“Oh, that’s all right,” nodded Dave, cheerily.  “You’re going to make the team.”

“If there’s any power in me to do it,” declared Dick.

“And you’re going to drag me in after you.  Dick, old fellow, we’ve absolutely as good as promised that we will make the nine.”

Dick Prescott was now engaged in pulling the sweater over his head.  This accomplished, he stood surveying himself in the glass.

“Gracious!  But this is fine,” gasped young Prescott.  “And now, oh, Dave, but we’ve got to hustle!  Think how disgusted the girls will be if we fail.”

“We can’t fail, now,” declared Dave earnestly.  “The girls, and the sweaters themselves, are our mascots against failure.”

“Good!  That’s the right talk!” cheered Prescott, seizing his chum’s hand.  “Yes, sir!  We’ll make the nine or bury ourselves under a shipload of self-disgust!”

“Both of the girls must have a hand in each sweater,” Dave went on, examining Dick’s closely.  “I can’t see a shade of difference between yours and mine.  But I’m afraid the other fellows in Dick & Co. will feel just a bit green with envy over our good luck.”

“It’s a mighty fine gift,” Dick went on, “yet I’m almost inclined to wish the girls hadn’t done it.  It must have made a big inroad in their Christmas money.”

“That’s so,” nodded Darrin, thoughtfully.  “But say, Dick!  I’m thundering glad I got wind of this before it happened.  Thank goodness we didn’t have to leave the girls out.  Though we would have missed if it hadn’t been for you.”

“I wonder how the girls like their gifts?” mused Dick.

It was sheer good luck that had enabled these youngsters to make a good showing.  A new-style device for women, consisting of heater and tongs for curling the hair, was on the market this year.  Electric current was required for the heater, but both Laura and Belle had electric light service in their homes.  This new-style device was one of the fads of this Christmas season.  The retail price was eight dollars per outfit, and a good many had been sold before the holidays.  The advertising agent for the manufacturing concern had been in town, and had presented “The Blade” with two of these devices.  Despite the eight-dollar price, the devices cost only a small fraction of that amount to manufacture, so the advertising agent had not been extremely generous in leaving the pair.

“What on earth shall we do with them?” grunted Pollock, in Dick’s hearing.  “We’re all bachelors here.”

“Sell ’em to me, if you don’t want ’em,” spoke up Dick, quickly.  “What’ll you take for ’em?  Make it low, to fit a schoolboy’s shallow purse.”

“Hm!  I’ll speak to the proprietor about it,” replied Pollock, who presently brought back the word: 

“As they’re for you, Dick, the proprietor says you can take the pair for two-fifty.  And if you’re short of cash, I’ll take fifty cents a week out of your space bill until the amount is paid.”