"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 subst.i.tute 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 leads."

Amy had the service and secured two aces at once, Holt returning twice into the net. Then a double fault put the score 30--15. Holt got the next service and lobbed. Amy ran up and smashed it safe into the further corner of the court. Again Holt tried lobbing, and this time he got away with it, for Amy drove the ball out. With the score 40--30, Amy served a sizzling ball that Holt failed to handle and the games were 5--4. The boy beside Clint chuckled.

"He's getting down to work now," he said.

But Amy's hope of making it five--all died quickly. Holt won on his first service and although Amy returned the next he missed the back line by an inch. Holt doubled and the score was 30--15. Amy tried to draw Holt to the net and pa.s.s him across court, but Holt secured applause by a difficult back-hand return that just trickled over the net and left Amy standing. The set ended a minute later when Amy drove the service squarely into the net.

"Holt wins the first set," proclaimed Westcott, "six games to four."

The adversaries changed courts and the second set started. Again Amy won on his service and again lost on Holt's. There were several good rallies and Amy secured a round of hearty applause by a long chase down the court and a high back-hand lob that Holt failed to get. Amy was playing more carefully now, using easier strokes and paying more attention to placing. But Holt was a hard man to fool, and time and again Amy's efforts to put the ball out of his reach failed. The set worked back and forth to 4-all, with little apparent favor to either side. Then Amy suddenly dropped his caution and let himself out with a vengeance. The ninth game went to forty-love before Holt succeeded in handling one of the sizzling serves that Amy put across. Then he returned to the back of the court and Amy banged the ball into the net.

A double fault brought the score to 40-30, but on the next serve Amy again skimmed one over that Holt failed with and the games were 5-4.

"I hope he gets this," murmured Clint.

"Hope he doesn't," replied his neighbour. "I want to see a deuce set."

So, apparently, did Holt, but he was too anxious and his serves broke high and Amy killed two at the start. Then came a rally with both boys racing up and down the court like mad and the white ball dodging back and forth over the net from one side to the other. Holt finally secured the ace by dropping the ball just over the canvas. Amy, although he ran 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, pa.s.sing 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!"

"Play ten--Oh! Help! Officer, arrest this man!"

"Huh," said Clint, "that's a better joke than you ever sprung. Where are you going?"

"To get that nice pewter mug over there and then to the gym for a shower. Come along and then I'll go over with you and watch that wonderful team of yours bite holes in the turf."

Some of the fellows who remained demanded a speech when Amy accepted the trophy from Westcott.

"Fellow-citizens," responded Amy, "I can only say that this is the proudest moment of my young and blameless life. Thank you, one and all.

Where's the flannel stocking that goes with this, Harry?"

The bag couldn't be found, however, and Amy bore away his prize without it. They paused at a neighbouring court to watch for a moment a white-clad quartette of boys who were battling for the doubles championship. "Semi-final round," explained Amy. "The winners meet Scannel and Boynton tomorrow. It'll be a good match. What's the score, Hal?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Funny you didn't make a success of it!" chuckled Clint]

"Brooks and Chase have won one set and they're three--love on this, Amy," replied the boy addressed.

"Thought so," said Amy. "I picked them to meet Scannel and Boynton. And I'll bet they beat 'em, too."

"Why didn't you enter the doubles?" asked Clint.

"Oh, I had enough to do looking after the thing," replied Amy, "and getting through the singles."

Clint smiled. "I reckon the real reason was that you didn't want to hog the show and take both prizes, eh?"

"No fear of that, I guess," answered the other evasively. "Aren't you coming over to the gym with me?"

"I'll wait for you over yonder," said Clint. "Conklin says I mustn't use this leg very much. Hurry up and come back. I'll be on the stand over there."

The second was still practising when Clint reached the seats, some of them tackling the dummy in the corner of the field and others, backs and ends these, catching punts. Over on their own gridiron the 'varsity was hard at it, the two squads trotting and charging about under the shrill commands of Marvin and Carmine. Presently the rattle and b.u.mp of the dummy ceased and the tackling squad returned to the gridiron and "Boots" cleared the field for signal work. The backs and ends came panting to the bench, and Captain Turner, spying Clint in solitary grandeur, walked over to the foot of the stand.

"How's the knee, Thayer?" he asked anxiously.

"Much better, thanks," replied Clint, more optimistically than truthfully. Turner nodded.

"That's good," he said approvingly. "Go easy with it, old man, and don't take chances. Conklin says it's only a bruise, but knees are funny things. You don't want to get water on it. We need you too much, Thayer.

Come on down to the bench."

"Thanks, but I'm waiting for Byrd. Did Conklin say how long I'd be out?"

"No, but you needn't worry, I guess. A couple of days more will put you all right." Turner nodded and hurried back to where "Boots" was making the line-up. When the squad took the field Clint saw that Cupples had taken his place at right tackle and that Robbins was at left. This, he reflected with some satisfaction, was doubtless because Robbins was not quite so good as he, Clint, and the left of the 'varsity line was the strongest. Hinton's piping voice sang the signals and the squad, followed by the subst.i.tutes, began its journeys up and down the gridiron. Amy joined Clint presently, still lugging his pewter trophy, and the two boys leaned back against the seat behind them and looked on.

Clint, when the squad was near enough for him to hear the signal, translated for Amy's benefit, as: "Right half outside of left guard.

Watch it!" or "Here's a forward to Turner, Amy. There he goes! Missed it, though. That was a punk throw of Martin's."