e last two years had been the cause of this
invitation, and they had come with glowing dreams of new worlds to
conquer. What was their pain and disgust to find that the captain of
the Kingston team, elected before they came, had decided that he had
good cause for jealousy of Tug, and had decided that, since Tug would
probably win all his old laurels away from him if he once admitted him
to the eleven, the only way to retain those laurels was to keep Tug
off the team. When the Lakerim three, therefore, appeared on the field
as candidates for the eleven, they were assigned to the second or
scrub team. (The first team was generally called the "varsity," though
of course it only represented an academy.)

The Lakerim three, though disappointed at first, determined to show
their respect for discipline, and to earn their way; so they submitted
meekly, and played the best game they could on the scrub. When the
varsity captain, Clayton by name, criticized their playing in a
way that was brutal,--not because it was frank, but because it was
unjust,--they swallowed the poison as quietly as they could, and went
back into the game determined not to repeat the slip that had brought
upon them such a deluge of abuse.

It soon became evident, however, from the way Clayton neglected the
mistakes of the pets of his own eleven, and his constant and petty
fault-finding with the three Lakerimmers, that he was determined to
keep them from the varsity, even if he had to keep second-rate players
on the team, and even if he imperiled the Academy's chances against
rival elevens.

When this unpleasant truth had finally soaked into their minds, the
Lakerimmers grew very solemn; and one evening, when the whole eleven
happened to be in room No. 2, and when the hosts, Tug and Punk, were
particularly sore from the outrageous language used against them
in the practice of the afternoon, Punk, who was rather easily
discouraged, spoke up:

"I guess the only thing for us to do, fellows, is to pack up our duds
and go back home. There's no chance for us here."

Tug, who was feeling rather muggy, only growled:

"Not on your life! I had rather be a yellow dog than a quitter."

Then he relapsed into a silence that reminded History of Achilles in
his tent, though he was ungently told to keep still when he tried to
suggest the similarity. Reddy was fairly sizzling with rage at the
Clayton faction, and sang out:

"I move that we go round and throw a few r