After breakfast the next morning, a breakfast eaten with excellent appetites, the two boys set out on a sightseeing tour about the school. They went first to the gymnasium. The big front door was locked, but Steve was not to be denied and eventually gained entrance through a little door at the rear which led into the boiler-room and from there found their way into the main basement where were situated the big swimming tank, a commodious baseball cage and a bowling alley. On the floor above they found themselves in a square hall, entered from the front door, from which other doors led to the gymnasium, the locker and bathrooms and a small office bearing the sign "Physical Director." From the hall a fireproof stairway ascended with a turn to the running-track and a large room which was evidently used as a meeting hall. Settees were neatly arranged in front of a platform, a row of low windows admitted a flood of morning sunshine and against the walls hung many photographs of athletic teams. Most of them showed groups of track and field men, although a few were of hockey sevens and there were three football teams in evidence. The explorers paid more attention to these photographs than the others, and Steve, whose patriotism was already strong, read the inscriptions on the lower margins with disfavour.

"Huh!" he grumbled. "'Brimfield 0; Claflin 12'; 'Brimfield 3; Claflin 11'; 'Brimfield 6; Claflin 9.' Bet you next time it'll be some different, Tom!"

"Rather!" said Tom stoutly. "Let's go on down and see the gym."

They tried the chest-weights and tested the bars and experimented with about everything they found down there, and then went into the adjoining compartment and peered into the shower-baths and passed on the merits of the steel lockers.

"The fellow who built this gym knew what he was doing," declared Steve approvingly. "Some of these lockers have got things in them," he continued, peeping into one. "There's a bat in here, and a towel and some clothes."

Tom had wandered through a doorway at the end of the locker compartment and now summoned Steve to join him. There was a high table in the centre of the small room and a set of metal shelves alongside which held numerous bottles and boxes. "It's the rubbing room," said Steve. "Here, get busy, Tom!" And he hoisted himself to the table and stretched out on his back.

"Yes, sir," said Tom. "Where's it hurt you? This the spot?"

And Tom began such an enthusiastic manipulation of Steve's ribs that the latter set up a howl and precipitately tumbled off the table. It was at that moment that an unpleasant voice startled them.

"Beat it, you fresh kids! You've got no business in here!"

The speaker was a heavy-set youth of perhaps nineteen years of age. He had closely-cropped ashy-brown hair over a round face from which a pair of pale-blue eyes glowered upon them. He was standing in the doorway and his hands were thrust into the pockets of a pair of very wide-hipped knickerbockers. Somehow, standing there with his sturdy, golf-stockinged legs well apart and his loose trousers pulled out at the sides, he reminded Tom of a clown at a circus, and Tom made the mistake of grinning. The big youth caught sight of the grin and stepped into the rubbing room with a deepening scowl on his face.

"Wipe it off!" he said threateningly.

Steve and Tom looked at the table.

"Wipe what off?" asked Tom, at a loss.

"Wipe that grin off your ugly face," answered the other. "And get out of here, both of you, and stay out. If you don't, I'll throw you out!"

This somewhat astounding threat caused an exchange of surprised glances between the culprits. Neither Steve nor Tom were quarrelsome, nor had they had more than a boy's usual share of fist battles, but the bullying speech and attitude of the round-faced youth was so uncalled for and exasperating that Steve's temper got the better of him for the moment.

"We weren't doing any harm here," he declared indignantly. "And we'll get out, but we're not afraid of you, even if you have got piano legs!"

The big fellow pulled his hands from his pockets with an angry growl and, clenching his fists, strode toward the boys. But at that instant footsteps sounded in the locker room, and the bully's hands dropped and he turned his head toward the door just as a small, red-haired and freckle-faced little Irishman came into sight.

"Hello, Eric the Red," he said jovially. "An' what might you be doin' down here, me boy?"

"I'm telling these fresh kids to get out of here," replied the youth. "Any objections?"

The little Irishman seemed surprised, and he smiled, but the boys noted that his small and rather greenish eyes narrowed.

"None at all, at all, me boy. If I had I'd very soon tell you, d'ye see? But what harm are they doin'? Sure, if I don't mind them bein' here, why would you?"

"They haven't any business in this room, and you know it, Danny. They're too fresh, anyway."

"Well, that's what we all are at some time. Let the boys be. Was you wantin' anything, boys?"

"No, we were just looking around the place. This door was open and we came in. We didn't know there was any harm in it," concluded Steve.

"No more there was," said Danny soothingly.

"They were rough-housing all over the place," growled the big fellow. "If you can stand it I can, though. Only"—and he turned a wrathful gaze on Steve—"if you ever get fresh with me again you'll get the licking that's coming to you, kid." He turned away toward the locker room. "Say, Danny, got a key to my locker? I've lost mine and I want to get into it a minute."

"I have not," replied Danny cheerfully. "You'll have to have one fitted, me boy."

"Hasn't anyone a master-key?" demanded the other.

"They have not. Find Patsy; he'll fit one for you in ten minutes."

"That's a funny state of things," grumbled the big fellow. "They ought to have duplicates on hand. Somebody's always losing a key, and——"

The rest was lost as the youth disappeared into the further room. Danny winked gravely at the two boys.

"Who is he?" asked Steve curiously.

"Him? His name's Sawyer, Eric Sawyer. He is sufferin' from a terrible complaint, boys, an' it makes him that cross a bear would run away from him, I'm thinkin'!"

"What's the trouble with him?"

"He has what the doctors do be callin' an ingrowin' grouch," replied Danny soberly. "'Tis due to over-exposure of the ego, they tell me, resultin' in an inflamed condition of the amoor proper, that same bein' French an' maybe beyond your comprehension."

The boys laughed and Danny swung himself to the table and patted it invitingly. "Sit down, boys, an' tell me all about it," he said. "Who may you be, now?"

"His name is Hall and mine is Edwards," replied Steve, as he and Tom followed Danny's example and swung their feet from the table. "We're new boys."

"I suspected as much," replied Danny drily. "An' where might be your place of residence?"

"Tannersville, Pennsylvania."

"Think o' that now!" marvelled Danny. "Sure, you're a long ways from home. Is this place you say anywhere near Philadelphia?"

"Oh, no, it's a long ways from there. It's out in the western part of the state."

"I was in Philadelphia once to see the games at the college over there," pursued Danny. "It's a fine town."

"Would you mind—telling us who you are?" asked Tom.

"I would not. I have no unseemly pride. My name is Mister Daniel Parnell Moore, and I have the extraordinary honour of bein' the trainer at this institution o' learnin' and Fine Arts, the Fine Arts bein' athletics, football, baseball, hockey an' tinnis. An' now you know!"

"Thank you," said Tom politely. "I hope you didn't mind my asking you."

"Not a bit! You may ask me anything you like, Jim."

"My name isn't Jim," replied Tom, with a smile.

"It ain't?" The trainer seemed surprised. "Sure, he said your last name was Hall, didn't he? An' I never seen a Hall whose front name wasn't Jim."

"I'm sorry," laughed Tom, "but mine isn't; it's Tom."

Danny Moore shook his head sadly. "An' you," he said, turning to Steve, "maybe you'll be tellin' me next your name ain't Sam?"

"It's Steve."

"It might be," agreed Danny doubtfully. "But all the Edwardses I ever knew was Sams. But I'm not disputin' your word, d'ye mind! 'Tis likely you know, me boy. An' what do you think o' this rural paradise o' knowledge?"

"I guess we like it pretty well, what we've seen of it," answered Steve. "Have you been here long?"

"Two years; this is my third. It's a nice schools, as schools go. I never had much use for them, though. In the Old Country we never held with them much when I was a lad. I dare say you boys'll be tryin' to play football like all the rest of them?"

"We're going out for the team," said Steve, "although I guess, from what a fellow told us last night, we don't stand much show. He said that most of the last year's players were back this fall."

"That's so. We lost but four by graduation. They were some o' the best in the bunch, though. 'Tis queer how the ones that is gone is always the best, ain't it? Who was this feller you was talkin' to?"

"His name is Miller. Do you know him? I suppose you must, though."

"Miller? Do you mean Andy Miller?"

"I don't know. He didn't tell us his other name."

"The initials were A. L. M., though," reminded Tom.

"That's right. Is he a pretty good player?"

"He does fairly well," answered Danny Moore carelessly. "Not that I pay much heed to him, though. I see him around sometimes. I wouldn't think much of what he tells you, though. I don't. If you see him I'd be obliged if you'd tell him that."

But there was a twinkle in Danny's eye and Steve resolved to tell Miller no such thing. "What position does he play?" he asked.

Danny frowned thoughtfully. "It might be end, right or left. I forget. I pay no heed to the likes o' him. He's only the captain, d'ye see?"

"Captain!" exclaimed the two boys startledly, eyeing each other in amazement.

"Sure," said Danny. "An' why not?"

"Er—there's no reason," replied Steve, "only—he didn't say anything about being captain."

"And why would he be after incriminating himself?" Danny demanded.

The boys digested this news in silence for a moment. Then,

"Does that fellow who was just in here play?" asked Tom.

"He does. He plays right guard, and he plays it well. I'll say that for him. Well, it's catchin' no fish I am sittin' here gassin' with you fellers. Make yourselves to home. I must be gettin' on."

"I guess we'll go, too," said Steve.

They followed the trainer up the stairway to the hall above. There he pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the big front door for them. "Now, look at that, will you?" he exclaimed in amazement as he turned a small key over between his fingers. "I wouldn't be surprised if that key would fit them lockers down there. Ain't that a pity, an' him wantin' it all the time?"

The boys smiled and agreed gravely that it was. Danny sighed, shook his head and dropped the keys back into his pocket. "If you have trouble with him," he said to Steve, "hit for his head, boy, for you'll make no impression on the body of him."

"Thanks, but I don't expect he will bother me again."

"I know. I'm only tellin' you. A word to the wise, d'ye mind? Good luck to you, boys."

"Thanks. We're much obliged to you, Mr. Moore."

"Mr. Moore! Help! Listen." And Danny bent confidentially. "I won't be mindin' if you call me Mister Moore when we're by ourselves, d'ye see; but don't be doin' it in the presence of others. Them as didn't know might think I was one of the faculty, d'ye see. Call me Danny an' save me self-respect!"

When the door had closed behind them on the grinning countenance of Danny, Steve looked at his watch and exclaimed startledly.

"Nearly ten o'clock!" he said. "And we promised to telegraph to the folks this morning. Let's see if the trunks have come and then hustle to the telegraph office."