, the lantern still in his hand, Mr. Finbrink passed into the house and then up the back stairs. On the next floor he pushed open the door of a room, holding the lantern high as he scanned the bed.
Still no answer. Mr. Finbrink held the lantern so that the rays shone fully against the boy's closed eyelids. Any youngster genuinely asleep would have opened his eyes instantly, and Mr. Finbrink knew it. But Timmy began to snore in earnest. "I'm glad you sleep so soundly," went on Mr. Finbrink. "It shows, boy, what a clear conscience you have! No guile in your heart!
Yet the heat couldn't have made him extremely uncomfortable, for Tom Reade, amiable and budding senior in the Gridley High School, smiled good naturedly as he stood surveying as much as he could make out of the face of Timmy Finbrink in that dark stretch of the street. Timmy was merely a prospective freshman, having been graduated a few days before from the North Grammar School in Gridley.
"Whew!" gasped Master Timmy, opening his eyes presently. "That was a mighty narrow squeak! But I got out of it this time. That Tom Reade is a sure enough wonder!" Mr. Finbrink, however, had slipped back, catfooted, and was now outside the door, where he could hear the barely audible mutterings of his son and heir. "So it was Tom Reade, eh?" murmured Mr.
Finbrink, as he started for the stairs in earnest this time. "I might have guessed it was Tom Reade. He has genius enough for even greater things than that. But Timmy has certainly helped, at least, to earn a right not to be strapped this time." Then the father returned to his chair downstairs, to resume his interrupted smoke. Within the next half hour Mr.
"Aren't you out pretty late, Timmy, for a boy who isn't even a regular high school freshman as yet?" inquired Reade, with another smile. "It's almost nine-thirty, you know." "Don't I know?" wailed Timmy Finbrink, with something of a shiver. "It's getting later every minute, too, and I'm due for a trouncing when I do go in, so what's the odds?" "Who's going to give you that trouncing?"
"Well, it seems that, while I was helping Timmy Finbrink out of his difficulties, and afterwards tried to fool you with the fake window-breaking, some of the Central fellows had been down at Ritchie's playing tick-tack on one of his front windows. Tick-tack is a stupid game, and it got me into a mess that night. "It seems that Mr.
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