STORY OF TOM DARE AT THE MARBLE TOURNEY

By HOWARD STEPHENSON

"TOM. Oh, Tom."

There was no answer.

"Tom! Hey; there, young fellow, you'll miss all the fun!"

Tom stirred lazily in his bed. He rubbed his eyes with his fists then stretched out his arms. "Aw, gee,

Dad, I've got plenty of time before school."

He heard a merry laugh. Standing over his bed was not his father, but a smiling young man. Slowly Tom recognized Mr. Earl his chaperon. Then he sat straight up in bed.

"Good night!" Tom exclaimed, "I guess I must have been dreaming. Gee, you're all ready. I'm not late, am I?" He looked anxiously at Mr. Earl. What if he HAD overslept and would be too late for the very first day of the National Marble Tournament.

Again the friendly laugh rang out, "No, kid, you've plenty of time. Only don't go back to sleep, pulling on your socks. I'll meet you down in the lobby as soon as you're ready." With this, Mr. Earl turned on his heel and walked, whistling from the room, swinging his cane.

Tom looked about in this luxurious hotel room with awe. Its furnishings were the richest he had ever seen. Not only did he have a private bathroom, with a shower, but there were faucets for salt, and fresh water both.

It was just like bringing part of the ocean up into this hotel palace just for his convenience.

Quickly Tom romped into his clothes. He brushed his hair and scrubbed his nails, and teeth, just as he had promised his mother, before he left home. He reached his hand under the pillow, and drew forth a little bag. It contained, not money or precious jewels, but the collection of agates that he had acquired since becoming city champion XX-XXX the XXXX-XXXXX beauty that Skinny Noble, his best friend, had bought him, two more presents from his father, and the three that he had purchased with his savings just before leaving home. Tom shoved the bag of marbles in his pocket, and hurried down to breakfast.

* * *

HE felt too excited to be very hungry, but on his chaperon's advice, drank two cups of cocoa, besides finishing off an orange, a dish of oatmeal and several slices of toast.

The national championship games were to be played on the sandy beach at Atlantic City, just below the Boardwalk, and between Central, and Steeplechase piers. Ten rings had been laid out. They were encased in wooden frames, and the playing surface, built up about a foot from the level of the beach sand, had been carefully leveled off, and dampened down. The sand was packed hard and the 10-foot rings were plainly marked on it. Tom observed that these rings made an ideal place to play.

Behind the rings, bleachers had been built, and on them Tom and Mr. Earl took their places. A large man with a megaphone stood at the center of the ring. He made announcements from time to time, calling the names of the players as their turns came.

In the national tournament all play was with but two players to a ring. The players were divided into leagues and played a round-robin schedule. Tom, on the alert, watched narrowly as the first game was started, one in each of the 10 rings. He was not on the schedule until two games had been played in the ring, which was just in front of his seat.

Tom was not nervous as he stepped up in answer to his name. His opponent, a bigger boy, kept glancing at the crowd, at the other players and at the ring, end he kept rubbing his hands together, and wiping his face on his handkerchief.

* * *

TOM won the lag easily. He had found this an advantage at home. Here it proved priceless. For with cool and steady nerve, his hand never faltering, his eye never misjudging the shots, he took a run of seven mibs before he missed or his shooter left the ring.

This meant that the other player had lost without a shot at the lag. Discouraged, he missed on his very first shot in the ring, and Tom coolly collected the other six mibs. He felt pretty good as he walked triumphantly toward his seat. But Mr. Earl gave, him a warning.

"That's the easiest game you'll have," he said. "You're doing fine. Just don't be overconfident."

Tom had a 10-minute rest before his next game. This time, to his consternation, he lost the lag. He snapped his fingers in disgust at himself. The opposing player's first run was only four mibs. His heart again pounding with hope, Tom knuckled down. He rubbed his hands in the sand, so that his fingers would not be slippery. He pinged out a mib, his shooter remaining in the ring. From then on it was easy. He took out six more mibs. But his opponent, tho he had lost, still had fight in him. When Tom missed the 11th mib in the ring, the other lad knuckled down just as carefully, and took the last three.

* * *

THE third game Tom lost. His heart sank when a good player took seven mibs to his six. But Mr. Earl assured him that it was the highest average of games that counted, and he might still stand a chance. So it proved when the scores were totaled, Tom was tied for first place in his sectional league. The next day would determine the league winner.

(To Be Continued)

NOTE: XX-XXX marks unreadable words in the original newspaper story