“You won’t do anything of the sort,” said Talbot, firmly. He turned to Dunn. “What’s the row, anyway? What’s the use of pitching into a little fellow like him?” “I’m not going to have him calling me names,” said Dunn, defiantly. “He thinks because he’s small he can be as fresh as he wants to, without getting hurt.” “I didn’t call him names,” sobbed Mike. “I wasn’t doing a thing.” “It wasn’t him,” offered Dickie Sumner, who had been tempted back by all-compelling curiosity. “He wasn’t with us at all.” Talbot turned and seized the rash youngster by the arm. “So it was you, was it? Now, look here! We aren’t going to have any calling names or any other freshness from you young kids round this place. If we catch you at it, we’ll duck you under the cold-water faucet and forbid you the grounds. Understand?” Dickie understood. “All right,” he answered faintly, and tried to pull away; but Talbot still held him in a tight grip. “What do you say, Jack?” he added, turning to Dick’s older brother, who shared with him the responsibility for order on the grounds. “That’s right!” replied Jack Sumner, sacrificing his fraternal obligation in the cause of justice with surprising equanimity. “He’s a good one to begin on.” Talbot released the youngster, who speedily escaped from the circle of danger to join his confederates over by the tennis courts, where they discussed for a time in subdued voices the probability that Pete meant business. They were soon diverted by tag. “All the same, Dunn is a fool to notice them,” murmured Talbot in Hardie’s ear as they returned to the locker room to finish their dressing. “I don’t believe he can shake off the nickname, now,” said Roger. “No, it’s branded in. He isn’t showing much of the good-nature they talk about, is he?” In fact, Dunn’s good-nature didn’t extend far below the skin. It was a mannerism assumed to win him the popularity which he craved. He was vain, lazy, and characterless. In the football field his fine physique, together with the professional air with which he bore himself, for some time blinded the eyes of critics to his shortcomings. Yards, the coach, felt sure that something could be made of a man of Dunn’s vigor and apparent knowledge of the game. Yet a strong player opposite him, or the grinding strain of an uphill contest, invariably produced slackened effort and excuses. “It’s come to be the weakest place in the team,” said the coach, a few days before the Groton game. “If we could brace up the left end and quarter-back, we should have some hope of giving Newbury a tussle.” “Is Sumner so bad as all that?” asked Harrison, disturbed. “I thought he was running the play very well.” “He runs the play well enough, but look at the errors! He fumbles, muffs punts, misses tackles. A quarter-back has no right to do anything of the kind.” “No one plays perfectly,” Harrison hastened to offer in defence of his friend. “Besides, he’s the only man we’ve got for the place.”