ott had rapidly written down the names. Now he was
studying the list carefully.

"They're all good football men," sighed Dick. "All men whose
aid in the football squad is much needed."

"Drayne is the stuck-up chap, who uses the broad 'a' in his speech,
and carries his nose up at an angle of forty-five degrees," chuckled
Dan Dalzell. "He's the fellow I mortally offended by nicknaming
him 'Sewers,' to mimic his name of 'Drayne.'"

"That wouldn't be enough to keep him out of football," remarked
Dave quietly.

Dick looked up suddenly from his list.

"Fellows," he announced, "I've made one discovery."

"Out with it!" ordered Dan.

"Perhaps you can guess for yourselves what I have just found."

"We can't," admitted Hazelton meekly. "Please tell us, and save
us racking our brains."

"Well, it's curious," continued Dick slowly, "but every one of
these fellows---I believe you've given me all the names of the
'soreheads'"

"We have," affirmed Tom Reade.

"Well, I've just noted that every fellow on my sorehead roll of
honor belongs to one of our families of wealth in Gridley."

Dick paused to look around him, to see how the announcement impressed
his chums.

"Do you mean," hinted Hazelton, "that the soreheads are down on
football because they prefer automobiles?"

"No." Dick Prescott shook his head emphatically.

"By Jove, Dick, I believe you're right," suddenly exclaimed Dave
Darrin.

"So you see my point, old fellow?"

"I'm sure I do."

"I'm going to get examined for spectacles, then," sighed Dan plaintively.
"I can't see a thing."

"Why, you ninny," retorted Dave scornfully, "the football 'soreheads'
have been developing that classy feeling. They wear better clothes
than we do, and have more pocket money. Many of their fathers
don't work for a living. In other words, the fellows on Dick's
list belong to what they consider a privileged and aristocratic
set. They're the Gridley bluebloods---or think they are---and
they don't intend to play on any football eleven that is likely
to have Dick & Co. and a few other ordinary muckers on it."

"Muckers?" repeated Harry Hazelton flaring up.

"Cool down, dear chap, _do_!" urged Darrin, soothingly. "I don't
mean to imply that we really are muckers, but that's what some
of the classy group evidently consider us."

"Why, they say that Cassleigh's grandfather was an Italian immigrant,
who spelled his name Casselli," broke in Dan Dalzell.

"I believe