“Then,” went on the coach, pursuing his thoughts, “with both Kemble and Coles in good standing on the team it only remains to determine which of the two in my humble opinion is likely to best fill the position of second baseman. Wattles, you have cleared up a difficult position beautifully, and if we should be fortunate enough to win to-morrow you may take a large share of the credit to yourself. In fact, Wattles, to use an expression current about the campus, I’ve got to hand it to you!” Mr. Connover arose and held out his hand. Wattles, seriously embarrassed, took it. After supper the Triumvirate met as usual, and, as usual, Mr. Cooper joined the gathering before long. Clif arrived still depressed, although a hearty supper had somewhat leavened his woe. Before long he was taking a far less tragic view of his guilt, for Tom and Loring went to some pains to prove that, even if he had erred, he was not chargeable with the loss of the game. “Suppose you’d caught the ball,” said Loring. “That would have made only the second out, and one of those runs would have crossed in any case; probably both of them, for those guys reached the plate only about four yards apart. But even if your throw-in had nabbed the second, Wolcott would still have beaten us by one run.” “As far as that goes,” declared Tom, “if the infield hadn’t gone flooey those runners would never have been on bases! You should worry over dropping a fly after three infield errors had been chalked up!” “Still, it was an awful thing to do,” said Clif rather more cheerfully. “I――I don’t know yet how it happened. I _caught_ the ball all right, but, gee, somehow――” “You were too anxious to make the throw,” said Tom. “I’ve seen the same thing happen lots of times. Forget it, old son, and make up for it to-morrow.” “I will if I get the chance,” sighed Clif, “but I guess Steve isn’t likely to let me play to-morrow.” “Oh, I don’t know. He needs hitters, Clif, and you’re certainly hitting better than Al Greene.” “I didn’t do much yesterday except for that one single.” “Say, how do you get that way?” demanded Tom. “My Sainted Aunt Jerusha, didn’t that hit send in two runs? You’re cuckoo!” Wattles, who was already sorting out Loring’s wardrobe for packing on the morrow, said no word when, later, Tom remarked dolefully: “Heck, I wish I were going to be in that rumpus to-morrow. I’ll just bet I could knock the tar out of that Osterman guy! I’ll bet I’ve got his number all right now!”