He covered twenty-four yards before he was brought to earth.

Here was where delay came in. While Cobber was fighting stubbornly to regain the pigskin, the whistle sounded the end of the second half.

Gridley had won from the big enemy!

Now pandemonium broke loose. Two thousand people leaped up and down, yelling themselves hoa.r.s.e.

So many hats went into the air that it was a miracle if every man recovered his own headgear.

The band didn't play; the student body didn't sound a yell. What would have been the use? There was too much noise.

d.i.c.k made a bound, landing beside the band leader.

"Hustle your men, please! Get out into the field and lead our men off."

It needed quick work, for the players were already leaving the grounds. The wildest fans were getting over the lines, mingling with the late players.

But the band got there on the run. Above all the din Ben Badger was quick to realize the meaning of the new move. He caught his men back, forming them just behind the forming band. Off marched the victorious team to the air of "Hot Time!" That brought down the cheering harder than ever.

While it lasted, d.i.c.k and Dave, by frantic movements, succeeded in holding a large proportion of the student body back in their seats.

As soon as the band had reached the far end of the field, and the human racket had died down somewhat, Freshman Prescott succeeded in making himself heard:

"Now! Our final yell of victory!"

This was the High School yell, followed, instantly, by the taunting query:

"Is there any game you _do_ play, Cobber?"

But there came no answer from the depths of the gloomy Cobber fans.

CHAPTER XVII

d.i.c.k'S "FIND" MAKES GRIDLEY SHIVER

That closed the football season in a blaze of glory. Gridley H.S. had closed the year without a defeat.

The day after Thanksgiving football is deader than marbles. Gridley H.S. boys and girls settled down to study until the holidays came on.

The next thing of note that happened in the student world jarred the whole town. There might have been a much bigger jar, however.

Dave Darrin often worked, Sat.u.r.day nights, in the express office.

One night in early December he was employed there as usual. At about nine o'clock d.i.c.k Prescott and Tom Reade dropped in.

"Pretty near through, old fellow?" d.i.c.k asked.

"I will be when the 8:50 gets in and the goods are checked up,"

replied Dave. "The train is a few minutes late tonight."

There being no one else at the office, except the night manager and two clerks, d.i.c.k and Reade felt that they would not be in the way if they waited for Dave.

Twenty minutes later the wagon drove up with the packages and cases that had arrived on the 8:50 train.

"You two can give a hand, if you like," invited Dave, as the packages were being pa.s.sed up to the counter, checked and taken care of.

Prescott and Reade pitched in, working with a will.

"Here, don't shoot this box through as fast as you've done the others," counseled d.i.c.k, as he picked up a small box, some eighteen inches long and about a foot square at the end. "The label says, 'Extra fragile. Value two hundred and fifty dollars.'"

Dave reached out to receive it, as d.i.c.k laid it carefully on the counter.

"Packages of that value have to be handled with caution," muttered Dave. "When a fellow puts on a valuation like that, it means that he intends to make claim for any damage whatever."

"Hold on," muttered d.i.c.k, eyeing the counter. "There's something leaking from the box now."

Dave took his hands away, then bent over to have a look with d.i.c.k.

A very tiny puddle of some very thick, syrupy stuff was slowly forming on the counter.

"I wonder if the contents _have_ been damaged?" muttered Dave, uneasily. Then added, in a whisper:

"The night manager will blame us, and hold me responsible, if there _is_ any damage."

Both boys carefully inspected the tiny puddle for a few moments.

"Say, don't touch the box again," counseled Prescott, uneasily.

"Do you know what that stuff looks to me like, Dave?"

"What?"

"Do you remember the thick stuff that Dr. Thornton showed us in IV. Chemistry the other day?"

"Great Scott!" breathed Dave Darrin, anxiously. "You don't mean nitroglycerine?"

"But I _do_!" d.i.c.k nodded, energetically.

"Wow! Don't stir from here. I'll call the night manager."

Night Manager Drowan came over at once, eyeing the box and the tiny pool of thick stuff.

"I never saw nitroglycerine but once," remarked Mr. Drowan, nervously. "I should say this stuff looks just like it. We won't take any chances, anyway. Dave, you go to the telephone, and notify the police. Your friends can stand guard over the box so that no one gets a chance to go near it."

But, while Dave was at the 'phone, Mr. Drowan hung over the box as though fascinated.