knows you're all shot to pieces. I've
seen it happen, me boy."

"Oh, I dare say, Danny, but don't let's start the losing streak until
next year. I want to manage a winning team. Well, so long. See about
some cooler weather tomorrow, will you?"

"I will so," replied the little trainer gravely. "I'll start
arrangements to once."

Meanwhile Tim Otis, again arrayed in grey flannels and a pair of tan,
rubber-soled shoes rather the worse for a hard summer, was on his way
along the Row to the last of the five buildings set end to end on the
brow of the hill. As he swung in between Wendell and Torrence--the
gymnasium stood behind Wendell, and, save for the Cottage, as the
principal's residence was called, was the only building out of
alignment--he saw the entrances to dormitories and Main Hall thronged
with youths who evidently preferred the coolness of outdoors to the heat
of the rooms, while others were seated on the grass along the walk. It
almost seemed that the entire roster of some one hundred and eighty
students was before him. He answered many hails, but declined all
inducements to tarry, keeping on his way past Main Hall and Hensey until
Billings was reached. There he turned in and tramped to the right along
the first floor corridor to the open door of Number 6, a room on the
back of the building that looked out upon the tennis courts and, beyond,
the football and baseball fields. From the fact that no sound came from
the room, Tim decided that Don Gilbert had, after all, and in spite of
what Tim called a "hunch," failed to arrive. But when he entered his
mistake was instantly apparent. A maroon-coloured cushion hurtled toward
him, narrowly missing the green shade of the droplight on the study
table and, thanks to prompt and instinctive action on the part of Tim,
sailed on, serene and unimpeded, into the corridor. Whereupon Tim
uttered a savage whoop of mingled joy and vengeance and, traversing the
length of the room in four leaps, hurled himself upon the occupant of
the window-seat.

CHAPTER II

IN NUMBER SIX

FOR a long minute confusion and the noise of battle reigned supreme.
Then, in response to a sudden yelp of pain from Don, Tim drew off,
panting and grinning. Don was extending a left hand, funereally wrapped
in a black silk handkerchief, further along the window-seat and away
from the scene of action.

"Hello!" said Tim. "What's the matter with that?"

"Hurt it a little," replied Don.

"Wel