CHAPTER VIII

HUH? WOOLLY CROCHETED SLIPPERS


The night before Christmas Dick Prescott attended a ball, in his
new capacity of reporter.

Being young, also "green" in the ways of newspaper work, he imagined
it his duty to remain rather late in order to be sure that he
had all the needed data for the brief description that he was
to write for "The Blade."

Christmas morning the boy slept late, for his parents did not
call him. When, at last, Dick did appear in the dining room he
found some pleasing gifts from his father and mother. When he
had sufficiently examined them, Mrs. Prescott smiled as she said:

"Now, step into the parlor, Richard, and you'll find something
that came for you this morning."

"But, first of all, mother, I've something for you and Dad."

Dick went back into his room, bringing out, with some pride, a
silver-plated teapot on a tray of the same material. It wasn't
much, but it was the finest gift he had ever been able to make
his parents. He came in for a good deal of thanks and other words