You may not find the town of Lakerim on the map in your geography. And
yet it was very well known to the people that lived in it. And the
Lakerim Athletic Club was very well known to those same people. And
the Lakerim Athletic Club, or, at least the twelve founders of the
club, were as blue as the June sky, because it seemed to them that
Father Time--old Granddaddy Longlegs that he is--was playing a mean
trick on them.

For hadn't they given all their brain and muscle to building up an
athletic club that should be a credit to the town and a terror to
outsiders! And hadn't they given up every free hour for two years to
working like Trojans? though, for that matter, who ever heard of
any work the Trojans ever did that amounted to anything--except the
spending of ten years in getting themselves badly defeated by a big
wooden hobby-horse?

But while all of the Dozen were deep in the dumps, and had their brows
tied up like a neglected fish-line, the loudest complaint was made,
of course, by the one who had done the least work in building up the
club--a lazybones who had been born tired, and had spent most of his
young life in industriously earning for himself the name of "Sleepy."

"It's a dad-ratted shame," growled he, "for you fellows to go and
leave the club in the lurch this way, after all the trouble we have
had organizing it."

"Yes," assented another, who was called "B.J." because he had jumped
from a high bridge once too often, and who read wild Western romances
more than was good for his peace of mind or his conversation; "it kind
of looks as if you fellows were renegades to the cause."