Dick kept about the even tenor of his way, however, studying, drilling, training, and practising on the football-field. He had tremendous energy, and the number of things accomplished by him continued to astound and anger his jealous foes, who soon found a new method of striking at him.
CHAPTER II.
A SCHEMING TRIO.
"It’s a mean shame!" declared Zeb Fletcher, trying to look at Uric Scudder with his crooked eye, but seeming to glare at a fatigue-cap hanging on the wrong hook.
"That’s right," nodded Scudder, rubbing his weak chin with an air of indignation. "It’s favoritism, that’s what it is."
"Of the rankest sort," piped Jim Watson, in his weak, effeminate voice. "And all because the fellow is Frank Merriwell’s brother."
"What can we do about it?" questioned Uric. "We ought to do something."
"We will do something!" declared Fletcher.
"What will we do?" questioned Scudder and Watson together.
"Kick!" exclaimed Zeb.
"I’m afraid that won’t do much good," said Watson. "He has a pull, and he can do just about as he likes. The rest of us fellows have to attend drill regularly, while Merriwell is excused from taking anything but enough to make a showing. Now, I hate drilling as much as any fellow can, yet I have to take my dose right along, and it’s mighty disgusting."