at you mean business. If
that doesn't bring you around I shall take you out of school. Fair
warning, Steve."

Steve knew his father well enough to be certain that he would do just as
he threatened, and the future looked particularly dark to him that day.
Of course, if he had plenty of time he could master his Latin--and his
Greek, which was troubling him less but was by no means a favourite
course--as well as any other study, he told himself. But there was so
much to be done! And try as he might, he could never seem to find time
enough for study. If he gave up football it would, perhaps, be easy
enough, but, he asked himself bitterly, what was the good of going to
school and doing nothing but study? What was the good of knowing how to
play football if he wasn't to have a chance to use his knowledge? It was
all the fault of the faculty. It tried to get too much work out of the
fellows in too short a time. But these reflections didn't help his case
any. It was up to him to make good with Latin. Otherwise his father
would write to Josh, as he threatened, and there'd be no more football.
If he could get through the next month, by which time the football
season would be at an end, it would be all right. After that he could
give more time to lessons. He might, too, he told himself, give up those
swimming lessons. But they came at an hour when it was terribly hard to
get a fellow's mind down to study. And, besides, he enjoyed those
lessons. The only thing to do was to stay at home in the evenings and
keep his nose in his books. Tom didn't have much trouble, he reflected,
and why should he? Sometimes he got thoroughly angry with Tom for the
ease with which that youth mastered lessons!

To make matters worse, just at that time, there was due the last of the
week an original composition in French, designed by Mr. Daley as a test
for the class. French did not bother Steve much, although this was
partly due to the fact that Mr. Daley had been very lenient with him,
knowing that he was having trouble in the classical courses. But writing
an original composition in French was a feat that filled Steve with
dismay. What the dickens was he to write about? Mr. Daley had announced
that the composition must contain not less than twelve hundred words.
That approximated six pages in a blue-book. Steve sighed, frowned, shook
his head and finally shrugged his shoulders. After all, there was no use
worrying about that yet. There still remained