sed out through the gate and turned down
the street, dully conscious of the continued rejoicing uproar behind
him. Alternately buoyed by hope and weighted by fear, he had passed
the most trying hour of his life, and now in his bosom he carried a
heart that seemed sick and faint and scarcely able to pump the blood
through his veins.

"I was a fool to listen to Rackliff," he muttered; and over and over he
kept repeating, "I was a fool, a fool!"

Suddenly apprehensive lest he should be overtaken by some one who might
observe his all-too-evident wretchedness, he quickened his steps and
made straight for his home. He did not enter the house, and as he
slipped through the yard he cast sidelong glances toward the windows,
hoping his mother might not be looking out. In the carriage house he
sat down on the box beside his motorcycle.

"I was a fool--an awful fool!" he kept repeating.

Presently, his mind running over the game, feature by feature, he began
to realize that he had not felt as much elation as he would have
supposed might come to him on witnessing Springer's misfortune in the
fifth inning. He had imagined it would afford him unreserved
exultation to see Phil batted out of the box, but his rejoicing had
been most remarkably alloyed by an emotion of another sort, which even
now he could not understand. And, as he sat there, slowly but surely
he began to perceive the real reason for Springer's failure.

"It was lack of control," he finally exclaimed. "That's just it. He
was pitching all right until they broke his nerve by three hits in
succession. After that he couldn't find the pan to save his life. If
he'd been able to put the ball where he wished and steady down a
little, he might have stopped that batting rally and had the
satisfaction of pitching the game through to a successful finish. Now,
Rod Grant gets all the glory."

He was still sitting there, obsessed by his dismal meditations, when a
shadow appeared in the doorway, and he looked up to see Rackliff, the
stub of a cigarette in his fingers, gazing at him. For a full minute,
perhaps, neither boy spoke; and then Herbert, tossing the smoking stub
over his shoulder, sunk his hands deep in his pockets and uttered two
words:

"Hard luck."

"Rotten," said Roy. "But you certainly were all to the punk in your
judgment about that game."

"Oh, I don't know," objected Herbert, leaning against the side of the
doorway and crossing his tan-shod feet.