"I have a large framed picture of Randall winning the league pennant," announced Sid gloomily one night as he and Tom were sitting in their room. "Our stock is about fifty below par now, and with only a few more games to play, we've practically got to win them all in order to top the league." "Maybe we'll do it," said Tom, in an endeavor to be cheerful. "We might, if you pitched, but Langridge is that mean that he'll keep in just good enough form so Mr. Lighton won't send him to the bench, and that's all. He won't do his best--no, I'll not say that. He is doing his best, but--well, something's wrong, and I guess I'm not the only one who knows it." "No," said Tom quietly. "I do and have for some time. It's been a puzzle to know what to do; keep still and let the 'varsity be beaten or squeal on Langridge." "Oh, one can't squeal, you know." "No, that's what I thought, especially in my case. It would look as if I was grinding my own ax." "That's so. No, you can't say anything. But it's tough luck. Maybe something will turn up. We've got a couple of games on our own grounds next, and we may do better. If we don't, we may as well order our funeral outfits. Well, I'm going to bone away at this confounded Latin. Ten thousand maledictions be upon the head of the Roman who invented it!" Sid opened his book, and studied for half an hour. Tom likewise was busily engaged, and only the ticking of the clock was heard, when suddenly there came a gentle tap on the door. "Who's there?" demanded Tom. "Yellow, sky-blue and maroon," was the reply, which indicated that a freshman was without, that being the password. "Flagpole," answered Sid, which being translated meant that it was safe to enter, no member of the faculty nor scout of the proctor's being nigh. Dutch Housenlager pushed open the portal and entered. He looked carefully around, and then, coming on tiptoe to the middle of the room, after having carefully shut the door, said in a whisper: "It's all arranged!" "Nay, nay, kind sir," retorted Sid, with a shake of his head. "Nay nay what?" demanded Dutch indignantly. "No tricks to-night," went on Sid. "We're two virtuous young men. We belong to the ancient and honorable order of _infra digs_ to-night, Dutch. Too near the exams. Thus did I exclaim 'nay, nay, kind sir.' We are not to be tempted, nay, even if it were to take mine ancient enemy, Pitchfork, and drop him into the lake; eh, Tom?" "Yes. I can't afford to take any chances. Twice bitten once shy, or words to that effect, you know. I, too, am delving into the hidden paths that lead to the spring of which the poet doth sing." "Say, you two give me a sore feeling in the cranium!" exclaimed Dutch as he sank into the easy chair with force enough almost to disrupt it. "Who's asking you to play any tricks?" "Aren't you?" "No." "_Fiat justitia, ruat coelum!_" exclaimed Tom, with mock heroics. "We have done you an injustice, most noble Dutchman. Say on, and we will hear thee."