as no kick coming to him. Move on,
young feller!"

Fred started, glaring angrily at the speaker. But half a dozen
pressed forward about him. Ripley's face went white with rage
when he found himself being edged off the sidewalk into the gutter.

"Get back, there, you, and leave me alone!" he ordered, hoarsely.

A laugh from the crowd was the first answer. Then some one gave
the junior a shove that sent him spinning out into the street.

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. "Anywa