And that was that. And just when the incident was losing savor for the players, and Dan, the trainer, was emptying the baseballs out on the turf, a new sensation arrived in the person of Tom. If Wink was disreputable, Tom was unfit for publication! And he knew it. Hurrying so as not to be late, he yet tried very hard to reach his goal without notice, and with the latter desire uppermost in his mind, he skirted the first base stand and attempted to slip into the throng as modestly as possible. But when you have two areas of plaster decorating your face and a strip of the same glaring material across the knuckles of one hand your chance of attaining obscurity is slim. There arose a delighted if restrained cheer from his teammates as Tom, affecting nonchalance, stepped into the shadow of Cobham and tried the experiment of fitting a left-hand glove over a painful right. Having recognized the futility of that attempt, Tom picked up a trickling ball, turned his back toward the coach and wandered down the line. Surreptitious remarks greeted him, but Tom appeared too intent on duty for mere persiflage. He didn’t really have much hope of escaping the vigilant eye of Mr. Connover, but at least he could postpone the evil moment he thought. If only the coach would send the first team into the field―― “Kemble!” Tom stopped as though shot, hesitated and turned innocently toward the speaker. The coach had trailed him along the base line, almost to first, and he looked very angry. Tom’s heart sank, but he attempted a blithe smile, which hurt him considerably, and responded: “Yeth, thir?” “So you’ve been fighting again, have you?” demanded Steve in a voice that reminded Tom of a blue chisel. “Getting to be rather a habit with you, isn’t it?” “Yeth――_no_, thir!” Tom wished he didn’t have to lisp like that. It sounded so silly! But the inside of his mouth was very sore, and his cheek and his tongue and his lower lip got in each other’s way horribly. He was well aware that he presented a lamentable, even a humorous appearance, and he looked hopefully at the coach, thinking that either sympathy or amusement would break the glacial set of the latter’s features. But Mr. Connover had been presented with one too many incapacitated players this afternoon, and neither pity nor amusement swayed him. “I’ve sent Coles off for the day,” said the coach, “and you may go, too. Only you needn’t come back, Kemble. I shan’t need you any more this season.” Tom was stunned. There was one awful instant of silence and then he broke into protests. “Honeth, Mither Connover, ’twath’nt my fault! I――I didn’t mean――”