Meanwhile Carle was losing interest in the cause. He was often sullen, and gave small and sometimes ungracious coöperation to those who were trying to help him. The glories of school life were no less attractive to him; he was as ambitious as ever to be the shining light of the baseball season, but the seriousness of the obstacles was growing clearer. To turn square about, work hard, shun extravagant friends, husband the pennies, do without every luxury,--this was his prospective life if he held on at Seaton. Was it worth while, even for the sake of the baseball? Carle, who was possessed of nothing resembling Spartan fortitude, had his doubts. During the last week a further change set in. He became secretive where he had been confidential, and shy where he had formerly courted attention. He received important letters from his father without giving a hint of their contents; he had two interviews with the Principal, as to which the baseball people could get no information. A dealer in second-hand furniture called on him by appointment when his room-mate was absent. He cashed a check and paid certain bills. The school broke up for the short spring recess on Tuesday morning early enough to permit those fortunate ones who lived at accessible points to catch the eleven o'clock train out of town. The candidates for the nine remained behind to take advantage of the recess for practice. Comans, Carle's room-mate, who lived in Massachusetts, got off on the first train. In the afternoon Carle had his usual practice with Borland. On Wednesday the first mail brought to Robert Owen a letter from one of his correspondents in Terryville, which contained one short passage more interesting than all the rest: "They say Ned Carle is coming home to stay. His father says he's disappointed in the school; it's too expensive and they don't make the boys work as they ought to." Could it be true? Was Carle really going to leave? The baseball crowd surely knew nothing of any such plan. Rob jammed his hat on his head and hurried over to Carter 13. The door was locked; his knocks roused only hollow echoes. He ran downstairs and stampeded across the yard. At the gate he met Poole. "I was coming to see you," Rob began eagerly. "I've just had a letter from a friend of mine at home. There's something in it that'll interest you." He read the passage aloud. "What do you think of that?" he asked, lifting his eyes in serious question to the captain's face. "Rot!" exclaimed Poole, contemptuously. "I don't believe a word of it. Why, he was pitching to Borland yesterday afternoon!" "But I couldn't raise him this morning," said Rob, his eagerness somewhat chilled. "Oh, he wouldn't sneak off like that without a peep. Let's hunt him up and see what he says about it."