"Anything wrong with them?"

"Oh, Schuman's all right, I guess, but Dreer's a pill." There was a
wealth of contempt in the word "pill" as Amy pronounced it, and Clint
asked innocently what a "pill" was.

"A pill," replied Amy, "is--is--well, there are all sorts of pills. A
fellow who toadies to the instructors is a pill. A fellow who is too
lazy to play football or baseball or tennis or anything else and
pretends the doctor won't let him is a pill. A fellow who has been to
one school and got fired and then goes to another and is always
shooting off his mouth about how much better the first school is is the
worst kind of pill. And that's the kind Harmon Dreer is. He went to
Claflin for a year and a half and then got into some sort of mess and
was expelled. Then the next Fall he came here. This is his second year
here and he's still gabbing about how much higher class Claflin is and
how much better they do everything there and--oh, all that sort of rot.
I told him once that if the fellows at Claflin were so much classier
than we are I could understand why they didn't let him stay there. He
didn't like it. He doesn't narrate his sweet, sad story to me any more.
If he ever does I'm likely to forget that I'm a perfect gentleman."

But Clint's neighbours were not of overpowering interest to him those
days. There were more absorbing matters, pleasant and unpleasant, to
fill his mind. For one thing, he was trying very hard to make a place on
one of the football teams. He hadn't any hope of working into the first
team. Perhaps when he started he may, in spite of his expressed doubts,
have secretly entertained some such hope, but by the end of the second
day of practice he had abandoned it. The brand of football taught by
Coach Robey and played by the 'varsity team was ahead of any Clint had