“Dutch, you’re fatter than ever,” declared The Fungus, digging his fingers affectionately if painfully into the other’s neck as he joined the group on the steps of West House and lowered himself to a seat between Dutch and Spud Halladay. Otto Zoller turned upon him with indignation faintly visible on his round, good-natured face.

“I’m not; I’m three pounds lighter than last Spring.”

“Dutch is training down for quarter,” said Fred Sanderson gravely. “How much do you weigh now, Dutch?”

“Hundred and thirty-one and a half.”

“Dutch!”

“Honest, Sandy!”

“We’ll have to get that half-pound off you,” said Spud. “Fat is fatal.”

“That’s cheek,” said Hooper Ross, a tall youth of fifteen with amazingly black eyes and hair. “You look like a little fat cherub yourself, Spud.”

“Little fat rascal!” grunted The Fungus, whose real name as entered in the school catalogue was Fergus Worthington White. The title of The Fungus suited him very well, for he had the lightest of tow-colored hair and eyes of a pale, washed-out blue. Spud aimed a kick at his insulter, but it fell short and the effort landed him on the next step below with a thud that the other four boys found amusing.

“Where’s the new kid?” asked Sandy with lowered voice.

The Fungus grinned.

“Up there,” he said, jerking his head vaguely toward the second floor of the cottage. “Unpacking. You ought to see the rafts of stuff he’s brought; silver brushes and a patent necktie holder that goes on the wall and trousers stretcher—”

“Trousers stretcher! He’s wearing knickers,” said Spud.

“Yes, but he told me he had some long trousers in his trunk. Says he didn’t know which was proper here. He’s a funny little kid.”

“What’s his name?” asked Dutch.

“Parker, Claire Parker.”

“Claire? That’s a girl’s name, ain’t it?” demanded Hoop.

“I don’t know. He says it’s his. He looks like a girl, too, with those nice little pink cheeks of his. He will be a valuable addition to the House Eleven, I don’t think!”

“I hope the other chap will be an improvement,” said Sandy. “About time for him to show up, seems to me.”

“Bet you he’s the fellow we saw sitting on the wall,” said The Fungus. “Hope so, anyway. Ned’s been rubbing it into me about the youngster. I’d laugh myself to death if that was the chap.”

“Get out!” scoffed Spud. “Why, he was a regular farmer! Besides, he wouldn’t be walking up.”

“He might. Why doesn’t Ned come down?” The Fungus pulled himself up, descended the steps and lolled out to the center of the half-moon-shaped lawn that lay between the circling drive and the fence. “O you Ned!” he called, looking toward an upper window.

“Hello! What?” answered a voice.

“Come on down.”

“In a minute. I’m changing sides.”

The Fungus grinned as he strolled back to the group on the steps. “Ned’s changing his things over to the other side of the room,” he explained. “That gives him the bay window.”

“Hope the new fellow can play football,” mused Sandy. “We need some more talent this year, now that Means and Carter have gone. The Hall’s going to have a bully team.”

“How long since we won a game?” asked Dutch.

“Three years,” answered Spud.

“What do you know about it? You weren’t here,” said Sandy. Sanderson was sixteen and, being the oldest boy in West House, was House Leader and thereby privileged to administer rebuke. Spud grinned.

“Neither were you, Sandy,” he replied amiably.

“Didn’t say I was. And I don’t talk as though I knew it all, Spud.”

“Well, it’s time we won again,” said Dutch, breaking in on what threatened to develop into one of the periodical disputes between the two.

“Sounds all right,” said The Fungus, “but how you going to do it? It isn’t fair, anyway. The Hall’s got thirty-eight fellows to pick from and the Houses only have twenty-two. Besides, we get more than our share of Second Juniors nowadays. Here’s this fellow Parker, and I heard that East House is getting two of them.”

“Don’t believe that,” said Dutch. “Brad Miller told me they were only getting three new boys altogether.”

“Three! They’re getting seven!” said Sandy. “And we’re getting two and Hall’s getting six. There are fifteen new boys this Fall. Jim told me.”

“Anyhow, Hall’s lost Morgan and Chase and Purdy this year,” exulted Hoop, “and that’ll leave them hipped.”

“Piffle! Grow’s just as good a tackle as Morgan was,” declared Spud. “Only they wouldn’t give him a fair show last year. And—”

“Where’s my new fidus?” interrupted Ned Brent, appearing through the doorway with his hands thrust into the pockets of a pair of voluminous homespun trousers and viewing the group severely. “I want to see what I draw.”

“Hope you draw something awful,” said The Fungus maliciously. “Hope he has red hair and a mole on his nose and snores like sixty and—and—”

“Hello!” exclaimed Sandy, sotto voce. “See who’s here!”

Around the corner of the house, from the direction of the park, appeared a fairly tall and slender youth of fourteen from whose sun-browned face a pair of gray eyes looked curiously and embarrassedly at the group. He swung a shiny imitation leather satchel as he advanced along the path.

“Pipe the tie,” whispered Spud in Hoop’s ear.

“And the trousers,” returned Hoop with a grin. The Fungus watched the newcomer’s approach with a broad smile of unholy joy. At the foot of the steps the youth stopped.

“Is this West House?” he asked, his eyes travelling from one face to another. There followed intense silence. Sandy, as House Leader, had the right to the first word and Sandy was taking his time. Meanwhile six pairs of eyes were fixed critically on the new boy, ranging from the cheap yellow shoes, very dusty from the journey, over the misfit trousers and the jacket whose sleeves were too long, lingering on the vivid red tie, loose and stringy from much wear, and lighting at last on the battered straw hat with its very blue ribbon. And the new boy, painfully aware of the scrutiny, shifted from one foot to the other and grew red under his dark tan. At last Sandy spoke.

“This,” he drawled, “is Occidental Mansion.”

“Oh!” said the boy. “Then where—” But he understood the next moment and smiled a little.

“Then I cal’late this is where I belong,” he said.

“You—what?” asked Sandy.

“I cal’late—”

“He’s a lightning calculator,” explained Spud helpfully. “I saw one once at a circus.”

Sandy’s eyes rested frowningly on the bag.

“I don’t think,” he said, “that we want to buy anything today.”

“What have you got?” asked Hoop.

“Huh?”

“Don’t say ‘huh’; say ‘What, sir?’” directed Sandy severely.

“What, sir?”

“I say what have you got,” repeated Hoop.

“Got?” asked the other confusedly.

“Sure! What are you selling; what’s in the grip there?”

“I’m not selling anything. I’ve got clothes in here.”

“Are they like what you’re wearing?” asked Spud innocently.

“Cut it out, Spud,” growled Ned Brent. “What’s your name?”

“John Boland,” was the answer.

“Where do you live?” asked The Fungus.

“West Bayport.”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“What class?”

“Huh? I mean what, sir?”

“What class are you going into, Mr. Boland?”

“I cal’late I’m going into the First Junior.”

“That’ll be nice for the First Junior, won’t it?” laughed Dutch.

“Do you snore?” demanded The Fungus.

“I guess not.”

“You mean you cal’late not. Can you play football?”

“No, but I’d like to try.”

The Fungus viewed him pityingly and turned to Sandy.

“He’d like to try, Sandy.” Sandy shook his head sorrowfully.

“Where have I heard that before?” he murmured.

“Well, Boland, you room with me, I guess,” said Ned. “Come on in and I’ll call Marm.”

John looked gratefully up at his roommate and edged his way between the others. Half way up the steps Hoop stuck a foot out and John completed his ascent hurriedly and ungracefully. At the top he turned with flashing eyes and clenched hand.

“Did you do that on purpose?” he demanded of Hoop.

“Do what?” inquired Hoop surprisedly.

“Trip me up.”

“Oh, did I trip you up, Mr. Boland?”

“Yes, you did, and you know it. You did it on purpose.”

“Well, supposing I did? Then what, you fresh kid?”

John gazed at him wrathfully, and then his eyes went over the other grinning faces and fell. He swallowed hard once and then turned toward the door. Hoop laughed.

“Here, hold on, kid! What if I did trip you up?” he asked.

John turned at the door and looked back at him.

“Nothing—now,” he said quietly, as he entered the house.