Three minutes of walking brought them to a farmhouse that looked like the abode of prosperous people.

“Well, what is it?” demanded a stout man, with a good-humored face, as he stepped out from a barn.

“We wish to know, sir,” Dick explained, “if you can tell us who owns the woods about a quarter of a mile back, at the right hand side of the road?”

“I think I can,” nodded the man.  “Will you describe the woods a little more particularly?”

As Prescott complied the farmer broke in: 

“Those are my woods, all right.  What do you want of them?”

Dick explained the desire of himself and his friends to camp there for the night.

“Who are you boys?” asked the farmer, keenly eyeing Dick and Dave.

“Gridley High School boys, out on a vacation jaunt.”

“You won’t do any damage to my woods, will you?”

“Certainly not, sir,” Dick promised.

“Then go right ahead and pitch your camp, young man.  Enjoy yourselves.”

“We shall have to gather and use quite a bit of firewood, sir,” Prescott continued.

“Well, there’s considerable dead wood lying about there.”

“May we pay you a proper price for the use of the firewood, sir?” Prescott went on.

“If you try to,” laughed the farmer, “I’ll chase you out of the woods.  Make yourselves at home, boys.  Have as good a time as you can.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And—–­have you had any fresh milk lately?”

“Not a lot of it, sir.”

“Would you like some?”

“Why, if we may pay-----”

“You may pay me,” promptly agreed the farmer, “by bringing the pail back when you pass this way in the morning.”

With that remark he went into another building, soon coming out with an eight-quart pail filled with milk.

“This sort of stuff isn’t much good, except when you haven’t had any for a long time,” laughed the farmer.  “Enjoy yourselves.  Say, you don’t play football with the Gridley High School eleven, do you?”

“All of us do,” Dick admitted.

“Thought so,” chuckled the farmer.  “That’s why I was interested in you.  I saw the Thanksgiving game at Gridley last year.  Great game nervy lot of boys, with all their sand about them.  There was one fellow in particular, I remember, who broke doctor’s orders and jumped into the game at the last minute.  He saved the game for Gridley, I heard.  I’d like to shake hands with him.”

“Then here’s your chance, sir,” laughed Dave, shoving Dick forward.  “Mr. Dick Prescott, Gridley High School.”

“My name’s Dobbins,” smiled the farmer, extending his hand.  “Glad to meet you, Prescott.  I thought it was you all the time.  Mebbe the young man with you is Darrin.”

“Yes,” laughed Dick, and there was more handshaking.

“I hope I’ll see the rest of your friends when you pass in the morning,” said the farmer cordially.