“Major!” Barry jumped at the sound of his own voice, and the coach, too, seemed startled. But Barry hurried on: “Major, I’ve been wondering if I――if I wouldn’t be more use next year.” “More use? Oh――to the team, you mean. Why, yes, I hope so, Locke. Yes, you’re coming along very well. By next year you ought to be able to give a pretty good account of yourself. But I rather think we’re going to find use for you this year, my boy. If you keep coming at your present speed you can count on at least one game at right half. I told you when you joined up that I couldn’t promise you anything, you’ll remember, so you mustn’t be disappointed if you don’t get into all the games. You’re doing first rate, Locke, and I’m not forgetting you. Don’t get discouraged just because things don’t come your way all at once. You’re doing your share, even if you don’t get into the front trenches very often. And you never know when the reserves will be called up.” The coach laid an encouraging hand on Barry’s shoulder. It didn’t seem to Barry that the host exerted sufficient pressure to persuade him to the door, yet that was where he found himself; with Peaches already on the threshold, grinning widely. Barry gulped, sought for words in which to frame his question, failed, and echoed Peaches’ “Good-by, sir.” Then they were outside, the gate had closed behind them, and they were striding down the road! For several moments Barry looked straight ahead and the silence was abysmal. Finally he stole a glance at Peaches. Peaches was as solemn as a stone image, so solemn that Barry had the pleasing conviction that it hurt. A dozen steps farther and a slight choking sound was heard. Barry’s own lips twitched, but he didn’t turn. Not until, a moment later, he found himself alone. A few paces behind, Peaches clung saggingly to the trunk of a maple, helpless, his shoulders shaking under the emotion that had overcome him. Barry stared indignantly for as long as he could. He even managed an outraged “Huh!” But after that he gave up. Yet his amusement was less hearty than his companion’s and he recovered first. “You think it’s fu-funny,” he gasped. “I hope you ch-choke! What shall I tell Clyde? Go-gosh! I can’t say I didn’t ask him!” Peaches beat the air weakly a few times with his hands, opened his mouth and closed it convulsively, and reminded Barry so much of a dying fish that the latter mentioned the fact scathingly. Perhaps the insult was just what Peaches needed, for after a final gurgle he regained the power of speech. “That――that was great!” he said, wiping his eyes. “The expression, on your face, Barry, when he patted you on the back and told you not to be――be discouraged! _Oh, gosh!_” He was plainly threatened with a relapse, and Barry spoke sternly: “Come on, you blithering idiot! Let’s get home. It’s all well enough for you to laugh about it, but what am I going to tell Clyde?” Peaches made a superhuman effort and controlled himself.