s universally
acknowledged to be the dullest scholar in school. "Patriotism
and--er--school spirit, you know, March, demand it." And Cooke helped
himself bountifully to West's cherished bottle of catsup.

"This is Remsen's last year as coach, you see," explained West, as he
rescued the catsup. "I believe every fellow feels that we ought to show
our appreciation of his work by turning out in force. It's the least we
can do, I think. Mind you, I don't fancy football a little bit, but
Remsen taught us to win from St. Eustace last year, and any one that
helps down Eustace is all right and deserves the gratitude of the school
and all honest folk."

"Hear! hear!" cried Somers.

"I'd like very well to go," said Joel, "but I've got a recitation at
two." Cooke looked across at him sorrowfully.

"Are you going in for study?" he asked.

"I'm afraid so," answered Joel laughingly.

"My boy, don't do it. There's nothing gained. I've tried it, and I speak
from sad experience."

"But how do you get through?" questioned Joel.

"I will tell you." The stout youth leaned over and lowered his voice to
a confidential whisper. "I belong to the same society as 'Wheels,' and
he doesn't dare expel me."

"I wish," said Joel in the laugh that followed, "that I could join that
society."

"Easy enough," answered Cooke earnestly. "I will put your name up at our
next meeting. All you have to do is to forget all the Greek and Latin
and higher mathematics you ever knew, give your oath never to study
again, and appear at chapel two consecutive mornings in thigh boots and
a plaid ulster."

Despite West's pleas Joel refused to "cut" his recitation, promising,
however, to follow to the station as soon as he might.

"It's only a long mile," West asserted. "If you cut across Turner's
meadow you'll make it in no time. And the train isn't due until three.
You'll see me standing on the truck." And so Joel had promised, and
later, from the seclusion of the schoolroom, which to-day was well-nigh
empty, had heard the procession take its way down the road, headed by
the school band, which woke the echoes with the brave strains of the
Washington Post March.

To-day the Aeneid lost much of its interest, and when the recitation was
over Joel clapped his new brown felt hat on his head--for West had
conducted him to the village outfitter the preceding day--and hurried up
to his room to leave his book and pad. "Dickey" Sproule was stretched
out upon the