“He’s the best boxer in the Tait School,” Walter explained. “‘Priz’ is short for prize――prize-fighter, if you want the whole thing. We call him that for short. Priz,” he added, “I guess you’ll have more to do with Dan than any of the rest of us. Dan’s the fellow I wrote you about this summer――striking out fifteen men, you know.” “Is that so? Well, I’m one of the catchers of the nine here and I guess you and I will come to see a good deal of each other. I hope so, anyway. I’m mighty glad you came here. It’s the best school in the country.” Dan quietly acknowledged the cordial greeting and at once felt that he would like Ned Davis, for the boy was genuinely cordial and his interest in the possibility of a new “find” for the pitcher’s box was genuine. “Chesty is short for Lord Chesterfield,” Walter continued as he laughingly turned to the other newcomer. “In the catalogue his name appears as Frank Harwood Hoblit, Jr., but that’s too much of a mouthful, so we cut it short to ‘Chesty.’ If you ever want to know what color your necktie ought to be to match your socks, or what the proper attitude is when you are addressing the President of the United States, why Chesty is the boy to give you points. He is up on all the fine points of etiquette. He is little Lord Chesterfield, just called ‘Chesty’ for short.” “We’re not quite so bad as Walter makes us out,” laughed Ned. “I never was in a fight in my life――――” “All the same you want to be good to him,” broke in Walter. “He’s the kind of a chap you let have the whole sidewalk and never say a word to if you happen to meet him some dark night.” “He’s never out at night,” said Frank. “You never saw such a fellow to sleep. He’s usually in bed before the warning bell rings. I’ve thought sometimes I might just as well be rooming with a mummy as with him.” “I have had the same feeling,” retorted Ned, “only I spelled my ‘mummy’ with a ‘d.’” “You’re lucky to be able to spell it any way,” declared Frank. “He wrote me this summer, and what do you think? He had the nerve to spell my middle name Hardwood.” “I was thinking of Soc’s efforts in your behalf,” laughed Ned. “Are all the fellows back?” he added turning to Walter. “Chesty and I just came in and we made a bee-line for your room. Seems like away back in the Dark Ages since we parted. What have you been doing all summer?” “I’ve been up at Rodman most of the time, on my grandfather’s farm,” replied Walter. “Buried alive?” “No, sir; not buried alive. Dan and I fished and played ball――that’s how I made my find. Dan is the best pitcher for a fellow of his age I ever saw. Moulton has been training him all summer――――” “What Moulton?” interrupted Ned quickly. “Moulton of Princeton,” said Walter, trying to speak unconcernedly. “He says Dan is the most promising young pitcher he has found.”