CHAPTER II
THE LEFT TACKLE
EDWARD’S nature was not one that could remain long depressed over the thought that an injustice was being done him. He found too much that was new and exhilarating to occupy his mind. The very achievements which had brought down upon him the censorious comments of some of the older boys had made him quite a hero in his own form. The old boys of the Fourth Form, like Lawrence, became his aggressive champions against the charge of freshness.
“Go on!” Lawrence said one day to a group of Fifth Formers, friends of his, who had been disparaging “Pishaw, P—shaw,” which was their name for Edward. Go on! You’re jealous. Crashaw’s a bigger man than you’ve got, and you know it. There is n’t a near athlete in your whole form. You take it as a personal insult if anybody gets out and
