Jennings gave a wry smile. Instead of going down into the gym, he skirted the edge of the building and came out on the street. Ahead of him, a tall boy with stooped shoulders was shuffling along with his nose almost buried in a book. The coach's steps quickened.
"Oliver!" he called. "Morse!"
The student trudged on.
"Oliver! O you Owl!"
The boy looked up, with a finger marking his line in the book. His head, thrust birdlike to one side, surveyed the oncoming man.
"Were you calling me, Mr. Jennings?"
"Calling you? I was doing everything except throwing bricks at you." He slipped his hand through the crook of the boy's elbow. "Oliver, you're with the school, aren't you, heart and soul?"
"You tell 'em I am, Mr. Jennings."
Coming from the studious Oliver Morse, the sentence was edged with subtle shafts of humor—but the coach did not smile.
"You were at the practice to-day, weren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"I might have known. You miss none of the games and but few of the practice periods. Oliver, to a fellow who knows baseball as well, and follows it as closely, as you do, there is no use
