“Look here, boys. We’ve had our boxing lesson, but it won’t do now not to do up our baseball. Old Sol mustn’t be allowed a peg to hang his hat on. Our young friends from the prize-ring will comprehend the situation.” “If you mean Val and me,” said Bar, laughing, “we’re ready.” But that game of ball! Never had Ogleport witnessed anything so curiously bewildering since the Indian braves finished their own last “match game” and carried their clubs away with them. The ball was here, there, everywhere. Ins and outs found themselves mysteriously mixed up. No fellow could tell who it was that started him wrong. There was really no redeeming feature to the whole matter, except Bar Vernon’s marvelous pitching and batting. “Hiram Allen!” exclaimed Zeb to his lieutenant, “that fellow is a treasure to the Academy. We can play the Rodney nine now, and beat them all to flinders. How does your poor old nose feel, my boy?” “Beat ’em? Yes,” replied Hy; “but see where he’s sent the ball. My nose feels like a mashed potato. Zeb, we must get him to teach us how, and then we can whale all Rodney.” “And all Rodney stands in moral need of chastisement,” responded Zeb. “I must consult the deacons about it, first one I meet. Are you sure which side you are on, Hiram?” “Not exactly,” growled Hiram, “but Bar Vernon’s on the winning side, whichever it is.” “That’s it,” said Zeb. “I don’t propose to have any more personal collisions with Mr. Vernon. He is a very excellent young man.” But the game of ball, with all its manifold perplexities, was played out at last, and Zebedee was expressing his satisfaction at the result to Bar and Val, when his left eye caught a glimpse of George Brayton coming up the street, and he remarked as much. “Then,” said Bar, “I must go home and have my Greek lesson.” “Greek?” exclaimed Zeb. “Is not that one of the ancient tongues?” “Why, yes, I suppose so,” said Bar. “I looked into it for the first time to-day.” “Give me your hand,” said Zeb, enthusiastically. “I’m proud to meet a man of your age who can say that. But do you really mean to study it this time?” “Of course. That’s what I came here for--Greek and the rest of it.” “Then so will I,” said Zeb. “I have striven for years to stir up old Sol and myself on the Greek question, but have failed.” A mournful failure it had been, although Zeb had not been a bad scholar in some other branches. He had studied, in fact, as most boys do under teachers like Dr. Dryer, very much as it had pleased him. As a general thing it does not please them to do much hard work in Greek, and so they end by knowing even less about it than do their “instructors,” to put it very strongly. Bar and Val were off now to join Brayton, and in a few minutes more the latter had begun to forget his pleasant “drive” in his curiosity over the results of Bar’s first attempt at the grand old language.