he and Loring, seeing each other nearly every day at the field, had attained to an intimacy not wholly shared by Tom or Clif. Sometimes Clif received the impression that Mr. Cooper laid more store by Tom’s interest or applause than on his or Loring’s; but that was probably because Tom had shown himself more difficult. That Tom was gradually growing to share his companions’ hearty liking for Mr. Cooper was soon apparent. And that respect went with liking was proved by something which happened one evening that week. Tom had played a very good game at second base that afternoon, which, since the former incumbent of the position, Stu Evans, had returned to school two days before, was considered most fortunate. Stu wasn’t yet in condition to play baseball, but he soon would be according to report, and the Triumvirate were hoping――and willing――that Tom would meanwhile prove his right to retain the position. But they realized that he wouldn’t do so unless he improved his hitting considerably. That was dwelt on this evening, and Tom grew quite pathetic over his inability to get a hit off the first team pitchers. “That’s what’s going to queer me,” he said sadly. “That fellow Evans doesn’t have to play second any better than I do, because he’s got the edge on me when it comes to batting.” “What I can’t understand,” said Clif rather hopelessly, “is why you don’t get onto yourself. Tusks shows you how to bat his way and you say ‘Yes, sir,’ and then go right on giving your famous impersonation of Clouter Hogan, or whatever his silly name is!” “My sainted Aunt Jerusha!” exclaimed Tom despairingly. “Haven’t I been telling you that I’m mighty near worn out trying to remember to do like Tusks says? I just can’t, that’s all! I get so balled up trying to think what it is he wants that I can’t hit the ball, and then I forget his way and swing like I’m used to swinging, and still I don’t hit it! Heck, I’d――I’d do it if I could!” Mr. Cooper said, in his quiet way: “Kemble, if I were you I’d stop thinking about it entirely, and when it came my turn to bat to-morrow I’d just step up and do it.” “Huh?” ejaculated Tom. Mr. Cooper smiled. “The quickest way to do a thing is to――_do_ it. Try it to-morrow.” Tom opened his mouth, closed it again, cast an inquiring glance at Loring and relapsed into thoughtful, somewhat puzzled, silence. Loring swung the conversation to another channel, and baseball was not mentioned again that evening. During the quarter of an hour or so that passed before the gong rang Tom was noticeably detached. The next afternoon, at the field, Wattles said: “Mr. Kemble certainly hit it on the nose that time, didn’t he, sir?” Wattles was acquiring quite a baseball vocabulary. Loring started and looked around. “What did you say about Tom?” he asked. Wattles repeated his observation with relish, adding: “I fancy you didn’t see it, sir. He took quite the approved stance and gave the ball a jolly crash, Mr. Loring.”