"Hope he changed the color," said Horace with a sneer.
"Why, yes, he did, as it happened. His new one is black with a crimson H."
Horace started and shot a quick glance up and down the form confronting him.
"Is your brother Porter of the Harvard eleven?" he asked with a trace of unwilling respect in his voice. Roy nodded.
"I suppose you think you can play the game because he can, eh? What's your name?"
"Porter," answered Roy sweetly.
"Don't get fresh," admonished the other angrily. "What's your first name?"
"I guess it will do if you just call me Porter," was the reply. There was a sudden darkening of the blue eyes and in spite of the fact that the lips still smiled serenely Horace saw the danger signal and respected it.
"You're a pretty fresh young kid at present, but you'll get some of it taken out of you before you're here long," said the school leader turning away. "And I'd advise you to take off that red rag; it's too much like the Hammond color to be popular here."
"Fresh, am I?" mused Roy, watching the other join the group below and cross the lawn toward the field. "I wonder what he thinks he is? If he ever asks me I'll mighty soon tell him! Red rag! I'll make him take that back some day, see if I don't."