h it out. You see I--I cuc-can't do all the
pitching, and Eliot put in Grant for the first pup-part of this game."
He was intensely annoyed because of his unusual halting and stammering
over this explanation.

"Humph! Rained, eh? That was odd; just began to rain here about half
an hour ago."

"It began to pour at Clearport right in the middle of the game,"
declared Phil. "I was just ready to relieve Grant, for he--he was sort
of--sort of sus-showing signs of weakening. Eliot had sus-started me
to warming up, but it--it began to rain, and that sus-settled it."

His wounded pride, his wretched jealousy of Grant, had led him into the
telling of an untruth, and he left the table feeling very contemptible
indeed. Certainly it was not a malicious falsehood that was liable to
do any one particular harm, but it was a falsehood just the same, and
he was ashamed.

His room was like a cage, and he found he could not read or study.
What were they saying about the game in town? What were they saying
about the pitching of Rodney Grant? Despite the rain, some of the
fellows would gather after supper at the postoffice or Stickney's store
to talk it over. This talk after a victorious game had ever held a
keen delight for Phil, and it was rarely that he missed being on hand
to take part in it.

"I must get out!" he cried suddenly. "I'll just wander down street;
maybe I'll meet some fellow who won't be all done up in Grant."

Putting on an old raincoat and securing an umbrella, he left the house
and started down the street. At the first corner he paused, for if he
continued straight down Main Street he would have to pass Roger Eliot's
home, and surely he had no desire by any chance to run upon Roger. A
drizzling rain was falling, and twilight was coming on. Turning, he
cut through Cedar Street and down Willow to avoid passing Urian Eliot's
fine house.

On his way he passed a house no less pretentious than that of the
Eliots; it was the home of Lemuel Hayden, whose only son, Bernard, had
been compelled to leave Oakdale because of his jealous efforts and
lying and plotting to injure Ben Stone, whom he bitterly hated. The
boys of the town had talked that matter over many times, and it was
universally conceded that Bernard's unrestrained hatred of Stone and
plotting for the boy's injury had led him at last into a pit of his own
digging and brought upon him nothing more than just retribution.

A strange and most unpleas