story," mused Bradley, gazing after the buggy before he went back
to his desk. "But I guess Prescott always has his head squarely
on his shoulders. He does, in school athletics, anyway. Len
Spencer is the man for this job, so of course Len had to be laid
up with a cold and fever that would make it murder to send him
out to-night."

"Dick," muttered Dave excitedly, "you've simply got to make good.
This isn't simply a little paragraph to be scribbled. It's a
mystery and is going to be the sensation of the day. This is
the kind of story that full-fledged reporters on the great dailies
have to handle."

"Yes," laughed Dick, "and those reporters never get flurried.
I'm not going to allow myself any excitement, either."

"No, but you want to get the story---all of it."

"Of course I do," Prescott agreed quietly.

"If you do this in bang-up shape," Dave went on enthusiastically,
"it's likely to be the making of you!"

"How?" queried Dick, turning around to his chum.

"Why, success on a big story would fairly launch you in journalism.
It would provide your career as soon as you're through High School."

"I don't want a career at the end of the High School course,"
Dick returned. "I'm going further, and try to fare better in