what Laurence said," replied Roy thoughtfully.
"Sensible chap, Laurence," said the other smilingly. "Who might he be?"
"My brother. He's in Harvard."
"Oh, yes, I remember some one said your brother was 'Larry' Porter, the Harvard football man. I guess that's how you happen to put up such a dandy game yourself, eh?"
"I don't think I've done very well," answered Roy. "But – it hasn't been all my fault."
"Nonsense! You've played like an old stager; every fellow says that."
"Really?" asked Roy eagerly.
"Of course! I've heard lots of the fellows say that Bacon will have to do better than he ever has done to keep his place. And I know what you mean about its not being all your fault. But I guess the chaps on your squad will behave themselves after the dressing down Jack gave them the other day."
"Were you there?"
"No, I don't very often watch practice. I don't care much for football, I'm afraid. Baseball's my game. No, I wasn't there, but Sid Welch was telling me about it. Sid's a very communicative kid."
"He's trying to make the team," said Roy, smiling. "He asked me one day if drinking vinegar would make him thinner."
"He's a funny little chump," laughed the other. "Not a bad sort, either. He has the bed next to mine, and he and I are pretty good chums. By the way, you didn't tell me what it was your brother said."
"Oh, why, he said once that if I wanted to get on I must keep a stiff upper lip and mind my own affairs. And – and he said 'when you're down on your luck or up against a bigger fellow grin as hard as you can grin.'"
"Good for him!" cried the other. "I'd like to meet him. That's what I say, too. No use in looking glum because you're put out at the plate. Just smile and keep your mouth shut, and likely as not you'll make good the next time. Besides, if the other chap sees you looking worried it makes him feel bigger and better. Yes, that's good advice, all right. By the way, I know your name, but I guess you don't know mine; it's Chub Eaton."
"Are you a Senior?"
"Same as you, Second Senior. Of course, I wasn't christened Chub; my real name's Tom; but the fellows began calling me Chub the first year I was here because I was kind of fat then, and I didn't mind. So it stuck. Well, here's the canoe. Just give me a hand, will you? We'll put her over the end of the float."
The boat house was deserted, but out in mid-stream was a pair-oar and a rowboat, the latter well filled. Roy helped in the launching and soon they were afloat.
"It's an awful handsome canoe, isn't it?" asked Roy.
"Pretty fair. I thought the color would fetch you; it's just a match for your sweater. Got the paddle? Well, try your hand at it. Just stick it in and push it back. You'll get the hang after a bit. We'll get out around the island so as to catch the breeze. I hate calm water."
It was a glorious afternoon. September was drawing to a close and there was already a taste of October in the fresh breeze that ruffled the water as soon as they had swung the crimson craft around the lower end of Fox Island. Toward the latter the owner of the craft waved his paddle.
"That's where we have fun April recess," he said. "If you know what's good you'll stay here instead of going home. We camp out there for almost a week and have more fun than you can shake a stick at. Hammond usually comes over and tries to swipe our boats, and two years ago we had a regular battle with them. Take it easier, or you'll get sore muscles. That's better."
Roy obeyed directions and soon discovered that paddling if done the right way is good fun. Before the Autumn was gone he had attained to quite a degree of proficiency and was never happier than when out in the canoe. But to-day his muscles, in spite of training, soon began to ache, and he was glad when the boy at the stern suggested that they let the craft drift for a while. Presently, Roy having turned around very cautiously, they were taking their ease in the bottom of the canoe, the water lap-lapping against the smooth crimson sides, the sunlight slanting across the glinting ripples and the cool down-river breeze making the shelter of the boat quite grateful. They talked of all sorts of things, as boys will at first meeting, and as they talked Roy had his first good chance to look his newly-found friend over.
Chub Eaton was sixteen, although he looked fully a year older. He was somewhat thick-set, but not so much so that he was either slow or awkward. He was undeniably good-looking, with a good-humored face, from which a pair of bright, alert brown eyes sparkled. His hair was brown, too, a brown that just escaped being red, but which did not in the least remind Roy of Harry's vivid tresses. Chub looked to be in the fittest physical condition and the coat of tan that covered his face and hands made Roy seem almost pale in comparison. Chub had an easy, self-assured way of doing things that Roy couldn't help admiring, and was a born leader. These same qualities were possessed by Roy to a lesser extent, and that, as the friendship grew and ripened between the two, they never had a falling-out worthy of the name, proves that each must have had a well-developed sense of fairness and generosity. As I have said, their conversation touched on all sorts of subjects, and finally it got around to Horace Burlen.
"Horace has the whole school under his thumb," explained Chub. "You see, in the first place he is Emmy's nephew, and the fellows have an idea that that makes a difference with Emmy. I don't believe it does, for Emmy's mighty fair; and besides, I've seen him wade into Horace good and hard. But he's school leader, all right. The Juniors do just about whatever he tells 'em to and are scared to death for fear he will eat 'em up. It's awfully funny, the way he bosses things. I don't believe there are half a dozen fellows in school who wouldn't jump into the river if Horace told them to. And the worst of it is, you know, he isn't the best fellow in the world to be leader."
"How about you?" asked Roy. "You're not one of his slaves, are you?"
"Me? Bless you, no! Horace and I had our little scrap two years ago and since then he has given me up for lost. Same way with Jack Rogers. Jack's the only chap that can make Horace stand around. Jack could have taken the lead himself if he'd wanted to, but the only thing he thinks of is football. Horace hates him like poison, but he makes believe he likes him. You see, Horace was up for captain this year and would have got it, too, if Johnny King hadn't made a lot of the team promise last Fall to vote for Jack. It wasn't exactly fair, I guess, but Johnny knew that Horace would never do for football captain. So that's the reason Horace has it in for him."
"Well, he will never get me to lick his boots for him," said Roy decisively.
Chub looked at him smilingly a moment. Then,
"No, I don't believe he will. But you'll have a hard row to hoe for a while, for Horace can make it mighty unpleasant for a chap if he wants to."
"He's done it already," answered Roy.
"Oh, that's nothing," was the cheerful reply. "Wait till he gets to going. He can be mighty nasty when he tries. And he can be fairly decent, too. He isn't a coward like Otto Ferris, you see; he's got a lot of good stuff in him, only it doesn't very often get out."
"He's a Second Senior, isn't he?"
"Yes, he's been here six years already, too. He isn't much on study, and Emmy gets ripping mad with him sometimes. Two years ago he didn't pass and Emmy told him he'd keep him in the Second Middle for six years if he didn't do better work. So Horace buckled down that time and moved up. Well, say, we paddle back. You stay where you are if you're tired; I can make it against this little old tide all right."
But
