f the Old Home House
eleven was onto their jobs. There was five men between Willie and the
hotel, and they all bore down on him like bats on a June bug.

"'Get him!' howls Parker, racin' to help.

"'Down him!' chimes in big Jim, his knee in poor Snow's back.

"'Run, Bearse! Run!' whoops the Pinkerton man, liftin' his mouth out of
the sand.

"He run--don't you worry about that! Likewise he dodged. One chap
swooped at him, and he ducked under his arms. Another made a dive, and
he jumped over him. The third one he pushed one side with his hand.
'Pushed!' did I say? 'Knocked' would be better, for the feller--the
carpenter 'twas--went over and over like a barrel rollin' down hill. But
there was two more left, and one of 'em was bound to have him.

"Then a window upstairs banged open.

"'Oh, Mr. Bearse!' screamed a voice--Grace Sterzer's voice. 'Don't let
them get you!'

"We all heard her, in spite of the shoutin' and racket. Willie heard
her, too. The two fellers, one at each side, was almost on him, when
he stopped, looked up, jumped back, and, as cool as a rain barrel in
January, he dropped that ball and kicked it.

"I can see that picture now, like a tableau at a church sociable. The
fellers that was runnin', the others on the ground, and that literary
pie passer with his foot swung up to his chin.

"And the ball! It sailed up and up in a long curve, began to drop,
passed over the piazza roof, and out of sight.

"'Lock your door, Miss Sterzer,' sung out Fred Bearse--'Willie' for
short. 'Lock your door and keep that ball. I think your father's paper
is inside it.'

"As sure as my name is Barzilla Wingate, he had kicked that football
straight through the open window into old Gabe's room."

The depot master whooped and slapped his knee. Mr. Wingate grinned
delightedly and continued:

"There!" he went on, "the cat's out of the bag, and there ain't much
more to tell. Everybody made a bolt for the room, old Gabe and Peter
T. in the lead. Grace let her dad in, and the ball was ripped open in a
hurry. Sure enough! Inside, between the leather and the rubber, was
the missin' agreement. Among the jubilations and praise services nobody
thought of much else until Snow, the Pinkerton man, come upstairs, his
clothes tore and his eyes and nose full of sand.

"'Humph!' says he. 'You've got it, hey? Good! Well, you haven't got
friend Parker. Look!'

"Such of us as could looked out of the window. There was the launch,
wi