"Bad?" repeated Dick. "No, it's the best in the world! My dad's coming home!"
"Seems to me you're making quite a fuss about it."
"So would you if you knew what else he said," spoke Dick, as he rushed from the building.
He found most of his chums grouped around the ruins of the society house. They were talking about the fire.
"It's all my fault," Dutton was saying. "I guess I'll resign as treasurer."
"I guess we won't have any society, if we can't have a meeting place," observed Hale, sorrowfully.
"Say, Dutton, have you a fountain pen?" asked Dick, as he came up beside his former enemy.
"I guess so. What do you want it for?"
"I'll show you."
Dick sat down on a pile of debris. From his pocket he took a thin, red book, and commenced writing in it by the light of the embers of the ruined society house. Presently he tore out a slip of paper and handed it to Dutton.
"What—what's this?" stammered the treasurer of the Sacred Pig. "Why—why—Hamitlon!"
"What is it?" demanded a score of voices, as the cadets crowded up.
"It's a check—a check," stammered Dutton, as he saw the figures which Dick had written in, and noted that they occupied four places. "It's a check!"
