The two friends had hardly supposed Ogleport could turn out so many “young men” of all ages, from twenty years down, and Val declared that several of the older ones were “boarders,” like themselves, while others had come in from the surrounding farms and were there by accident. Bar noticed, however, that the one “pervading spirit,” busiest and most controlling, but without being either talkative or meddlesome, was that odd chap, Zeb Fuller. “Has something on his mind to-day, or I’m mistaken,” he remarked to Val. “I never saw just such another. Was he the fellow that thrashed you last term?” “Yes,” said Val; “he once and that big fellow there another time. That’s Hy Allen, and he’s a sort of bully of the Academy.” “Then, Val, my boy,” said Bar, “I’m afraid those two have made up their minds to try it again.” “Had we better keep away?” “By no manner of means,” said Bar; “only you must promise me one thing.” “What’s that?” “Let me give ’em their first lesson, if they’re bound to have one. You’re enough for either of them, now, I think, but I want to take the conceit out of them in a way of my own.” “Well,” said Val, “all right; only I don’t mean to be counted out.” “Wait and see,” said Bar. Nearer and nearer the two friends were strolling, as they had a perfect right, to the spot where the preliminaries of the game were being arranged, when they were suddenly greeted with these words from Hy Allen: “Hullo! you fellows, are you going to play?” “Not this time,” said Bar, quietly; “we prefer to look on.” “You prefer to look on?” very mockingly responded Zeb Fuller himself, for there was a good deal in Bar Vernon’s manner that he had made up his mind not to like. “If you’re above playing ball with us, what are you here for?” “Oh,” said Bar, “you may play. We don’t want the green for anything to-day. Go on with your game.” There were enough boys among the bystanders who were glad to hear Zeb Fuller answered in his own peculiar way, and the laugh that followed was not a feeble one. “We may play, may we?” began Zeb, but just then a peculiarly mocking and jeering laugh sounded in his very ears, and he wheeled around with: “Hy Allen!” But Hiram was also seeking for the source of a very similar insult, and it seemed to Bill Jones as if some one behind him asked him for his head. “Play football, you know,” added the insulting stranger. “Look here, boys,” said Zeb, “this looks like a conspiracy.” “It’s a ghost,” seemed to come from the open mouth of Hiram. “Don’t be a fool, Hy,” said Zeb; “all the ghosts are at Mrs. Wood’s. Have you seen any?” he asked, turning again to the chums. “Saw one last night,” said Val, “down by the river, catching eels.” “Look here, you fellows,” again began Hy Allen, when the derisive laugh once more interrupted him. It was not a loud one, but it was extremely tantalizing, and the Academy “bully” looked angrily but vainly around for the source of it.