In spite of the fact that we are in the middle of the summer, with the track-athletic season several weeks behind us, the interest in the formation of a general interscholastic athletic a.s.sociation seems to be just as lively as ever. I judge this from the number of letters I receive every week. Some of these letters are short, approving the scheme, and hoping for its fulfilment; others are long, suggesting new ideas, or taking exception to theories that have already been advanced.

All are interesting, and many have offered valuable suggestions. I should like to print some of these communications, and, no doubt, some time during the coming month the Department will be able to devote some s.p.a.ce to that purpose.

The summer-time is not the best for a discussion of this kind, and for that reason I have felt somewhat inclined to let the matter drop for the present. It is not desirable that it should drop out of sight altogether, however--although there is scant danger of that--and so, even without any hope of achieving an immediate result, I shall now and then take up the subject. A number of readers in various localities have sent me pictures of the tracks in their neighborhood, and descriptions of the good points of each. It will be interesting when all counties are heard from to compare notes, and see what suggestions can be made to the committee that will have the question of locality to decide. There seems to be a growing opinion that New York would be the best city in which to hold the meeting, not only on account of the good tracks available here, but because there are better facilities for transportation to and from and within the city, and also because there are more well-known athletes and officials here whose services could be availed of. To my great surprise, few of the distant leagues find any objection to travelling any number of hours, in view of the great meet there would be after they reached their destination.

THE GRADUATE.

PRIZE-STORY COMPEt.i.tION.

THIRD-PRIZE STORY.

The Beverley Ghost. By Jenny Mae Blakeslee.

I.

The old Beverley place was haunted. At least that is what everybody said, and when "everybody" says a thing is so of course it _is_ so, especially in a little town like Elliston.

There certainly was a singular melancholy air brooding over this old mansion, although it had been deserted only for about five years. The heir to the property, young Henry Beverley, had gone abroad on the death of his father, leaving the place unoccupied, and his stay had been unexpectedly prolonged.

The house was a stately structure of stone, and would seem a safe place in which to store the valuables that, according to rumor, had been left there--old family plate, rich mahogany furniture, and costly bric-a-brac. Reports of all this had aroused the spirit of covetousness in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of at least the less scrupulous of the neighboring villagers. A rumor, however, that the late Mr. Beverley's shade made nightly visitations to guard his son's possessions had probably so far kept away these would-be burglars, if such existed.

Farmer Bagstock stood, one August afternoon, in the doorway of Mr.

Smythe's little store--one of the kind that keeps the whole range of necessities from muslin to mowing-machines. His thin sawlike features wore an expectant expression, and his eyes were lightened by a look of cunning and greed as he occasionally glanced down the road. Farmer Bagstock was not rich in this world's goods, and the nature of his efforts to become so might, it is feared, damage his prospects in the next. His patient waiting was at last rewarded, for a long lank figure presently appeared far down the street, evidently making for Mr.

Smythe's establishment.

When this individual, known as Hoke Simpkins, mounted the steps the farmer greeted him in a rather surly way.

"Ben waitin' long enough, I should think."

"Couldn't git here no sooner, 'pon my word," responded Hoke, apologetically.

After a word or two with the talkative storekeeper, Bagstock bestowed a wink upon his friend, and suggested that they "walk down the road a piece." Hoke complied, and presently they left the highway and entered a small piece of woodland. Following the course of a brook for some distance, they reached an immense oak-tree and seated themselves underneath it. The surrounding underbrush and the oak's thick trunk concealed them from the view of any one who might chance to pa.s.s along by the stream.

II.

A short time before this, James Stokes, one of the village boys, came down to the brook to try his luck at trout-fishing. The afternoon was sultry and rather cloudy, and it was probable that the fish would bite, if there were any there. But these contrary trout evidently turned up their noses at his tempting flies, and at last he gave up in despair.

But Jimmy would not relinquish all hope of a "catch" yet, so he wandered further up the stream. He walked quite noiselessly for fear of scaring the fish, and at last halted just back of a large oak-tree. Before he had had time to cast his fly Jimmy heard the sound of men's voices speaking in low and cautious tones. Now he was a typical small boy, and of a shrewd and inquiring turn of mind, so he dropped quietly down on the bank and listened, screening himself from possible observation by getting behind a large stump. Soon he caught a sentence which made him hold his breath to hear more.

"Waal," slowly said a voice which he could not at first recognize, "the only thing is, we'll haf ter break a winder. I found everythin' fastened when I skirmished round t'other night."

"It 'ud make an awful racket, breakin' the gla.s.s. 'Twould be better to take a pane out, I reckon," answered the other man.

Jimmy was quite certain that this speaker was Hoke Simpkins.

"Yaas, it might," said the other, meditatively; "that big winder at the end of the hall."

"Folks say there's piles o' silver and things worth a heap o' money. How I'd like to get holt on it!"

And Jimmy knew that Farmer Bagstock had spoken.

"Don't see why we can't cut out a pane right under the ketch. Then we c'n raise the winder in a jiffy."

"Waal, it might do that way," answered Bagstock. "What d'ye say to next Monday night? That ain't too soon, be it?"

Hoke said he thought not.

"Then," went on the farmer, "we want dark lanterns, and," with a chuckle, "I don't think an old meal-bag or flour-sack 'u'd be onhandy.

We could git there about nine, cut the pane aout, then go off fur a spell, fur if any one was a-lookin' it 'u'd throw 'em off the scent.

After a consid'able s.p.a.ce we could sneak back and git in. Thar, how's that for a scheme?" he finished, triumphantly.

"Fine," said Hoke, admiringly. But he added, rather slowly, "Folks say old Beverley's spook's around there, y'know, but I ain't afraid, be you?"

"Spooks!" laughed Bagstock, scornfully. "They ain't no sech thing. Ef there was, they couldn't hurt _us_."

Both were rather silent for a moment, however, after this brave speech, and soon the farmer suggested that they had said enough for the present, and might as well move on. They rose to leave their retreat, and Jimmy made himself as small as possible back of the stump. As he was on the other side of the brook from the men, they pa.s.sed by without seeing him, and were presently lost to his view.

Then Jimmy rose to his feet, shook himself, looked around, and gave vent to his feelings by a long whistle and the exclamation, "Jiminy Chrismus, if I could only--"

He stopped short, seeming to remember that "discretion is the better part of valor," and that some one might be listening to hear what _he_ was going to say. So he only walked away very slowly, almost forgetting to pick up his fishing-tackle in his absorption. On arriving home he laid his rod on the front porch, and without lingering a moment, dashed across the lawn, got through a hole in the fence, and then raced across lots to the village store. He encountered his bosom friend Will Smythe in front of his father's establishment, and greeted him excitedly.

"Hullo, Bill! I've got something to tell you. Quick! Come over to the orchard; I can't wait a minute."

Full of curiosity Bill followed Jimmy's lead, and they were soon in their favorite haunt, an old apple-tree.

"Now," said Jiminy, "wait till you hear what I have to tell you. Whew!

It's immense!"

Billy was breathless with interest, and Jim unfolded the plot he had heard. Will became as excited as his friend could wish, and exclaimed:

"The scoundrels! Can't we head them off?"

"If we could only hit on something without letting any one know. That miserly Bagstock! Father always said he wouldn't trust him with a dime, and Hoke Simpkins would do anything Bagstock told him to. He's a coward, anyway."

Billy was lost, in thought. Suddenly he exclaimed: "Hurrah! I have it.

Just the thing." In his eagerness he nearly fell out of the tree. When he had managed to tell his plan it met with tremendous applause from Jimmy. What came of Will's bold inspiration remains to be seen.

III.

Monday evening was moonless, just the night for a reckless deed. The conspirators thought that they were especially favored. By nine both were at the meeting-place, and repaired in silence to the old house. The night was one of the kind that ghosts usually select for a promenade, and this thought may have occurred to the minds of the farmer and Hoke.

Each a.s.sured himself that such an idea was nonsense, but just the same this delicate subject was not mentioned.

The window being found, Bagstock proceeded to pry out the pane. Then both, after glancing cautiously about, stole away to Simpkins's house, which was not far distant. It was fully an hour before they returned and viewed the window. All was as they had left it, and Bagstock said, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper,