The boy in the crimson sweater raised a pair of blue eyes to the speaker's face and a little frown crept into the sun-burned forehead; but there was no answer. "Where'd you get that sweater?" The older boy, a tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested youth of nineteen, with a dark, not altogether pleasant face, paused on his way down the gymnasium steps and put the question sneeringly. Below, on the gravelled path leading to the athletic field, a little group of fellows had turned and were watching expectantly; Horace Burlen had a way of taking conceit out of new boys that was always interesting. To be sure, in the present case the new boy didn't look especially conceited--unless it is conceit to appear for football practice in a dandy crimson sweater which must have cost well up in two figures--but you never could tell, and, anyway, Horace Burlen was the school leader and had a right to do what he pleased. Just at present it pleased him to scowl fiercely, for the new boy was displaying a most annoying deliberation. Horace examined the other with awakening interest. He was a fairly tall youth, sixteen years of age, well set up with good chest and shoulders and rather wide hips. Like Horace, the younger boy was in football togs, only his sweater instead of being brown was crimson and in place of the letters "F H" sported by Horace the front of his garment showed where the inscription "H 2nd" had been ripped away. But the difference between the two boys didn't end there; Horace Burlen was tall and big and dark; Roy Porter was several inches shorter, not so wide of shoulder nor so deep of chest; and whereas Horace's hair was straight and black, Roy's was light, almost sandy, and was inclined to be curly. Under the hair was a good-looking sun-browned face, with a short, well-built nose, a good mouth and a pair of nice grey-blue eyes which at this moment were regarding Horace calmly. The older boy scowled threateningly. "Say, kid, at this school we teach 'em to answer when they're spoken to; see? Where'd you get that silly red sweater?" "It was given to me," answered Roy coolly. "Think you'll ever grow enough to fill it?" "I guess so." "Who gave it to you?" "Seems to me they're a bit inquisitive at this school. But if you must know, my brother gave it to me." "Too big for him, wasn't it?" Roy smiled. "Not to speak of. He got a better one." "Hope he changed the color," said Horace with a sneer. "Why, yes, he did, as it happened. His new one is black with a crimson H." Horace started and shot a quick glance up and down the form confronting him. "Is your brother Porter of the Harvard eleven?" he asked with a trace of unwilling respect in his voice. Roy nodded. "I suppose you think you can play the game because he can, eh? What's your name?" "Porter," answered Roy sweetly. "Don't get fresh," admonished the other angrily. "What's your first name?"