And now Dunn received a blow that hurt. The call had gone forth for candidates for baseball, and Dunn’s name appeared near the head of the list. Mr. Westcott then summoned Dunn to an official interview, in which he informed the sanguine ball player that in consequence of his continued poor performance of school work, he could not be allowed to play on the nine. “We have kept you here,” said the head-master, “in spite of your neglect, only because we were not willing to believe that a boy could be six months among us without catching from teachers and boys something of the spirit of serious work. So far, we have apparently failed to make any impression upon you. At the present time there is not a single subject in which you could be recommended for college examinations. This being the case, we cannot allow you to assume new responsibilities which would interfere still further with your study.” And then the teacher made a serious attempt to bring home to the misguided boy the wrongfulness and folly of his course, but Dunn heard nothing but the fact that for him there was to be no baseball. His answers were given in stolid monosyllables; he went forth suffocating with rage. No one knew better than Dunn that his school life had been a failure, but his point of view was very different from that of his teachers. Dunn’s scholastic ideal was formed somewhat on the lines of Kipling’s Stalky. To dodge one’s work, outwit one’s teachers, and triumph at examination by luck and cleverness represented to Dunn the only truly desirable way of conquering school drudgery. The real thing was to be popular, to be in the important set, to play on the teams, and be talked about. When Stalkyism, as exemplified in Dunn’s recitation career, proved a flat failure, and the expected popularity turned out to be only a kind of contemptuous freedom to disregard him, he had consoled himself with assurances of a different experience on the baseball field, where he should shine with no uncertain light. Now with a single word Mr. Westcott had robbed him of his opportunity. He felt like a soldier who at the critical moment of defence finds that his cartridges have been stolen and that he is at the mercy of the enemy. Stover listened to his tale, deeply disgusted. Braggarts are usually liars or victims of delusion, but occasionally one is found to make good some of his boasts. Stover had investigated Dunn’s baseball career and believed in him. “It’s a low-down trick!” he burst forth. “That’s the way they do here. If they find a fellow who can play something, they scare up some excuse to rule him out. Anything to discourage athletics!” “I suppose it’s no good to kick,” said Dunn, despairingly.