“You got into a fight at Greenville,” said the coach coldly. “I let that go. But this time I’m through. I’m forced to the conclusion that you’re simply a trouble-maker, Kemble. I don’t want your sort on the nine. I ought to report you at the Office. That is my duty as a faculty member. But I’m going to deal with you merely as a coach. Possibly the loss of your place on the team will be enough to show you――” “I with you’d let me tell you, pleathe, thir! Honeth, I didn’t thtart it, thir. You thee――” “That will do, Kemble. I don’t want your excuses. You’ve been fighting with Coles, contrary to school regulations, and I’m letting you off pretty easy with the loss of your place on the squad. There’s no more to be said. I want you to leave the field this instant.” “Yeth, thir.” Tom attained a certain dignity then, not an easy thing to do under the circumstances. “I’m thorry, Mither Connover.” “So am I, Kemble.” The tone was not quite so hard, but Tom didn’t make the mistake of thinking that it presaged relenting. “Mither Connover” turned away and strode back to his duties, and Tom, trying hard to keep his eyes clear of tears, went straight for the gymnasium. Before he had reached it self-pity gave way to anger against Coles. He would, he concluded, get his togs off and go in search of Wink. And when he found him he would start where he had left off and finish the job! No, sir, it didn’t make a bit of difference to him whether he got fired or not now. If he couldn’t play any more baseball what use was there sticking around the rotten hole? Something had told him long ago that he wasn’t going to like Wyndham, and now he hated it!