Trevor was breathing hard, but there was a grim determination in his eyes. Stewart appeared less tuckered, but he was somewhat pale despite the easy smile that played over his boyish face. Up went Trevor’s racket; up went the ball. There was a line of white through the air; Stewart put the head of his racket to the gravel; the ball in its low rebound struck it fair and went hurtling back. Stewart ran up to within a yard of the net. Trevor waited for the bounce, glanced hurriedly over the opposite court, chose his place, and sided his racket. But his plans were wrecked by a pebble. Up went the ball on the rebound almost straight into the air. Trevor darted forward. There was no time for niceties of cutting or placing. Ball and racket came together, and the former went skimming forward, head-high, straight as a dart for Stewart’s racket! The crowd held its breath, picturing the terrific smash to follow, and Trevor scuttled back to the rear of the court from where it might be barely possible to get the ball on its long rebound. Stewart swung his racket back, strong fingers grasping the end of the handle, swung it down with all his force--and stared in seeming amaze. A groan of dismay went up from the onlookers as the ball passed by untouched and dropped into court. “Game and set and match!” called the umpire. And then the applause began. Trevor advanced to the net, and he and Stewart shook hands. “Beastly luck, that last stroke,” said Trevor heartily. “Rotten playing, you mean,” answered Stewart, smiling. “I’m glad you’ve won, Trevor, honestly; but some time you and I’ll have it out again, if you like.” “All right; I’d like to. And there’s another tournament coming next year, you know.” Dick, who in company with Carl and many other friends, had watched the match from the side-line, slapped Trevor on the shoulder. “Good work, chum! And you played like a cyclone, Stewart; you ought to have had it.” Then Trevor took possession of the little silver mug and wondered where the engraver was going to find room for his name on it, and the crowd broke up and hurried toward the Yard and dinner. On the way Stewart found himself beside Dick. Trevor and Todd were some distance ahead, the latter, who could play tennis about as well as an elephant can jump rope, explaining to the champion where he had made his mistakes. “That was a queer stroke of yours, Stewart,” said Dick. The younger boy darted a fleeting glance into the other’s smiling face. “Rotten, wasn’t it?” he asked. “Well, I wouldn’t call it rotten exactly; I should say it was remarkable.” Stewart again glanced up to find Dick looking at him quizzically. For a moment the two eyed each other; then Stewart laughed and Dick joined in. “No more remarkable than the way in which Trevor lost the two hundred and twenty yards at the indoor meeting, was it?” he asked. “No,” replied Dick. “I should say they were about on a par. But I didn’t think that you suspected----”