All the newness and rawness had worn off, and they felt as fully at home at Rally Hall, as they might have felt in months, if they had started under less favorable conditions.
All the boys in their own dormitory had learned to like them thoroughly, and among the rest of the boys outside they were general favorites.
There were, to be sure, a few exceptions. And chief among these were the bully, Andy Shanks, and his toady, Sid Wilton, together with two or three others who hung about Shanks, because of his money and the “good times” he could give those who sought his favor.
Andy, in the crowd at the station, had not seen the boys get off the train and enter the bus. So that he was entirely taken aback, when, on the following day, he had come face to face with them on the campus.
He stepped back with an ugly sneer.
“So you’re here, are you?” he whipped out.
“No,” said Fred coolly, “I’m somewhere else.”
“None of your lip now!” snarled Shanks, thrusting out his jaw and putting his pasty face close to Fred’s. “I’m not used to taking back talk from any fellow in this school.”
“You’d better get used to it then right away,” was the retort, “because I give it to you straight that you’re going to get plenty of it, if you come fooling around me. And I give you the tip to steer clear of me, if you don’t want to get something besides talk.”
The bully was clearly at a loss to know what to do, when he found his bluff called in such a determined manner. He had been used to having things largely his own way. His money was accountable for this, in part, and then, too, he was much larger and stronger than most of the boys in the school.