"I studied it last night, sir, but I'm afraid I've clean forgotten
all about that principle," Dick confessed. He sat down, red-faced,
nor was his discomfiture decreased by hearing some of the occupants
of the girls' seats giggle.

"I shall question you about that at the next recitation. Mr.
Prescott," nodded the submaster.

"Ye-es, sir. I hope you'll have luck," Dick answered, absently.

"What's that?" rapped out Mr. Morton.

Dick, aroused, was on his feet again, like a flash.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Morton," he came out straightforwardly.
"That sounded like slang, or disrespect. I beg to assure you,
sir, that neither was intended. The truth is-----"

"Your mind is busy with other things this morning, I see," smiled
the sub-master.

"Ye-es, sir." Dick dropped once more into his seat. Ralph Morton
sighed. That very popular young submaster, only three years out
of college, was the hugely admired coach who had led the Gridley
eleven to victory during the last three seasons. He was as disturbed
as anyone could have been over the rumored intention of the Board
of Education to take some unpleasant action regarding High School
athletics.

It was a terribly unsatisfactory hour in IV. English. Five minutes