"In reply to your challenge for a series of football games, in the Military League, and your request that we give you a contest at an early date, we regret to say that our team cannot play yours. To be frank, we do not think that your eleven is in the same class with ours. We won nearly every game we played last season, and, you know, as well as do we, that Kentfield was away down at the tail end.
"It is the sense of the Athletic Committee of Blue Hill Military Academy that we must play with teams of greater strength and in a better class than the one that represents Kentfield. If you wish, perhaps I can arrange some games with our second team, but not with the first.
"Regretting very much that we cannot accept your challenge, I remain,
"Yours very truly,
"Frank Anderson, Manager."
"Well, wouldn't that put a crimp in your bayonet?" demanded John Stiver.
"They'll condescend to let their second team come over and beat us!" exclaimed Ray Dutton sarcastically. "Bur-r-r-r-r!"
"Oh, say, this makes me mad!" spluttered Beeby, and he made as though to tear the letter to shreds.
"Don't! Wait a minute!" begged Paul Drew. "Let's talk this over a bit, first. Something's got to be done about it. We can't let this insult pass. I wish Dick Hamilton was here."
"Where is he?" asked Beeby, as he folded the crumpled letter.
"He went to town to send a message home, I guess. He'll soon be back."
"Let's go to the Sacred Pig, and talk this over," suggested Dutton, as he opened a few buttons on his tightly fitting parade coat, for drill among the cadets was just over, and they had not yet gotten into their fatigue uniforms.
"Yes, let's plan some scheme to get even with those Blue Hill snobs," added Paul. "Say Toots," he went on to one of the janitors about the academy, "if you see Mr. Hamilton, just send him over to the Sacred Pig, will you?"
"I sure will, Mr. Drew," and Toots, so called because he was generally whistling some military air, saluted.