Ripley darted by the crowd now, his caution and his dread of too much of a scene coming to his aid.  Besides, some one had just called out, banteringly: 

“Why not take him to the horse trough?”

That decided Fred on quick retreat.  Ducked, deservedly, by a crowd on Main Street, Ripley could never regain real standing in the High School, and he knew that.

As soon as they could Dick and Dave walked on to “The Blade” office.  Here Darrin took a chair in the corner, occasionally glancing almost enviously at Prescott, as the latter, seated at a reporter’s table, slowly wrote the few little local items that he had picked up during the afternoon.  When Dick had finished he handed his “copy” to Mr. Pollock, and the chums left the office.

“Dick, old fellow,” hinted Dave, confidentially, “I’m afraid I ought to give you a tip, even though it does make me feel something like a spy.”

“Under such circumstances,” smiled Prescott, “it might be well to think twice before giving the tip.”

“I’ve thought about it seventeen times already,” Dave asserted, gravely, “and you’re my chum, anyway.  So here goes.  When we were in the department store, do you remember that the girls were looking over some worsteds, or yarns, or whatever you call the stuff?”

“Yes,” Prescott nodded.

“Well, I couldn’t quite help hearing Laura Bentley say to Belle that the yarn she picked up was just what she wanted for you.”

“What on earth did that mean?” queried Dick, looking almost startled.

“It means that you’re going to get a Christmas present from Laura,” Dave answered.

“But I never had a present from a girl before!”

“Most anything is likely to happen,” laughed Dave, “now that you’re a sophomore—–­and a reporter, too.”

“Thank goodness I’m earning a little money now,” murmured Dick, breathing a bit rapidly.  “But, say, Dave!”

“Well?”

“What on earth does one give a girl at Christmas?”

“Tooth-powder, scented soap, ribbons—–­oh, hang it!  I don’t know,” floundered Dave hopelessly.  “Anyway, I don’t have to know.  It’s your scrape, Dick Prescott!”

“Yours, too, Dave Darrin!”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, I saw Belle buying some of that yarny stuff, too.”

“Great Scott!” groaned Dave.  “Say, what do you suppose they’re planning to put up on us for a Christmas job?  Some of those big-as-all-outdoors, wobbly, crocheted slippers?”

CHAPTER VIII

HUH?  WOOLLY CROCHETED SLIPPERS

The night before Christmas Dick Prescott attended a ball, in his new capacity of reporter.

Being young, also “green” in the ways of newspaper work, he imagined it his duty to remain rather late in order to be sure that he had all the needed data for the brief description that he was to write for “The Blade.”