At Alton Academy the dormitories form a line across the top of the campus: Haylow first, near Meadow street, then Lykes, then--with Academy Hall intervening--Upton and Borden. Back of Academy is Lawrence, which is the dining hall, and well over toward River street, hiding behind Borden, is the Carey Gymnasium. The land descended gently each way from the dormitory row, in the front toward Academy street and the town, in the rear toward the open country. On the latter slope, a slope too gradual to really deserve the name, was the athletic field, with the quarter-mile track, diamonds, tennis courts and sufficient territory besides for the accommodation of such mildly important bodies as the soccer and lacrosse teams. Like many New England preparatory schools, Alton possessed an appearance of age out of proportion with fact, an appearance largely due to the maples that shaded the walks and the ivy that grew almost to the eaves of the older buildings. Not that Alton was a new school, for it was not, but it was younger than many; younger, even, than its principal rival, Kenly Hall, over at Lakeville. Tommy was getting quite drowsy now and would probably have fallen comfortably asleep if Billy Pillsbury hadn’t selected the moment for his homecoming. Billy, generally called “Pill” was sixteen, a sophomore--although, unlike Tommy, he was new at it--and held the proud and important position of Second Assistant Football Manager. Pill was a slight, pink-cheeked, trim-looking youth, with dark hair swept back from a classic brow and held swept by some fragrant concoction that Tommy found particularly nauseating--or pretended to. Pill entered with the aspect of one wearied by the weight of authority imposed on him and sank into a chair. Tommy viewed him without enthusiasm. “Gee, what a day!” sighed Pill. “Yes, rotten,” responded the other, carefully misunderstanding. “Doesn’t look much like clearing, either.” “Oh, the weather!” Pill put that aside with a wave of a slender hand. “I meant the--the work. And that game! Say, wasn’t that criminal, Tommy?” “Sure was. Every fellow on the team deserves hanging.” “Oh, I don’t know,” protested Pill. “They’re all right. Trouble is, they haven’t had enough practice, Tommy.” “Why not? Ten days ought to give them some idea of the game!” “They weren’t any worse than Southport.” “What of it? Last year we licked Southport something like 23 to 0. And the year before by-- Well, I forget what it was.” “I don’t,” returned Pill triumphantly. “It was 6 to 6, the same as to-day. And that year we licked Kenly, and last year we didn’t! So you can’t prove that the team’s going to be rotten that way!”