The Y. M. C. A. boys of Cliffwood; $b or, The struggle for the Holwell Prize

“How’s that, fellows?”

“Everything’s lovely, and the gate hangs high, not the goose!”

“Mr. Philpot is going to have some climb, believe me, before he gets it down out of that big oak, as sure as my name’s Dan Fenwick!”

“And say, wouldn’t you like to see Farmer Hasty in the morning when he rubs his eyes and stares up at his wagon, all taken apart, and strung along the ridge-pole of his barn roof?”

“That was a cracking good idea of yours, Dick, and no mistake!”

“Hurrah for Hallowe’en, and all its fun!”

“What’s next on the programme, boys? We’re out for a good time tonight, you know.”

“It isn’t much after eleven at that. Who’s got another clever joke laid out?”

“I have; and when you hear what the game is you’ll all say it’s the boss scheme of the lot, barring none.”

“Listen to Nat, will you? I wondered why he was lugging that bundle around with him all the evening. I guess it’s got something to do with his grand Hallowe’en prank.”

“It has, and a whole lot, Peg Fosdick,” proudly admitted the boy upon whom all eyes were eagerly centered just then.

“Who’s the victim, Nat?” demanded one fellow, the same who had owned to the name of Dan Fenwick.

“Who but that crusty old storekeeper, Jed Nocker,” said the big, overgrown boy with a chuckle of delight. “Everybody else seems to have just gone and clean forgotten all about him tonight.”

At mention of this name all sorts of groans and catcalls arose from the group of seven lads standing on a corner in a quiet, residential part of the usually bustling mill town of Cliffwood.

“The meanest old codger in our town!” exclaimed one fellow, in sheer disgust.

“And he hates all boys worse than he does snakes!”

“Cuffed my ears more’n once, let me tell you, for some little thing I did in meeting.”

“Oh! my mother says Deacon Nocker believes every boy is as chock full of original sin as an egg is of meat; and that the only way to get it out is to keep on whaling the boy.”

“His pet saying is ‘spare the rod and spoil the child,’ I’ve heard people say.”

“Huh! all the same that kind of tactics didn’t keep the Deacon’s only boy from being wild,” chuckled Dan Fenwick, wickedly, as though it gave him considerable pleasure to remember that in this particular case guidance didn’t begin at home.

“Oh! they say Amos always was a bad egg, and that the old deacon wrestled with him day after day. Then something came up, and Amos ran away. The deacon scratched his name off his books, and refused to send along a dollar, even when he heard Amos was married, and had a little boy of his own.”

“Well, it was an oversight for us to let Jed Nocker off this Hallowe’en, when we always had him on our list,” admitted the boy the others had called Dick, and who, despite the fact that his clothes looked well worn, seemed to be something of a leader among his mates.

“Then you agree to listen to my big scheme for giving him the scare of his life, do you, Dick Horner?” demanded Nat, eagerly.

He very well knew that once Dick had stamped the idea O. K. the others would hasten to follow suit, because they had great faith in Dick’s ability as a pilot, whether in baseball, on the gridiron, or in such rough-and-tumble sports as all town boys pursue so strenuously.

“I want to hear it first,” replied Dick, cautiously, showing that he had a streak of discretion in his nature for all he was such a madcap. “Suppose we adjourn to the sand lot up the street. It’s more retired than this corner, and we can talk it over without any one running across us.”

“A bright idea, Dick!” exclaimed another boy who had not as yet broken into the conversation. Leslie Capes was known as a fellow of few words, preferring to listen until he had mastered all the points of a discussion before giving his particular views.

“Come along then, fellows,” urged the big, broad-shouldered Nat, eagerly, leading the way along the street; “and ten to one you’ll say my scheme is just the boss way to pay old Nocker back for all he’s done to the boys of Cliffwood.”

While they are hurrying along toward the open sand lot spoken of, a few explanations regarding the fun-loving lads may not come in amiss, since these boys and others of the rising generation of Cliffwood are destined to figure largely in our story.

Dick Horner was a clever young chap, though inclined to be headstrong and wild. He lived in an humble cottage home with his little sister Sue, his mother, a widow, and old “Grandpop” Horner, a Civil War veteran, who had long been a striking figure in Cliffwood. The old soldier with his white locks down almost to his shoulders lived pretty much in the days of the dead and gone past, and could rarely talk without bringing up the times when he had fought so well.

Pretty much all the Horners had to live upon consisted of the pension a generous government paid the veteran yearly in installments, and a small yearly sum from a meager investment in some industrial stocks, so that Dick seldom saw anything like new clothes unless he earned the money himself.

Dan Fenwick and Leslie Capes were Dick’s two most intimate chums. The former was as full of the spirit of mischief as Dick himself, but when it came down to a question of leadership, both of them readily yielded the palm to Dick, whose will seemed to bend theirs.

Leslie’s folks were comfortably well off. In addition to this there was an old indulgent uncle living with them, who could be prevailed upon to keep Leslie well supplied with funds, though the money always came accompanied with good advice. Uncle Henry believed in boys.

Peg Fosdick had once broken his leg, and ever since had walked with a slight limp. At home and in school he was called Oscar, but the temptation to dub him “Peg” had proved so strong that long ago he had yielded to the inclination of his companions and readily answered to that nickname.

The other boys were Andy Hale and Elmer Jones, both of them just ordinary chaps without any remarkable traits of character. Both were good-natured fellows, ready for fun, or even a little row for a change, the type of boy you can always run across by the dozen in any American town.

Cliffwood was something of a manufacturing town, by virtue of the output of several mills that depended on the water power yielded by the little Sweetwater River. Half a mile above the town lay the rapids, with a fall of some fifteen feet or more. This natural advantage in power had caused the erection of the big Bartlett Paper Mills, and several other manufacturing establishments.

Cliffwood, on this account, had more than its share of workers, who, as a rule, received fair wages, and were seemingly contented.

Dick Horner looked forward to the time when he would be big enough to start to work and earn enough money to supply his dear mother with more of the comforts of life. He hated to be so poor, and this desire to do something for his mother was really one of the best things in the boy’s nature.

Dick did not have so bad a reputation in the town as the big bully, Nat Silmore, but all the same the stories that drifted to the ears of his anxious mother often caused her gentle heart pain. Dick, upon being appealed to, always promised to turn over a new leaf, and then in the end his natural overflow of wild spirits led him into some new mischief, for which in turn he would be sorry.

The vacant lot which Dick had in view was not far distant, so the seven boys out for Hallowe’en sport soon arrived there. Eager to hear what Nat had to say, the others clustered around the big fellow. As a rule the others rather preferred Nat’s room to his company.

“Here we are waiting for you to give us the particulars of your grand stunt, Nat,” remarked Dan, impatiently tugging at the other’s sleeve.