hard and reached the ball, failed to play it. Another serve was returned
low and hard to the left of the court, came back in a high lob almost to
the back line, sailed again across the canvas with barely an inch to
spare and finally landed in the net. Holt looked worried then. If he
lost the next ace he would have lost the set. So he tried to serve one
that would settle the matter, but only banged it into the net. The next
one Amy had no trouble with and sped it back along the side line to the
corner. But Holt was there and got it nicely and again lobbed. Amy
awaited with poised racket and Holt scurried to the rear of the court.
Then down came Amy's racket and the ball sailed across almost to the
back line and bounded high, and although Holt jumped for it, he missed
it and it lodged hard and fast in the back net.

"Byrd wins the set, 6--4! The score is one set each!"

Amy, passing the end of the net to change court, stopped a moment in
front of Clint. "How's the knee?" he asked.

"Rotten, thanks. Say, I thought you said you weren't taking chances,
Amy."

Amy grinned and doubling up the towel with which he had been wiping his
face and hands let it drive. Clint caught it and draped it over his
knees. "Go on and take your beating," he taunted.

But it was quite a different Amy who started in on that third and
deciding set. Holt never had a real chance after the first two games.
Amy took them both, the first 50-0 on his service and the second 30-50
on Holt's. After that Amy found himself and played tennis that kept the
gallery clapping and approving most of the time. It was only when he had
run the set to 4-0 that he eased up a little and allowed Holt the
consolation of one game. The next went to deuce and hung there some
time, but Amy finally captured it. By that time Holt's spirit was pretty
well broken and he put up scarcely any defence in the final game and Amy
slammed his serves over almost unchallenged and won a love game.

"Game, set and match to Byrd!" announced Westcott above the applause.
"Byrd wins the School Championship!"

Amy and Holt shook hands across the net and Clint, hobbling up, tossed
Amy the towel. "Got a conundrum for you, Amy," he said. "Want to
hear it?"

"Shoot!" replied Amy, from behind the towel.

"Why are you like a great English poet?"

"Give it up. Why, Mr. Johnsing, am I like a great English poet?"

"Because," replied Clint, edging away, "you surely can play tennis,
son!"

"Pla