e--that?"

"Don't be so--so plaguey enthusiastic!" gasped Clint.

"Nonsense! Grin and bear it. Think what it would mean if you were lost
to the team!"

"Oh, dry up," grumbled Clint. "How did you get on with your silly tennis
today?"

"All right. We'll finish up tomorrow, I guess. I play Kennard in the
morning. He's a snap."

"Why don't you pick out someone who can play? Don't win the tournament
too easily, Amy. They'll get onto you."

"That's so, but I can't afford to take any chances. There you are! Now
you're all right. Up, Guards, and at them!"

"I'm not a guard; I'm a tackle," corrected Clint as he experimentally
bent his knee up and down. "It does feel better, Amy. Thanks."

"Of course it does. I'm a fine little massewer. Let's go and eat."

But the next morning that knee was stiff and painful and although Amy
again administered to it, it was all Clint could do to hobble to Wendell
for breakfast. "Boots" sternly demanded an immediate examination and an
hour later Clint was bandaged about his knee like a mummy and told to
keep away from practice for several days and not to use his leg more
than he had to. He limped out of the Physical Director's room in the
gymnasium with the aid of a cane which Mr. Conklin had donated and with
a dark scowl on his face.

"Of all the mean luck!" he muttered disgustedly. "Just when I was going
well, too! Now, I suppose, Robbins will get my place, hang him! Bet you
this settles me for the rest of the season!"

CHAPTER XIII

AMY WINS A CUP

In the afternoon Clint hobbled down to the tennis courts to watch the
final match in the tournament between Amy and Holt. They were hard at it
when he arrived and half a hundred enthusiasts were looking on and
applauding. Clint didn't play tennis and thought it something of a waste
of time. But today he had his eyes opened somewhat. Amy was a brilliant
player for his years, and Holt, who was a substitute end on the varsity
football team, was scarcely less accomplished. In fact, Holt had secured
the lead when Clint reached the court and the score of the first set was
5-2 in his favour.

"Byrd hasn't found himself yet," volunteered a boy next to Clint. "He
lost two games on his service. Banged the balls into the net time after
time. He'll get down to work presently, though, I guess."

Even as Clint's informant ended there came a burst of handclapping and
Harry Westcott, who was umpiring, announced: "The games are 5--3.
Holt lead