The umpire, a squat figure in a cloud of yellow dust, held his hands down just as Bailey found that he was sitting on the ball. Clif struggled to his feet to discover himself in a mob of maniacal youths seemingly bent on his destruction. But they only shoved and tugged and boosted at him until he was swaying dizzily, and certainly insecurely, above the rabble. There was a fearsome din and lots of dust, and his captors, red-faced youths with wide-open mouths, seemed content to just mill around in the center of that increasing mob. But Clif was not the only one who was viewing the scene from above, for there was Captain Leland and Van Dyke and Tom, and every moment some other hero was lifted in air. Clif tried to wriggle loose, but his bearers only held him the tighter. Cheering began. Clif relaxed and grinned. It came to him that all this was eminently proper after all. They had won a mighty victory. * * * * * Tom had received a letter from his guardian that forenoon, but as it had reached him almost simultaneously with his restoration to the baseball squad he had not even opened it. Now, in Loring’s room after supper, the talk finally veered from the afternoon’s victory and Loring asked: “Your father isn’t coming for you, is he, Clif?” “No,” was the answer. “He’s in Chicago and doesn’t get back until to-morrow evening. He’s sending the car by a man from the garage. I’m going to drive it back, though!” “Trust you!” said Tom. “What time do we start along, Loring?” “Father said they’d get up here by eleven. That’s about as early as they can make it. We’ll stop for lunch somewhere, I suppose.” “Sure I won’t be in the way?” “Of course you won’t. The car seats seven, and Wattles will sit in front. There’ll be just the four of us behind. How about your trunk? Want Wattles to look after that in the morning? We’re sending our stuff by express.” “Suits me. It’s mighty nice of you to take me along, and the best of it is that I’ll be ahead the price of the railway fare, and when you don’t get much coin, anyway――” Tom stopped abruptly and slapped his pockets. “Heck, I almost forgot the old coot’s letter! Came this morning and I stuffed it away―― Here it is. Mind if I see how much he’s made the check for?” “Go ahead,” said Loring. “Hope he’s been generous.” “If he has,” murmured Tom, “it’s the first time――” He relapsed into silence, a slip of buff paper dangling from one hand and the accompanying letter in the other. Loring and Clif resumed conversation quietly. Suddenly there was an exclamation of dismay from Tom. “Well, what do you know?” he gasped. “The blamed old fish says I can’t come back!” “Come back?” echoed Clif. “Do you mean _here_?” Tom crumpled the letter savagely. “Yes! He’s had my report, and he says―― Oh, what’s it matter what he says? The main thing is I’m through!”