'
example of you right before the Place games. Keep it under your
hat, see!"

This last was in the nature of a command, and Ken had always
religiously obeyed Worry. He went to his room feeling that the
matter had been decided for him. Relief, however, did not long
abide with him. He began to be torn between loyalty to Worry and
duty to himself. He felt guiltless, but he was not sure of it,
and until he was sure he could not be free in mind. Suddenly he
thought of being actually barred from the varsity, and was miserable.
That he could not bear. Strong temptation now assailed Ken and found
him weak. A hundred times he reconciled himself to Worry's command,
to Homan's point of view, yet every time something rose within him and
rebelled. But despite the rebellion Ken almost gave in. He fought off
thought of his new sweet popularity, of the glory of being Wayne's
athletic star. He fought to look the thing fairly in the face. To him
it loomed up a hundredfold larger than an incident of his baseball
career. And so he got strength to do the thing that would ease the
voice of conscience. He went straight to the coach.

"Worry, I've got to go to the directors and tell them. I--I'm sorry,
but I've got to do it."

He expected a storm of rage from Worry, but never had the coach been
so suave, so kindly, so magnetic. He called Homans and Raymond and
Weir and others who were in the house at the moment and stated Ken's
case. His speech flowed smooth and rapid. The matter under his deft
argument lost serious proportions. But it seemed to Ken that Worry
did not tell the boys the whole truth, or they would not have laughed
at the thing and made him out over-sensitive. And Ken was now growing
too discouraged and bewildered to tell them. Moreover, he was getting
stubborn. The thing was far from a joke. The cunning of the coach
proved that. Worry wound the boys round his little finger.

At this juncture Reddy Ray entered the training-house.

More than once Ken had gone to the great sprinter with confidences
and troubles, and now he began impulsively, hurriedly, incoherently,
to tell the story.

"And Reddy," concluded Ken, "I've got to tell the directors. It's
something--hard for me to explain. I couldn't pitch another game
with this hanging over me. I must--tell them--and take my medicine."

"Sure. It's a matter of principle," replied Reddy, in his soft, slow
voice. His keen eyes left Ken's pale face and met the coach's. "Worry,
I