When Dick and his three friends turned back to the tent they found all three of the remaining tramps in there, smoking vile pipes and playing with a greasy, battered pack of cards. "The weather's fine again," announced Dick, "and you'll find us the most hospitable fellows you ever met. My friends, we take pleasure in offering you the whole outside world in which to play!" "Talk United States!" growled one of the tramps, without looking up from the game. "Tom," laughed Prescott, turning to Reade, "strange dialects are your specialty. Kindly translate, into 'United States,' what I have just said to these men." "I will," agreed Tom. "Attention, hoboes! Look right at me! That's right. Now---git!" "You might let us stay on a bit longer," grumbled one of the tramps. "We ain't bothering you folks any." "Only eating us out of house and home," snapped Dave. "And delaying the time when we must wash up the tent after you," added Danny Grin. But the tramps played on, smoked on. "Did you fellows ever hear of that famous man, Mr. A. Quick Expediter?" Tom asked the tramps. "No," growled one of them. "Expediter was a truly great man," Tom continued. "He had a motto. It was a short one. One word, and that word was---'git'!" "We are famed for our courtesy," remarked Darry. "We'd hate to lose even a shred of our reputation in that line. But in these present years of our young lives we are football players by training, and high school boys merely for pleasure. We know some of the dandiest tackles you ever saw. Shall we show you a few of them? If you object to observing our tackles---and sharing in the effects---then signify your wishes by placing yourselves at a safe distance from such enthusiastic football wranglers as we are." Greg, Danny Grin and Harry were already crouching as though for a spring. Dave took his place in an imaginary football line-up, leaning slightly forward. Tom Reade sighed, then advanced to the line. All were waiting for the battle signal from Dick Prescott. By this time the most talkative of the three tramps noted the signs of a gathering squall. "Come on, mates," he urged, with a sulky growl, "let's get out of here. These young fellows want their place all to themselves. They're just like all of the capitalistic class that are ruining the country to-day! Things in this country are coming to a pass where there's nothing for the fellow who-----" "Who won't work hard enough to get the place in the world that he wants," Tom Reade finished for the tramp, as he ushered the three of them through the doorway. CHAPTER XVIII DICK PRESCOTT, KNIGHT ERRANT