"Why the dickens doesn't he study, then?" grumbled Harry. "He's got brains enough."
"Oh, sure, he's got the brains," answered Roy as he held open the door at Torrence, "but he hasn't discovered yet that there's someone else to think of besides Steve. If he doesn't want to do a thing he won't—unless he's made to. Look at the way he played to-day! Just because he felt lumpy he didn't think it was worth while to do anything but scrap with that other chap. Folks won't stand for that very long and some day Steve will wake up with a bang!"
"You going over to swim?" asked Harry when they had reached their room.
Roy shook his head gently. "Not this afternoon, I think, thanking you just the same. I'd be afraid Steve would pull me under water and drown me!" Roy chuckled as he seated himself and, thrusting his hands in his trousers pockets, surveyed his shoes smilingly. "Poor old Steve! He's in for a heap of trouble, I guess, before he gets ready to settle down as a useful member of our charming little community."
"Seems to me," said Harry, "about the best thing you do to-day is predict trouble for folks. You're as bad as What's-his-name's raven; you croak."
"The gentleman's name was Poe," returned Roy sweetly. "But perhaps you've never studied American literature."
"I thought Poe was a football hero at Princeton or somewhere," laughed Harry. "What did he ever do for American literature?"
"American history was more in his line," replied Roy. "Football history. Find your ball and let's go down and pass. I won't croak a single, solitary croak, old thing."