The Grammar School Boys Snowbound Part 8

"Say, you come and do the coaxing yourself to-night, when dad is home,"

begged Dan.

"I will, if you think it will do any good, Danny," Prescott agreed.

"At any rate, your little speech can't put the matter any further back than it stands right now," Dalzell declared. "And, oh, dear! I do want so badly to go with you fellows! I never wanted anything as much before."

"Say, we'll all go together, early this evening," proposed d.i.c.k, his eyes now snapping. "We'll call in a body at the house of each fellow who hasn't yet secured leave to go on the winter camping party. We will all present the case. Perhaps we can put it through for the whole six. If we can't all go there won't be nearly as much fun."

Very soon, indeed, after supper, d.i.c.k & Co. were all a.s.sembled once more.

"You won't need to go to my house," Tom explained triumphantly. "My father says I can go and he has brought mother around to agree to it."

"Whose house shall we go to first, then?" asked d.i.c.k.

"Come to mine," begged Dan woefully.

So to the Dalzell home they went. The boys pleaded their case both with Mr. and Mrs. Dalzell. Neither parent, however, would do more than say that "they would see."

At Greg Holmes's house victory was quickly won, and Greg was happy. Next d.i.c.k & Co. went in force to Harry Hazelton's home, where the coaxing was renewed.

"I want to sleep over this scheme, Harry," said Mr. Hazelton finally, "and I think your mother does, too. We don't want to see you miss any good times that you really ought to have, so I think, if the rest are going, we shall probably decide to let you go, too. But I won't say 'yes' to-night. I'll wait and see how the idea strikes me to-morrow."

"Oh, I guess you're fixed, all right, Harry," grunted Dan when the Grammar School boys had filed out of the Hazelton house. "But--oh, poor me!"

"And now, see here, fellows, we want to get around into the stores before we lose any more time," suggested d.i.c.k. "We don't want to forget that each fellow is to spend half his money in buying the best present he can get for his mother."

"Do you think it will pay--in my case?" asked Dan dolefully.

"Shame on you, Danny boy!" growled Dave Darrin, giving Dalzell a st.u.r.dy shaking.

"Was there ever a time that it didn't pay a fellow to remember his mother whenever he had a chance?" demanded d.i.c.k. "If my mother had said 'no' and had stuck to it, I'd be mighty glad over being able to get her a solid Christmas present just the same."

Within another hour the presents had been bought, the crowd sticking together and giving collective advice for the benefit of each individual.

Then d.i.c.k went home. Instead of pa.s.sing through the store, where both his parents were, he took out his key and made for the door that admitted to the living rooms above. Over the k.n.o.b was tacked a piece of paper. d.i.c.k took it off and carried it upstairs with him, where, in the light of the parlor, he read this message, in scrawling print:

"Wait and see if you ain't sorry!"

"This must be from the fit-thrower!" thought young Prescott, with an inward jump.

He was soon to know.

CHAPTER IV

"REMEMBERED"--BY MR. FITS?

Through the night d.i.c.k slept as only an active, tired out boy can sleep.

If he woke once he had no recollection of it in the morning.

This, too, despite the fact that it was Christmas, and he had all of a boy's natural desire to know what the day was to bring him.

Rat-tat-tat! sounded Mrs. Prescott's soft fist on d.i.c.k's bedroom door that morning.

"Wake up, son!" Mrs. Prescott called for the second time.

"I--I'm awake," gasped d.i.c.k sleepily.

"Get up, then, son. Have you forgotten that this is Christmas?"

"No'm; I haven't." d.i.c.k's feet struck the floor heavily, and he reached out for his clothing. "Merry Christmas, mother! Is dad there?"

"He's out in the kitchen, raking the fire. Don't you hear him?"

"Yes'm. Say, mother, have you seen your presents yet?"

"I found a handsome gold chain from your father on my bureau."

"Was that all you found?"

"Yes."

"Where did you look?" chuckled d.i.c.k.

"Why, on the parlor table, as usual, to be sure."

"Better look again, mother," laughed d.i.c.k.

By this time he was nearly dressed. He heard Mrs. Prescott going back into the parlor.

"I don't find anything else here for me," Mrs. Prescott called back in a puzzled voice.

"Mother, at this rate, you'll soon be needing specs," called d.i.c.k, throwing open his bedroom door and looking out.

"But I don't see anything else for me, Richard," insisted his mother, as the boy entered the parlor.

"Look again, mother. Surely, you----"

Then d.i.c.k halted suddenly, staring hard at the table, and at the mantel beyond.

"Why, I left----" he began, and then looked more puzzled. At last he grinned as the solution of the mystery came into his mind.

"It's just one of dad's jokes," he laughed. "Or else dad forgot. I gave it to him last night, to lay on the table after you had gone to bed. You see, mother, this is the first Christmas that I have had money of my own with which to buy you something really nice. I'll ask dad where it is."

"Who's taking my name in vain?" called Mr. Prescott, as he came through the hallway and looked in the parlor. "Merry Christmas, d.i.c.k."