ill at ease, and he counted the minutes until the clock drew around toward nine. Going down to the gate he waited, and presently saw the coach swinging down the street. And a clutch of fear seemed to grasp at his throat.
"Martin," Jennings said abruptly; "there's just one chance for you."
The shortstop's heart leaped. "To play?"
"To play. I've been button-holing faculty members since to-day's game ended. If you can make a showing this month that will run you above 70 you can play the June games."
Martin's face fell.
"We play Monroe on June 12," the coach said significantly.
The big game! The game that brought out the crowds, and the glory, and the only real cheering of the year. Even in the soft darkness of the spring night the coach could see the wistful shadow that swiftly passed over the boy's countenance.
"I have spoken to the Owl again," Jennings went on. "Frankly, Martin you've thrown down the nine, but the nine hasn't thrown down you. We want you back for your own sake as much as for anything else. We want you back because it isn't the Northfield idea for a fellow to drop away from the thing he can do best. It means a month
