Unquestionably it was perfectly fair that he should forfeit his place on the team. All the boys knew the rule of the school. But somehow it did not seem _real_. When a fellow could kick a goal and pitch a ball as he could something must surely intervene to prevent such a fate. Nothing dreadful had ever happened to Peter before. It was not likely, he argued optimistically, that it could happen now. Considerably cheered by this logic he slipped his grimy report into its still more grimy envelope and began to whistle. Buoyed up by comfortable reveries he whistled fully five minutes, when the tune came to an abrupt end. A step on the gravel had arrested it. Looking around Peter saw his father coming along the drive toward him. "Not at the game to-day, Peter?" exclaimed the elder man in surprise. "No, sir." "How is that?" "I did not feel like going, Father." "Not feel like going! Why, that's something new for you. You're not sick?" Peter was conscious of a swift scrutiny. "I'm worried about something," he blurted out. "I'm sorry to hear that, my boy. What is the trouble? Grass stains on your new white tennis flannels?" Peter shook his head in reply to the smiling question. "It is a real trouble this time," he answered. Silently he drew from his pocket the crumpled envelope which he handed to his father. As Mr. Coddington took out the card and scanned it rapidly the quizzical expression that had lighted his face gave way to a frown of displeasure. "Well?" he questioned. "I'm mighty sorry, Father," began Peter. "You see I kept thinking I would make up my work before the exams came; but somehow I have been hustling more for the baseball championship than----" A curt question cut short further apologies: "Your studies have not been too difficult for you, then?" "Oh, no. I can easily make them up with a tutor," was the eager response. "I guess if you ask Mr. Christopher he will let me take the examinations over again before school closes and the next time----" "There is to be no next time," put in his father quietly. Peter stared. "Wh-a-t--do--you mean, sir?" "You will see." Without another word the older man turned away. Peter saw him walk to the garage, and a few moments later the motor-car shot past, spun down the drive, and the music of its siren horn announced that it was turning into the street. Where had his father gone so suddenly?