DEAN was a boy; just an

"He heard her Crying"

usual manner. His mother purred around

thirteen years old. His hands were rarely clean and his hair was seldom combed. Nobody paid much attention to him except, of course, his mother, for pretty nineteen-year-old Alice (who was by way of being engaged to Don Harrison, a "good Indian" according to Billy) monopolized most of the attention of the family as grown up sisters are apt to do.

But "every dog has his day," so, one day even Alice had to fade into the background and Billy occupied the spotlight for once, for, that day Billy was to graduate from grammar school.

On the bed in Billy's room lay his spickand-span new blue serge suit; by its side was a gay tie and a white blouse with a painful-looking stiff, white collar; from under the bed peeped out a still more painful-looking pair of shiny shoes.

The clock struck eight. Billy's father pushed his chair back from the breakfast table and folded his paper. "Well, son," he said, "so this is the big day is it? You get your diploma at about eleven o'clock, you say? All right, old dad will be right there. I have to go to the office for a while, but will come back and pick up mother and Alice and be there in time for the big doings.'

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When his father had gone Billy helped himself to another waffle and began o eat it leisurely instead of bolting it in his

that he was the center of attraction and he proposed to enjoy it to the utmost.

But alas, poor Billy! This delectable state of affairs did not last. The quiet was shattered by a loud and angry voice from the back yard. "Billy, Billy," it roared. Billy dropped his knife and fork and ran through the kitchen and down the back steps to behold-ruin and devastation; wrath and retribution. His father was standing by an orange tree, heavy with golden oranges; with knobby green oranges and with white, fragrant blossoms; his wrathful eyes going from the scared face of his son to a neat, white band that encircled the trunk of the tree, which, on close inspection, showed the mark of tiny teeth. The tree had been "barked" entirely around, and had borne its last crop of luscious fruit.

"Now, young man," stormed the angry man, "this settles it; those rabbits of yours have eaten your mother's ferns and roses, and now look at this tree! You don't seem to be able to keep them up. I've warned you again and again that I would kill them if they did any more damage, and now I'm going to do it."

Just then the culprit came hopping along, all unaware of the fate in store for it. Poor Billy tried to cover its approach, but too late; alas! "Now, if you don't want the other done the same, too,

you keep it shut up." And, looking a trifle ashamed of himself, the irate parent climbed into his big car and roared away.

Billy stood stock still during this tragedy; but now with a cry of rage and grief and a burst of angry tears, he picked up his motionless pet and ran. Rounding the garage, he dived through a hole in the foundation, crept between the joists and finally reached a cave-like depression where he could sit erect, yet be out of sight of any one seeking to spy out his hiding place. He had dug the hole after the foundation was made and before the floor was laid in view of just such a contingency.

It was very hot and dusty in his refuge. A spider-web fluttered down and he smeared it across his tear-stained face with his dirty hand. A feeling of wrong and resentment dried his tears and with it came the thought of revenge; the desire to “get even.

And

of calling him Art or even Archie. Billy doubled his fists and grinned; for once Billy had "licked" Archibald for the honor of the gang and the good of his (Archibald's) soul; but the memory of his wrongs returning, Billy shut his stubborn young mouth and settled back in the hole to wait till the coast was clear for him to "make a getaway."

He heard his mother call him. He heard Alice's light step on the floor above his head as he sat there and planned his

revenge.

The home of the Deans sloped back from the street. At the back of the garden was a summer house from which steps led down to the blue waters of a bay. Tied to the wharf was a row-boat

and Billy's own canoe.

The bay was dotted with islands and there were numerous shacks of duck hunters-deserted now, these June dayswhere he and one of his chums could hide a week if necessary.

Once more his mother's voice called him: "Oh, Billy dear," she implored him, "do come, like a good boy and dress; its half-past nine; I've telephoned your father, he will be so provoked, and what will Miss Clinton think?"

At the call Billy stirred uneasily. After all, it was a shame to disappoint mother, he thought; mother was all right and— and so was dad, most of the time. Dad had taken him duck hunting and had let him shoot his gun (Billy rubbed his shoulder reminiscently), and when they went out in the country, he always let him drive the big car; of course it was provoking to have the tree skinned; dad just about said his prayers to that tree; ever since they came to California, a year ago, from the frozen North, dad had fussed and pottered around it, and it had cost a bunch of money in the first place to have so large a tree moved and transplanted. So thinking, Billy sighed and started to crawl from his hiding-place, when he heard the sound of wheels and his father's voice and the sh-s of the motor as the engine stopped.

"What's the matter, Helen?" he called, "What did you say about Billy? That you couldn't find him? Do you suppose that young limb has dared to run away?" Raising his voice, he shouted: "Billy, wherever you are, I will give you just five minutes to get into this house.' Once more Billy closed his stubborn mouth and grimly sank back to the dusty ground.

He heard his father's steps as he shouted all over the place; he heard his mother's worried voice say: "We can't wait any longer; I must go and explain to Miss Clinton." He heard Alice say: "He is probably at Malcolm's; I'll go there and hurry him home."

Billy sat as still as the dead rabbit in his arms, till he heard the front door slam and his family roll away, then he stole cautiously out and into the house.

He made up a bundle of food in the pantry. He choked a little as he saw the big, white cake that mother had made

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down the steps as long as there was danger of any one seeing him from the house. He took the last half-dozen steps in two leaps and was at Billy's side and listened with wide-eyed amazement and admiration as he unfolded his daring scheme.

"Gee," he said, "you've got a nerve; my dad would lick me within an inch of my life if I'd do a thing like that. Sure, I'll go with you; it don't make any difference what I do; school's out for me; I'm not graduatin"."

The runaways paddled steadily across the bay. Nobody hailed them, so they concluded that those who were interested

Late in the afternoon they landed at "Shack Island" and, pulling their canoe up on the beach out of reach of the tide, they carried their water-soaked provisions to a near-by shack, and finding the key under the corner of the house, they let themselves in. The shack belonged to "Les" one, of "the kids," and they had permission to use it any time if they would leave things as they found them and lock the door. Rummaging among some old clothes that hung on the wall, they each chose a pair of men's trousers and put them on.

"Golly! You ought to see yourself," said Mickie with a howl of glee, "Say, lets take our pictures in this rig.'

"Good stunt," was Billy's reply, "but we'll have to hurry, for the sun's gettin' low."

They found a high, sunny sand dune and began operations. Billy took Mickie standing on his feet with both hands clutching his trousers to keep them on. He took him standing on his head with the band of his trousers at his armpits and the legs crumpled down so his skinny legs stuck triumphantly out. Mickie then turned artist and took Billy in various weird poses.

"How many films we got left, Mick?" Billy called.

"Four," counted Mick.

"Well, I'll tell you what let's do; let's take the canoe and go out in the bay and snap the shacks and the islands; it ought to make a pretty picture; I'll make one for mother."

The boys had just laid hands on the canoe to push it off into the water, when Billy dropped down behind its sheltering sides and pulled Mickie after him.

"Be still," he whispered," who is that

over on the sand bar? It looks like Don Harrison."

"It is Don Harrison," said sharp-eyed Mick. "What do you 'spose he's doin' here? Where's his boat?"

"I bet his boat got away from him and he can't get home," chuckled Billy, "I'm goin' to take his picture to show to Alice; she'll be proud of havin' such a fat-head for a beau."

Resting the camera on the canoe, Billy took a picture of Don frantically waving his cap, and another of him climbing into the boat that came to his rescue.

After their supper of bacon, cooked over a big drift-wood fire, and the soggy remains of the bread, bitter with seawater, the boys sat in silence looking out across the sunset bay.

Billy could see the aerials of his homemade wireless station with its little flags fluttering, from its perch on the flat top of the garage roof at home. Somehow Billy was not happy; now that he had time to think, after the fun and horseplay of the day; he began to have a guilty feeling down deep inside of him.

"What's the matter, Bill?" came Mickie's anxious query; don't you feel good? Are you thinkin' of the lickin' you're goin' to get when you get home? If you are we'd better go home tomorrow and have it over with; you can't have any fun with that on your mind; the longer you think of it, the worse it will seem," said wise Mickie from the depths of his experience.

But Billy was not thinking of the "lickin'" that was doubtless in store for him. He was thinking of his mother's disappointment; of the trouble he had given his teacher in causing her to rearrange her program at the last moment because of his absence. His anger had been directed against his father alone, and in "getting even" with him, they had been the ones to bear the burden of his resentment. In short, according to his code, he had not "played the game."

* *

In the morning, the boys started for home bright and early. Gone was the joy of yesterday. Billy's gloom affected sympathetic Mickie and it was a glum pair that tied the canoe to its home wharf. Continued on Page 341.