For the first few days the Regulars regarded the doings of the Independents with amused curiosity. When Walter Duffield appeared on the scene curiosity continued but was richly leavened with resentment. The idea of those fellows having the services of a real coach while they had to get along as best they might with Hopkins, who, after all, knew no more football than many of the rest of them! The idea of the school turning its back on the regular team and lending its aid and support to a lot of renegades! It was disgusting and annoying. The Regulars said a good many hard things about the Independents those days, and there was more than one challenge given and accepted and more than one battle fought out down at the boat-house, which was the accepted place for the settlement of affairs of honor. Frank Hopkins’ attitude had so far been one of amused tolerance. Prentiss, on the contrary, had let his chagrin get the better of his temper many times, and Rob and the others had heard at second or third hand many an unpleasant remark which had emanated from the manager of the School Team. So far, however, Rob had avoided controversy with either of them, although he and Joe Law had their arguments at almost every meal. On the Wednesday following the arrival of Duffield Rob encountered Edgar Prentiss in the corridor of Academy Hall. Rob was for passing on with a nod, but Prentiss stopped him. “How’s the team getting on, Lanky?” he asked with an unpleasant smile. Rob didn’t mind being called Lanky by fellows he liked, but resented it from Prentiss. So he answered rather shortly. “All right.” “Hear you’ve got a coach,” pursued the other. “Yes.” “Got about everything but players, haven’t you?” “We’ve got those, too, Prentiss. If you don’t believe it bring your team over some afternoon for practice. You’ll get it.” Prentiss pretended to think that a pretty good joke and laughed loudly. Rob kept his temper, although it wasn’t easy. “Want a game, eh?” asked Prentiss. “I dare say. Well, we’ve got too much to do, Langton; like to oblige you, but we’re busy.” “You bet you’ve got too much to do,” answered Rob with enthusiasm. “If you’re going to make a football team out of that aggregation of loafers you’ve got a whole lot to do. We don’t want to play you; get that out of your head; we’ve got all the dates we can fill; only, if you really want to learn a little about the game you see Warne and if we have an open date we’ll take you on. So long.” On the steps Rob came across another Regular in the person of Gus Devens. “Hello, Gus,” he said. “Say, I was wrong the other day, wasn’t I?” “I dare say you were, Rob, only I don’t recall the particular occasion.” “When I said you wouldn’t make the First Team. I suppose it spoils our chances of getting you to come over to us, but I’m glad of your luck. You deserve it, Gus; you’ve tried long enough.” Gus looked puzzled and a trifle uneasy, as though he suspected Rob’s sincerity.