“What’s that over there?” asked Martin, pointing. It proved, when they had crossed the street, to be the clapboarded side of a stable or garage set some three feet back from the fence. Bob gloated fiendishly and called for the brush. But, although until that instant scarcely half a dozen persons had been sighted, now the long street suddenly became densely populated, or so it seemed to the vandals. A man came out of a house across the way, a boy and a dog appeared from a cross thoroughfare and two ladies appeared from the direction of the shopping district. Bob deposited the paint can against the fence and the boys stood in front of it in negligent attitudes. Cal whistled idly and unmusically. The boy passed unsuspiciously, but the dog showed signs of curiosity until Martin lifted him swiftly but mercifully from the vicinity with a dexterous foot. Then the man, having lighted a cigar very deliberately, took himself off and the two ladies passed, casting nervous glances at the quartette, and the street was again quiet. Bob dipped brush in paint and reached toward the immaculate whiteness of the building. Willard looked on dubiously, but forebore to remonstrate. It was a difficult reach and Bob was grumbling before he had formed the big A that started the inscription. But, although the black paint ran down the handle of the brush and incommoded him vastly, he persevered and in a minute the sign stood forth in the semi-darkness, huge and startling: A. A. 14 H. S. 0 One brief instant they tarried to admire, and then they hurried away from the place. It seemed to them that those big black letters and numerals were visible for blocks! By common consent they turned the next corner and dived into the comparative blackness of a side street. Presently they stopped and exchanged felicitations. [Illustration: One brief instant they tarried to admire] “Swell!” chuckled Cal. “Gee, I wish I could see the Hillsport fellows tomorrow when they catch sight of it!” “So do I,” said Bob. “Didn’t it show up great? Who’s got a handkerchief he’s not particular about?” “Wipe your hands on your trousers,” advised Martin coldly. “What’s the matter with your own handkerchief?” inquired Cal. “You get too much paint on your brush, anyway.” “Well, you can’t be very careful when you’ve got to hurry,” grumbled Bob. “You can do the next one, seeing you know so blamed much about it! Gosh, the silly stuff is running up my sleeve!” “I’ve got an old handkerchief you can have,” said Willard. “Thanks, Brand. You’re the only gentleman in the bunch. Excepting me,” added Bob as Martin laughed. “Where next?” asked Cal while Bob wiped his hand. “Let’s paint a good one somewhere near the school,” Martin suggested. “Seems to me there was a brick wall across from where we were waiting for the car that would be just the ticket.” “Lead me to it,” begged Cal. “This is my turn.”