"What's going on?" asked Bruce Bennington, one of the twain.

"Oh, it's Tom Fairfield and some of his chums," answered Morse Denton.
"I don't know just what the row is, but I heard that Sam Heller and
Nick Johnson played some kind of a mean trick on Tom and Bert and Jack
this summer. I don't just know the particulars."

"That's so," agreed Bruce. "I did hear something about it. Feel like
having some pop?"

"Not now, and if any of those fellows expect to make the eleven this
fall I'll have to make them cut it out."

"Right! How's football coming on?"

"Oh, I've got some good material, and I expect more when the new
fellows begin to arrive."

"Going to play Tom Fairfield?"

"I sure am, if he'll train properly, and I think he will. I want him
for one of the backs. He's a sure ground gainer, quick on his feet, he
holds the ball fast and he can kick well."

"I hope he makes good," went on Bruce. "Well, I'm going to cut away.
I want to see the doctor, and arrange about my studies."

The two strolled over the green campus, arm in arm, and they had hardly
gone a dozen steps before, from the little store of Pop Swab, there