CHAPTER I

Falling from the Skies

"It won't be long now, fellows, before we get a chance at the old football," exulted Garry Grayson as he and his companions made their way through the woods about two miles from Lenox, their home town.

"The season can't come too quickly to suit me," returned Rooster Long, as he avoided a spreading root that threatened to trip him. "Gee, my foot is fairly itching for the feel of the pigskin!"

"And now that we're no longer lowly freshmen, we may have a look in for the regular team," remarked Nick Danter.

"Here's hoping," put in big Bill Sherwood. "Of course, to be on the scrubs is better than nothing, but I'm good and tired of being the doormat for the first-string fellows."

"I guess we all are," observed Ted Dillingham. "One thing is certain, anyway. They can't keep Garry off the regulars after the way he played in that game that won the championship for Lenox High. Gee, that was some football playing, I'll tell the world!"

"It isn't a cinch for anybody," declared Garry soberly. "But so many of the old stars graduated in June that there'll be a good many places to be filled. There's Dittler, for instance--"

"And that boy will certainly be missed!" exclaimed Nick Danter. "The whole backfield was built around him. When it came to bucking the line and skirting the ends, there wasn't a player in the High School League that could give him any points."

"Right you are," agreed Garry. "The boy was a wonder. Minter, too, was no slouch, and they don't come any better than Payne. Both of them are gone, and it will be mighty hard work to fill their shoes."

"But the biggest loss of all is Ralph Wynn," asserted Rooster Long. "Look at the way he ran the team. Used his brains every minute. Many's the game he's won by quick thinking. He had the beef, too, and the speed. It won't look like the same old team with the captain gone."

"It's a blow to the school and the team," Bill acquiesced. "But that's all in the game. The other schools will have lost some of their stars, too; so in the long run things will about even up."

"We've got one bit of luck, anyway, in having Mr. Phillips as our coach," put in Ted Dillingham.

"That's right," agreed Garry heartily. "At first it looked as though he was going to have hard work in filling Coach Garwin's place, but the way Mr. Phillips brought the team through to the championship showed that he was there with the goods."

"You said a mouthful that time," agreed Nick.

"Luck for Garry that old Shrugg did the disappearing act when he did," remarked Ted with a grin. "That English prof sure had it in for one fellow on the scrubs."

"And all because of a muddy football!" laughed Bill Sherwood, referring to an unfortunate occasion when Garry Grayson, quite by accident, had kicked a ball heavy with mud into the face of Trompet Shrugg, thereby ruffling that gentleman's temper as well as bespattering his immaculate waistcoat.

"Speaking of mud," put in Rooster, glancing skyward, "it sure looks as though we were going to have plenty of it before long. See that row of banked-up clouds?"

"Just wind clouds," scoffed Garry, giving Rooster a poke in the ribs with a four-foot branch he had picked up from the ground.

Rooster grabbed the end of it and a spirited tussle ensued. By the time Garry had succeeded in wresting the improvised weapon from his friend's grasp the sky was definitely overcast with heavy clouds. The prophecy of storm seemed about to be fulfilled.

"Never knew it to fail just when we'd planned to catch some fish and have a good time," grumbled Nick Danter, as he looked disconsolately at his fishing rod.

"Oh, stop your grouching," counseled Rooster. "We're close to the creek now and we'll have plenty of time to catch a mess before it rains. Those clouds may blow over. Anyway, we've got a better chance to make a catch on a cloudy day."

"Righto," asserted Garry. "I'm for the fish every time. A few drops of rain won't hurt us, anyhow."

"It may make the wood too wet to burn, though," observed Ted Dillingham. "And there's no fun catching fish if you can't cook them."

"I guess we can rake enough dry brush together for a fire," predicted Bill hopefully.

"You fellows are talking as though we had a mess already," laughed Nick. "Perhaps we won't have a nibble."

"We won't, eh?" scoffed Ted. "Just watch me land 'em! Say, who's got that can of worms?"

Rooster Long produced that highly necessary adjunct to a fishing excursion, and the boys hastened their steps down the narrow woods path that led to the stream.

It was by no means their first visit to the spot. The creek was an inlet to Bass Lake and abounded in fish that had many times had their numbers depleted by the young fishermen.

"The fellows that don't catch any will have to build the fire," pronounced Garry Grayson, as he got his tackle ready. "Is that a go?"

"Seems like rubbing it in," returned Rooster, grinning. "But you can't bluff me. Bet I land the first one."

"And I'll get the biggest one," predicted Ted.

"Brag's a good dog, but Holdfast's a better," remarked Bill Sherwood, with a superior air, as he baited his hook.

Nick said nothing, but his line hit the water first and was grabbed almost immediately by a hungry perch that the boy landed in fine style.

"I'll let the fish do my talking for me," and he grinned tantalizingly as he displayed his catch.

"If it can talk more like a fish than you do, it's pretty good," Rooster came back at him.

A few minutes later Garry landed a still bigger perch. Then Ted caught a catfish and Bill captured a bass. Other fish were captured from time to time, but luck constantly eluded Rooster Long, though several times he sought what he thought might be better positions for his purpose.

At the end of twenty minutes Garry counted their catch.

"Nine in all," he announced. "That's more than we can eat, and I'm as hungry as a wolf. Rooster's the goat. Come, varlet," he commanded, addressing that youth, "rustle us some brushwood and make a fire for your betters."

Rooster picked up a fish and threw it at him, but Garry dodged and the fish caught Ted Dillingham square in the mouth.

"Say!" sputtered that young lad indignantly, as he used his handkerchief vigorously, "why don't you hit what you aim at? Are you cross-eyed? Think I want my fish raw?"

"There, there, Ted," said Garry soothingly, "you ought to be glad to suffer for a friend. Think of how much worse you'd have felt if it had hit me."

"Not on your life I wouldn't!" grumbled Ted, still plying his handkerchief. "I'll smell that fish all day."

"I don't see why," remarked Bill innocently. "It's perfectly fresh."

"Not half as fresh as some fellows I know," retorted Ted, as he looked about for something to throw at his tormentors.

But they laughingly scurried out of reach and then turned to cleaning the fish. By the time Rooster had the fire going, the fish were ready, and soon the delicious aroma whetted still further the young appetites that needed no sharpening.

They had brought cocoa with them in two milk bottles and this they heated in an old saucepan that Garry Grayson's mother had loaned to them for such occasions. There were plenty of sandwiches, besides buttered rolls and jam. The feast was one fit for a king, the boys thought, as they munched fish and rolls and drank cocoa out of tin cups.

"This is the life!" sighed Rooster Long contentedly. "And this fish," with another huge bite, "sure is the berries."

"Keep still a minute!" cried Bill Sherwood. "What's that?"

Complete silence fell upon the group, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then through the quiet came a humming sound like the whirring of a powerful motor.

"It's either a car burning up the road--" began Ted.

"Or an airplane," finished Garry. "Sounds more like one of those birds to me."

"It's an airplane, all right," declared Bill. "And it sounds as though it were right overhead."

The whir of the motor grew to a roar, and the boys, starting to their feet and staring up through the trees, saw the great man-made bird sweep nearly overhead, coming for a moment between them and the lowering sky.

As they watched, the plane appeared to waver, then make a dart downward.

The boys cried out in alarm.

But in a moment the pilot seemed to have recovered control, and the great machine winged its way upward, engine once more purring rhythmically.

"That guy's got engine trouble, all right," declared Nick Danter, with a shake of his head.

"I'd sure hate to take a dip like that," remarked Rooster, filling his tin cup again. "Apt to scramble your brains--"

"Providing you have any," grinned Garry. "Say, listen, old boy, sling over another of those rolls, will you?"

Rooster obeyed, then turned to Bill Sherwood.

"I've been meaning to ask you, Bill," he said, "how Frank was getting along."

"Fine," replied Bill, his face beaming. "Guess the old boy has learned his lesson. Buckling down to his work like a dog at a bone. And home--" He paused, and then added with a grin: "Is once more home. Frank sure did upset us all for a while."

"There's another fellow who should have learned his lesson too," put in Ted, his brows knitting into a scowl. "And that's Sandy Podder."

"Not a bit of it!" declared Nick. "You'd have a hard time knocking anything into that guy's thick skull. He was scared for a while, of course, at the close squeak he had in that Gyp Mooney robbery; but now he's getting into his stride again. I hear all sorts of things about his goings on. He's got it in for you too, Garry, good and plenty--don't make any mistake about that."

Garry Grayson shrugged.

"I'm not lying awake worrying about it, you bet," he rejoined carelessly.

"Just the same, what Nick says is right," said Bill, poking at the fire with a long stick. "It was your father, Garry, who showed him up in that last rough stuff he tried to pull, and you yourself got the information from Jerry Cox that put him on the fritz. Sandy Podder isn't the fellow to forget anything like that. Take it from me, he'll get even if he can."

"Well, let him try it," said Garry cheerfully. "We've outwitted that rascal several times already, and I guess we can again, if we have to. But say, fellows, here comes the rain."

A splash fell on the embers of their fire, followed by another and yet another.

The boys jumped to their feet, hastily gathering up the remnants of their feast, their rods, and can of bait.

"Guess we'll have to run for it," conjectured Rooster. "From the look of the sky it'll soon be coming down in bucketfuls."

"How about Peeble's cabin?" Nick suggested, referring to a tumbledown hut in the woods whose former owner had long since passed into the great beyond, leaving his earthly habitat to the mercy of wind and storm.

Poor as it was, it would yet afford some shelter from the rain, and, as soon as they had looked to the remnants of their fire, the boys turned their steps toward it.

They had barely reached it and slammed the rickety door to behind them when the storm broke in fury, dashing upon the leaky roof and beating at the dirty, cracked windows.

Through the largest hole in the roof, the rain was beginning to drip in an ever-increasing stream.

"Hey, there's a shower bath for you, Garry!" cried Rooster, and held his chum beneath the trickle.

Garry dodged the unwelcome shower and in retaliation grabbed Rooster and held him beneath the stream, which coursed chillingly down the hapless Rooster's back.

Rooster howled, and with a convulsive effort freed himself from Garry's grasp, at the same time butting his head against the ribs of his adversary.

In the laughing scrimmage, both boys went down and rolled over and over on the rotting floor of the cabin, to the huge delight of their chums.

"Soak him, Garry!"

"Attaboy, Rooster!"

"Go to, you fel--"

The words were interrupted by a rending crash, and the next moment it seemed as though the universe had come down about their ears!