Now there came a quick knock, immediately after which the door was flung open and Brayton marched in.
"See here, you coldfeet," began the captain of the Army eleven sternly, "what do you two mean by staying in here and boning dry facts?"
"Just to avoid being drowned in goat's milk," smiled Dick, turning a page and looking up.
Brayton, regardless of these heroic efforts to study, threw one leg across the corner of the study table.
"You two fellows came out, in the first work of the squad, and did stunts that filled us all with hope," pursued Brayton severely. "Then, suddenly, you failed to show up any more. And all this, despite the fact that we have the poorest eleven the Army has shown in six years."
"Only men well up in their academic work are allowed to play on the eleven, replied Dick.
"You fellows are well enough up to make the team."
"But we're nervous about our studies," rejoined Prescott.
"Nervous about your studies!" cried Brayton sharply. "Yet not a whit anxious for the honor of the Army that you hope to serve in all your lives. Now, you fellows know, as well as any of us, that we don't much mind being walked over by a crack college eleven. But we want to beat the Navy, year in and year out. Why, fellows, this year the Navy has one of the best elevens in its history. All the signs are that the middies are going to walk roughshod over us. And yet you two fellows, whom we need, are sulking in quarters, poring over books—-nervous about your studies!"
Scorn rang in Brayton's heavy tones.