"The fellows were saying it would be McPherson," said Simmons, looking up into Rob's face with an expression of keen regret. "I was hoping you'd get it. You know so much about the game, and have helped them all so." Rob flushed. The suggestion touched him in a sensitive spot. "Nonsense!" he retorted sharply. "What put that idea into your head? I'm no better than any one else. For heaven's sake don't suggest that to any one outside; they'd think it came from me." On his way over to the baseball meeting that afternoon Rob was waylaid by Laughlin and Ware who insisted that they had something important to say to him. "Well, what is it?" demanded Rob. "You're coming back next year, aren't you?" asked Ware. "Of course, if they'll let me," Owen replied in a tone of surprise. "Why?" "We were just talking about the prospects of the teams for next year," said Ware, smiling shrewdly. "When our class goes, there'll be a pretty big hole to fill." "Oh, a few poor sticks will be left," Owen observed sarcastically. "In baseball McPherson and Ames and Patterson and I form quite a bunch. Then there's Hendry and Milliken and Buist as a foundation for the eleven. They're about as good as you find 'em. Rohrer and Wolfe are pretty respectable left-overs for the track. If any one can get new material out, Rohrer can. We might be worse off." "That's a fact," nodded Laughlin. "You've got two good captains in Hendry and Rohrer anyway." "And McPherson will be just as good," added Rob, promptly. "That makes three." "Yes, that makes three," repeated Laughlin, with a look of amusement stealing over his broad face. "Only I'm not so sure about McPherson." "Well, the baseball men are, and we ought to know," retorted Rob. "What's this important thing you wanted to tell me?" he added, turning on Ware. Ware grinned across at Laughlin. "What was it, Dave? I can't think, can you?" "I'm sure I don't know," replied the football man. "Here! let me through!" commanded Rob, who now perceived that the pair were holding him up for their own amusement. "I'm ten minutes late for the meeting already." And he charged past the two triflers toward the room at the end of the corridor. "You're late!" declared Poole, as Rob opened the door of Number 7. "The election's over." "I'm sorry. Dave and Ware tackled me outside and wouldn't let me by." "Your vote wouldn't have been any use, anyway," remarked Durand. "It was a unanimous vote." "All right, then," said Rob, looking round at the row of smiling faces. He didn't see why they should all grin so and stare at him. "I'm with the rest." "Glad to hear it," said Poole, with a wink at his neighbor. "Here's the result." Rob took the slip of paper and read with a thrill of astonishment and joy that for a few seconds deprived him of the power of speech:-- "Unanimous choice for Captain of the Nine--Robert Owen."