"Of course not," Garry agreed, with a touch of irony. "There's nothing to prevent our making a noise and trying to draw the attention of the upper classes to our humble position at the foot of the throne. Though, of course, there's just a chance," he admitted, his eyes kindling, "that our victories over Cherry and Webster may give us Hill Streeters a little boost even with the high and mighty Lenox fellows." "Gee, I sure would like to be on that team!" said Rooster, with a yearning shake of his head. "They're just one degree below the college teams." "Come out of your trance!" admonished Bill Sherwood. "We won't have a look in." "I'm afraid you're right," agreed Garry. "If we get even as far as the scrub this year we'll be lucky. Maybe they'll let us be doormats for the regulars." "Gee, you fellows are about as cheerful as a funeral!" cried Rooster, giving a vicious kick to an unoffending stone. "You give me the jim-jams. I've got to do something to get my mind off my troubles." Bill Sherwood laughed lazily. "Nothing to get so het up about, Rooster," he drawled. "We won't be the only freshmen at Lenox High this fall, you know. There will be plenty of others biting their nails on the sidelines and telling any one who will listen that they could do a mighty sight better than those boobs of regulars." "They say that misery loves company, but that doesn't cut any ice with me," and Rooster frowned mightily. "I'd rather dodge Lenox altogether than to stand on the sidelines and watch the other fellows play." "He's getting wild," observed the grinning Garry. He yawned and raised his arms above his head in a luxurious stretch. "What do you say we go in for a swim, Bill? That may help cool him off." "Just what I was going to suggest, nothing else but," replied Bill, rising with alacrity. "Come on, let's jump into our bathing suits." This formality was accomplished in a very short time, and the boys were soon out of the house and making a dash through the woods toward the shimmering waters of Bass Lake. The Sherwood bungalow boasted a private dock from which the lads often went fishing and swimming. Bill had a canoe and also a cranky little motorboat that usually spoke out of its turn. "It goes when you think the motor's dead," Bill had said, when describing the eccentric craft to his chums, "and it stops without the sign of a reason just when everything seems in fine working order. The only thing that has any effect on it is a good talking to, for it knows its master's voice." He threw out his chest pompously as he spoke, but doubled up promptly when Garry poked him in the stomach. "What do you think I am, a punching bag?" he demanded in an injured tone. "Oh, did I hit you?" asked Garry in mock contrition. "My hand must have slipped." At the moment the boys had no use for either craft, for on that particular afternoon they intended to be in the water and not on it.