e patriotism was already
strong, read the inscriptions on the lower margins with disfavour.

"Huh!" he grumbled. "'Brimfield 0; Claflin 12'; 'Brimfield 3; Claflin
11'; 'Brimfield 6; Claflin 9.' Bet you next time it'll be some
different, Tom!"

"Rather!" said Tom stoutly. "Let's go on down and see the gym."

They tried the chest-weights and tested the bars and experimented with
about everything they found down there, and then went into the adjoining
compartment and peered into the shower-baths and passed on the merits of
the steel lockers.

"The fellow who built this gym knew what he was doing," declared Steve
approvingly. "Some of these lockers have got things in them," he
continued, peeping into one. "There's a bat in here, and a towel and
some clothes."

Tom had wandered through a doorway at the end of the locker compartment
and now summoned Steve to join him. There was a high table in the centre
of the small room and a set of metal shelves alongside which held
numerous bottles and boxes. "It's the rubbing room," said Steve. "Here,
get busy, Tom!" And he hoisted himself to the table and stretched out on
his back.

"Yes, sir," said Tom. "Where's it hurt you? This the spot?"

And Tom began such an enthusiastic manipulation of Steve's ribs that the
latter set up a howl and precipitately tumbled off the table. It was at
that moment that an unpleasant voice startled them.

"Beat it, you fresh kids! You've got no business in here!"

The speaker was a heavy-set youth of perhaps nineteen years of age. He
had closely-cropped ashy-brown hair over a round face from which a pair
of pale-blue eyes glowered upon them. He was standing in the doorway and
his hands were thrust into the pockets of a pair of very wide-hipped
knickerbockers. Somehow, standing there with his sturdy, golf-stockinged
legs well apart and his loose trousers pulled out at the sides, he
reminded Tom of a clown at a circus, and Tom made the mistake of
grinning. The big youth caught sight of the grin and stepped into the
rubbing room with a deepening scowl on his face.

"Wipe it off!" he said threateningly.

Steve and Tom looked at the table.

"Wipe what off?" asked Tom, at a loss.

"Wipe that grin off your ugly face," answered the other. "And get out of
here, both of you, and stay out. If you don't, I'll throw you out!"

This somewhat astounding threat caused an exchange of surprised glances
between the culprits. Neither Steve nor Tom were quarr