“Thanks for—for what you said to Watson,” said Rodney when, after morning school, he was once more in his room in the cottage. Kitty, pulling a heavy sweater over his touseled head—he had a theory that the sort of sweaters that buttoned up the front were not as good as the old style—emitted an unintelligible reply from the woolen folds. “It was mighty nice of you,” went on Rodney, watching with fascination the gradual appearance of Kitty’s moonlike face above the neck of the garment.

“Nothing at all,” panted Kitty. “If he touches you come to me. Overbearing fellow, Merrill.”

“Y-yes. He doesn’t seem very popular either, Kittson.”

Kitty considered. “Don’t know about that. Pretty well liked, I believe. Fellows understand him. Plays good football, you know. Too bad, though, about his lungs.”

“What’s the matter with them? You don’t mean he—he’s consumptive?”

“Worse,” said Kitty solemnly. “Undeveloped. Never exercises them. Too bad. I’ve spoken to him often. Begged him. No good. Laughs at me. Show him some time, though. Where’s pedometer?” And Kitty, armed for the fray, strode out.

Rodney saw him a moment later from the window. Head and shoulders back, the faded brown turtle-neck sweater enveloping most of his body, Phineas Kittson disappeared rapidly from sight down the street, determination in every stride. Rodney smiled as he lounged back to the table and searched for a book.

“Queer old duffer,” he murmured.

Later Jack Billings sought him out and heard his story of the trouble before school. “I don’t see that you were much at fault,” he said finally. “Still Watson had an excuse, Merrill. You see, First Form fellows are supposed to be respectful to the upper form fellows; that is, the Third and Fourth Formers. It isn’t necessary always to say ‘Sir’ to them, but it’s proper to be respectful. Of course, when you get to know an upper form fellow it’s different. For instance, you needn’t stand on ceremony with me. None of the fellows in the house do, because we all know each other pretty well. But if I talk to a lower form chap from one of the dormitories or another house, I expect him to stick the ‘Sir’ on. I dare say it’s sort of a silly idea, but it’s the custom.”

“I didn’t know about it,” said Rodney. “I wouldn’t have minded saying ‘Sir’ to him if I’d known that was what he wanted. The trouble is, he’s peeved with me about that—that drugstore affair. And he says I’ve got to pay Doolittle for the sodas they drank. That isn’t fair, because I stipulated——”

“Where do you get hold of such big words, Merrill?” laughed Jack. “Go on. You ‘stipulated’?”

“That if the fellow didn’t have what they called for the first time I wasn’t to pay. And Watson said chocolate and he was out of that, and—and so it’s got nothing to do with me!”

“And you knew there was no more chocolate and knew that Watson always asked for it,” commented Jack, smiling. “On the whole, Merrill, I don’t think it would do you any harm to have to pay. It was—well, it was a little bit too tricky. Don’t you think so?”

Rodney considered. “Maybe it was,” he acknowledged at last. “But I don’t think he had any right to ask me to stand treat, Billings.”

“Yes, he had a perfect right. It’s a custom and customs are laws that haven’t grown up. While you’re here at Maple Hill you’ll have to play the game the way we play it, Merrill. Now, if I were you, I’d drop down to Doolittle’s this afternoon and pay up that score. If you’re short of cash I’ll let you have it.”

“I’ve got plenty, thanks. It wasn’t that.”

“And that reminds me of another thing you ought to know,” continued Jack. “First Form fellows are not allowed to have credit at the stores. It’s in the rules. Perhaps you didn’t notice it.”

“I did, but I wasn’t trying to get credit. I didn’t intend to have them charge those sodas to me. They hadn’t any right to, either.”

“No, not according to the terms of the agreement. But you played a pretty sharp trick on Watson and he got back at you with another. I don’t think there’s much choice between you. Take my advice and settle. Then keep away from Watson until he has forgotten all about it.”

“Well,” said Rodney unwillingly. “All right. I’ll pay. And after I do he’s got to let me alone.”

“Watson? He probably will,” returned Jack soothingly. “Don’t let him worry you.”

“He doesn’t,” said Rodney stoutly. “I’m not going to. He’s a regular bully, though.”

“He isn’t so bad really, Merrill, after you get to know him a little better. He’s hot tempered and he can be as mean as a pup when he wants to be, but—well, I’ve known Guy to do some very decent things. Besides, Merrill, it’s a mighty good idea not to start off disliking anyone. You usually find out later that you are wrong, and then you’re a bit sorry. And besides that, disliking folks hurts you more than it does them.”

First football practice was held that afternoon, and Rodney, nothing loth, accepted Tad Mudge’s invitation to walk over with him. Tad had taken a great liking, it appeared, to the new Vest. Tad was only five months older than Rodney and seemed even younger. He was a gay-spirited, happily irresponsible youth with a ready laugh and an inexhaustible flow of conversation. Tad was in the Second Form and roomed with Eustace Trowbridge, who was as quiet and reserved as Tad was talkative and frank.

“Leave your books here,” instructed Tad, piling his own on the marble slab above the big radiator in the entry of Main Hall. There were many other piles there already and Rodney added his. “No good going over to the house,” continued Tad. “Just wastes time and wears out shoe leather. Come on.”

There was a winding driveway that encircled Main Hall and led on one side to East Hall and on the other to West Hall. The third dormitory, known as Beecher, stood nearer the front of the campus. Tad, however, didn’t trouble to follow the curve of the gravel road, but struck off straight for the gate. There were several small signs near at hand bearing the words: “Keep Off The Grass.” Rodney nodded at one.

“Don’t those mean anything, Mudge?” he inquired.

Tad glanced at them contemptuously. “Oh, those!” he answered. “Those are for the faculty.”

A gate at the back of the campus opened into Maple Street. Tad led the way across the leaf-strewn road and through another gate opposite. Here a wide walk ran straight between hedges. On one side was a stone and shingle cottage, which Tad explained was Doctor Farron’s residence. Rodney couldn’t see much of it for the shrubbery, but what little was visible looked very attractive. A little further along there was a break in the hedge, and another path led across an expanse of turf to a two story building with a copper-roofed turret in the center. This Rodney recognized as the building he had seen above the trees from his window.

“That’s the gym,” said Tad. “It’s a peach, too. We’ll have a look at it after practice.”

“Are those tennis courts beyond there?” asked Rodney.

“Yes. Do you play?”

“Yes, do you?”

“I taught McLoughlin all he knows,” laughed Tad. “We’ll have a game some day. Take you on to-morrow morning if you like.”

“I’d like to very much. I guess you’re better than I am, though.”

Tad observed him thoughtfully and shook his head in doubt. “I don’t know. You look dangerous, Merrill. Say, what’s your other name? Roderick, isn’t it?”

“Rodney.”

“That so? That’s some name, isn’t it? How’d you like to go through life with Theodore pinned to you?”

“Seems to me I’ve heard of a Theodore who made quite a stir,” replied Rodney.

“You mean Teddy? Bet you they’d have given him a third term if his name had been John or William. Theodore’s a beast of a name. I’m going to call you Rod. It’s easier than Merrill.”

They had come to another street and another gate and in front of them spread a wide field of closely cropped turf that was just beginning to lose its summer green. Two stands flanked a blue-gray running track, within whose oval the white lines of a newly marked gridiron shone brightly. Already the scene was a busy one. Practice had not actually begun, but many candidates were on hand and a greater number of fellows were grouped and strung about the edge of the field to look on.

“That’s a dandy field!” exclaimed Rodney admiringly as his gaze went off across to where a line of young willows marked the further side of the enclosure.

“Almost seven acres,” said Tad proudly. “Bet you there isn’t a better field in the country. And look at the view!”

Rodney obeyed. From where they stood near the entrance they could look down over the dwindling houses of the end of the village, and follow the course of the Hudson for many miles as like a broad blue ribbon it wound slowly and majestically northward between sloping hills of forest and meadow.

“That’s Milon over there,” explained Tad. “And Wickerstaff further along. If you look sharp you can see Bursley. See where the railroad goes through a cut there? Then look above and just a little to the right. That’s it. You can see three or four of the buildings.”

“I do, but what is it? Bursley, I mean?”

Tad stared. “Why, Bursley School!”

“Oh!” But Rodney still looked mystified. “It is—is it a good one?”

“A good one!” groaned Tad. “It’s fierce! It’s our hated enemy, Rod. We loathe it! That is, we do theo—theo—what’s the word I want?”

“Theoretically?”

“Yep, theoretically. Between you and me and—and the grandstand, it’s a pretty fine place. They’ve got us beaten all hollow on buildings and such things, only we don’t acknowledge it. But they haven’t a field that can touch this. They’ve got more fellows than we have, but at that we manage to wallop them about as often as they wallop us. I think they’ve done us up at football fourteen times to our twelve. Something like that. They beat us last year and three years ago. There was once though when we got ’em three years running. That was when Ginger Merrill— Say, your name’s Merrill, too, isn’t it?” Tad turned to observe Rodney curiously. “Do you play, too?”

“Football? Not much. I’ve tried it but never made it go very well. I like baseball though.”

“So do I! They can keep their old football; give me baseball every time! I played substitute outfielder last year on the second nine. Not that I don’t like to see a good game of football, though. This fellow, Ginger Merrill, I was speaking of was a wonder! Of course I never saw him; he was before my time; but I’ve heard fellows talk about him. They made him captain in his Third Form year! We beat Bursley that year and the year before and the year after. He was captain two years and I guess that shows that he was pretty good, eh?”

“I should think so,” replied Rodney as they moved on toward the gridiron. “He must have been popular.”

“He was. I guess he was the most popular fellow we’ve ever had here. You want to speak soft and cast your eyes down when you mention him. He’s a sort of Saint, Saint Ginger!” And Tad chuckled. “Funny your name should be the same though,” he went on presently, when they had paused at the inner edge of the running track and Tad had acknowledged the salutations of numerous comrades. “He doesn’t happen to be a relation of yours, does he?”

“This Ginger chap? Why, do I look like him?” Rodney smiled.

“I’ve only seen his pictures, but—but I kind of think you do—just a little. Still I guess if you were related to him you’d know it. So would we,” he added with a laugh. “You’d be likely to mention it!”

“Who’s the tall fellow in the funny sweater?” asked Rodney.

“That’s Doyle. He’s captain. What’s the matter with the sweater?”

“Nothing except it’s a funny color.”

“It’s just faded. It used to be light green. I suppose you know that the school colors are green and gray? Green for the maple trees and gray for the rocks.”

Rodney nodded. “What’s Bursley’s color?”

“Punk! Red and blue. There’s Cotting, our coach. They say he discovered Ginger Merrill.”

“Discovered him? How?”

“Why, saw that he had the making of a good player and—and trained him. Taught him all he knew, they say.”

“Rot!” said Rodney. “Stanley knew football before he ever saw Maple Hill!”

“Well, I don’t know. That’s what I heard.” Tad swung around suddenly and stared at his companion. “Look here, how the dickens do you know so much about Ginger Merrill?” he demanded in surprise.

“Why—you told me about him, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t tell you his name was Stanley, I’d forgotten it, they always call him Ginger; I didn’t tell you he knew football when he came here.”

“Didn’t you? I suppose—I’ve heard lots of fellows speak of him. What’s Cotton doing?”

“His name is Cotting,” answered Tad, still eyeing Rodney speculatively. Finally, when the other had refused to meet his glance, he turned to look at the coach. “He’s taking the fellow’s names. A lot of them are new boys. Why don’t you have a try, Rod?”

“No good. Besides I’m a bit young yet for the team.”

“Cotting likes to catch them young. Stacey began in his first year, and now look at him.”

“Where?” asked Rodney.

“I mean look where he is on the team. Only a Third Form fellow and first string quarterback!”

“Do you mean Stacey Trowbridge?” asked Rodney in surprise.

“Of course. The chap I room with. Why not?”

“Why—why, no reason at all, except—why, somehow he seems so—so sort of quiet and——”

“Oh, he doesn’t talk much, but he can think like—like a judge! Jack says we have a well balanced room; says all the talking’s done on one side and all the thinking on the other!” Tad laughed. “But Stacey is a wonder at football. You wait till you see him drive the team some day. I guess it’s just because he doesn’t talk much that fellows listen when he does.” Tad was silent a brief moment. Then, “Guess I’ll try that myself,” he added thoughtfully.

The candidates, who had gathered around the coach, were now dispersing in squads to different parts of the field. In all there seemed fully sixty of them, and Rodney expressed his surprise.

“Oh, most of them don’t last long,” replied Tad carelessly. “After three or four days Cotting will make a cut, and then a lot of them will retire to private life. Finally he gets down to about thirty-two or three. Then he divides that bunch into two teams, a first and a second. Watch Tyson punt. He’s got the ball now. He’s a daisy at it. Look at that! The chap running to catch it is Wynant. He didn’t get it though. Gordon cut in on him.”

“Does Billings play?” asked Rodney.

“No, Jack’s baseball captain this year. He’s a dandy fellow. Don’t you like him?”

“Immensely. He gave me a lecture this noon.”

“Jack did? What about?”

“Oh, about not disliking fellows at first, till you get to know all about them. Other things, too.”

“Who is it you dislike? Me?”

“No, that Watson chap.”

“Oh, yes, Pete was telling me about Watson ragging you before morning school. Watson’s like that. Still—” Tad thought a moment. “Jack’s right though. Watson isn’t a bad sort after all. I’ll tell you something——”

But Rodney didn’t hear it just then for Tad’s voice died away. A few feet distant Cotting, Captain Doyle, and Guy Watson were standing just inside the side line. “There he is now,” murmured Tad.

“And he looks as though he wanted to jump on me again,” added Rodney. “Come on. I promised Billings I’d keep away from him.”

Rodney turned to stroll away, Tad following, when a voice called:

“Tad Mudge!”

The boys turned. Captain Doyle was coming toward them, followed by the coach and Guy Watson. “Wait a minute, Tad,” said Doyle.

“Want me to take your place to-day, Terry?” asked Tad.

“Not to-day, Tad.” The football captain was a tall well built boy of eighteen with coppery-red hair, gray eyes and a pleasant and unmistakably Irish countenance. “Introduce your friend, Tad,” he added, with a glance at Rodney.

“This is Merrill, First Form. Rod, shake hands with Captain Doyle.”

“Glad to know you,” said the captain. Then, turning to Coach Cotting, who had joined them, “It’s Merrill, all right, Coach.”

Cotting smiled. “Thought I wasn’t mistaken,” he said, studying Rodney with frank interest. “Shake hands, boy. Your brother and I were pretty good friends.”

Rodney flushed. “Yes, sir. I—I’ve heard him speak of you.”