On Monday, when school was over for the day and the fellows hurried over to the gym to dress for practice, Phil walked stiffly out of the yard and turned his steps toward home. It is true that he longed and almost hoped to hear some one of those fellows calling after him, but not a soul seemed to observe which way he went, and resentful anger blazed yet more fiercely in his soul. Thus it was upon Tuesday night, when he observed that Roy Hooker was one of the fellows who hastened toward the gym, which was enough to convince him that Roy had practically been taken onto the team to do a portion of the pitching. When his sister again tried to talk with him about baseball that night he cut her off in such a snappy, savage manner that she was really frightened. The next night, however, he did not walk down the path to the gate in view of the scholars, so that they might take notice that he declined to accompany the baseball squad. Instead of that, he dodged back round the corner of the academy, crossed the yard at the rear, and took the footpath across the field to High Street. He was lonely and cast down and bitterly disappointed; for had he not sounded the professed friendship of his chums of yesterday and found it very shallow! Not one of them had shown the decency to give him a word of cheer; they were willing that he, who but a short time ago they were regarding as their star slabman, should slide back into shadows and forgetfulness, while a practical stranger from a distant part of the country filled his place. It was hard to believe of them, but he told himself he was glad to find out just what they were. Had Grant himself shown a further inclination to friendly advances Phil might have met him halfway, but the Texan had some pride of his own, and he was not the kind to seek continued rebuffs. Had he known that Springer was ready and yearning to yield, doubtless Rod would have lost not a minute in again putting forth the hand of friendship; but, being unaware of what was passing in Phil's heart, and feeling that already he had tried to do the right thing, the boy from the Lone Star State remained aloof with the others. Halfway across the field, as the path curved round some bushes, Springer came upon Herbert Rackliff, sitting on a stone, manicuring his nails with the file blade of a pearl-handled knife, a cigarette clinging to his moistened lower lip. "Hello," said Herbert, with no intonation of surprise, as he looked up. "How do you happen to be dodging across this way, Springer?" Phil was annoyed. He had never liked Rackliff. Still here was some one to whom he could talk, and desire to "chin" was strong upon him. He stopped. "This is a short cuc-cut for me," he explained. "What are you doing here?"