EVERY great fitting school has its famous debating society. The Philomathean Society of Phillips Andover is a historic feature of that school.

The attendance at "Philo" had been unusually large that winter term of which we write. John, who had "cut" the first meetings of the 'term was now in his seat every Friday evening, when Lambkin, the dignified president, with the gravity of a Solon, would rap the wooden gavel on the table, with these words:

"Gentlemen! The meeting will now come to order. The first exercise of the evening is the reading of the minutes of the previous meeting. Gentlemen !" (rap, rap) "order, if you please!"

So far so good. But, from that time, to keep those turbulent boys in order would have taxed a greater parliamentarian than generally sat in the honored chair. The members of Philo only waited to be lighted by any spark, to go off like a cracker.

Philo was born in 1825. We do not think that the Honorable Horatio B. Hackett, or the venerable Ray Palmer, founders of the "Immortal Philo," would have been ashamed of the rousing debates which their successors held that winter. John threw himself into these weekly discussions with spirit. He began to be considered quite a formidable speaker, and "bids" were frequently made to him by leaders in their turn, to debate on their side of the seething question of the evening. These debates were spirited and studious; quite up to a high standard in the polemic achievements of boys. On the whole, the words of an early member might have been said of Philo many years. ago, at the time of our story: "This society is a noble institution. Talent is here brought out, mind is here cultivated, and taste refined." As much, could easily be said to-day.

But toward the end of this term the meetings became charged with a feverish fluid. The debates grew heated and bitter. Members hustled each other rancorously as they entered or left the hall. The president had all he could do to keep order. He was evidently in sad need of a sergeant-at-arms to force refractory members into silence. The Critique at the end of each meeting was generally marked by exuberant praise or unstinted blame. It happened once or twice that the boy who performed that unpopular duty for the evening was soused in snow by unknown hands before he reached his room.

The time-honored decorum of the meetings was often defied by a derogatory epithet that started from an obscure corner, was taken up and hurled back with scorn, then supplemented by another, until amid these mimic lightnings, the thunder of the gavel descended, and for the moment there was sullen peace. It was at this time that the famous motion was put and carried to exclude all members under fourteen years of age. This unprecedented outrage convulsed the school. A visitor at one of these meetings might have supposed the academy to be the receptacle of a motley crowd of youth, each of whom hated the other. But not at all! These were only the premonitory symptoms of the last Philo election of the year.

At these periods the implacable feud between the boys who roomed in Commons, and those who roomed in town, broke out. It was the old Radical and Tory party in different dress. Here the Commons boy represented the sturdy Radical, the "Townie" the aristocratic Tory, and both fought it out again for the fiftieth time, when election day came around.

Now all the victories and disappointments of the year were concentrated in this last struggle. The election was to be held at two o'clock on the last Saturday of the winter term in the lower chapel. Both parties expected confidently to win. What made this fight the more virulent, was the fact that almost the same tickets were said to be in the field as those offered at the last election. The Commons' boys had put in Lambkin as the last president. They had also carried the treasurer and the executive officers, but had been defeated on vice-president and secretary. Sunshine, who had been previously nominated against Lambkin for president, was now leading his ticket again. So high ran the feeling that a town boarder did not even recognize a Commoner on the street.

John had watched the wire pulling, the filibustering, the secret caucuses, the electioneering, the class politicians, with quiet interest. Sunshine would have lost caste, had he spoken to John at all, nowadays. The two opposite ends of the political pole were content to wink at each other good-naturedly as they passed. Both knew that, election over, the flames of discord would be extinguished, and the ashes of coldness blown out of the window.

But Lambkin was a class politician of a good order. He was not coarse, nor was he "up to" questionable party tricks. He was as straightforward as a yard stick. He took popularity as a gift. He did not court it. And there is the secret of your popularity : never to seek it, nor to recognize it too readily. The Commons' boys rallied around Lambkin naturally. Who could better represent their cause? The Father of the Milktoast Club looked confident of victory as the decisive day approached.

One Friday evening, coming from a good milktoast supper, Lambkin linked his arm in John's with unusual affectionateness.

"Look here, Strong," said Father Lambkin, "look here! we are going to run you for vice-president."

"Do you want to get left?" asked John in the utmost astonishment.

"That's just what we don't want. I've invited two or three of the committee up to your room to talk it over. You'll have to do just what we tell you!"

John made a gesture that seemed almost like wincing, but this was not perceived.

"You see," continued Lambkin, when they had reached John's room, and three fellows with a mysterious air had slipped, in, "we've got to beat them this time. The boys put me up, and it's my duty to Commons to run. Now you're about the strongest man we've got, only you haven't been here long enough to run for president, so I have to take it. If your name goes on the ticket, we're all agreed we're going to win."

"Are you sure?" asked John doubtfully. To tell the truth he was quite moved at the honor.

"You bet!" said one of the committee, "we've canvassed English and Latin Commons and they have agreed to vote for you right through."

"I don't think I'm exactly the man you want. I haven't had much expe---" --

"Nonsense!" interrupted one of the committee. "It doesn't require any. It's the easiest office of the lot. All you have to do is to get up and take the chair when Lambkin wants to spout."

John smiled.

"Now you can't go back on us, old fellow," urged Lambkin. "The whole scheme will fall through if you don't run."

"You'll have to run me. I'm no good running myself."

"You trust us for that! Is it agreed?" Lambkin held out his hand.

"All right! " said John.

Thereupon the four shook hands with him as solemnly as if he had accepted the Temperance nomination for the lieutenant-governorship of Massachusetts.

"Now don't you let it out," whispered the committee-man, "but here are the tickets with your name down; we had them printed yesterday."

John read the slip in a dazed way. It was headed by the Philomathean motto:

He could read no more, for the throbbing of his heart and blurring of his eyes, but he did not suppose the other fellows would understand why he was so moved by this small thing. Oh, dear Andover! The country boy now felt himself on the honor list of the old Academy. The quiet student valued this fleeting distinction the more because he expected it so little. John was the only boy in Andover who was surprised at this nomination, which the Radicals in Philo confirmed that night.

But now the important Saturday had arrived. Nods and winks and smiles and paper missiles had been hotly exchanged between the respective leaders of each rival faction during the morning recitations. Mystery and resolve seemed to settle in the air. The old hacked benches had the air of whispering confidences and of suggesting sure ways of getting ahead. They were experienced, not to say blasé benches, able to tell---how much?--- if they would ; anxious perhaps to say, "Oh! the generations of young plotters that we have seen, just as eager, just as feverish, just as sure that the world hung upon their maneuvers and political astuteness."

Many a boy has developed at these hotly-contested Philo elections a scarcely enviable reputation as a strategist. Boys will forgive a fault of almost any kind, but never the trickery of the school politician. It follows him through life.

Both parties had agreed that the polls should be open from two till half-past two o'clock on that eventful Saturday afternoon. This was another new rule, passed in Philo by a handsome majority. The printed tickets had been distributed that morning for the first time, the ringleaders having kept them back for a greater effect. John's name on the Commons ticket was a severe blow to the opposing party. The fight had become simply one between the poor and the rich --- a fight as old as humanity itself.

"I was in hopes they wouldn't think of that Strong," said one of Sunshine's party, twirling a slight cane with one hand and burying his other in his broad-checked suit.

"I don't see how that feller takes so," complained his intimate friend. "He don't smoke. He's poor as blazes. He soups on Uncle Jim. He" ---

"No, he doesn't. Give him his due. He's square, he is, though I don't cotton to him. But we'll fix the lot this time." This prophecy was accompanied and followed by a deadly wink.

"Is it all arranged ? Sure?"

"You just wait! Sh!" The two with a swagger passed into the hall where morning prayers were held.

"Don't you say another word!" said one of the Commons Committee to Lambkin. "We've got 'em this time. We'll beat 'em by six votes sure. I've got it all down on paper. Every one has been pledged. Here they come! They've got their tickets all ready. Keep cool, old fellow, keep cool!"

The Committee mingled with a troop of excited boys who massed themselves on one side of the hall glaring at their opponents on the other.

"Now, boys," whispered the chairman of the Committee to his group, "it will be two o'clock in just five minutes. Get together, and vote right off, to be sure. Don't let them fool you out of it! We are sure of them this time." Every new-corner was button-holed and treated to the same exhortation.

When John arrived, at just three minutes before two, he was greeted heartily.

"Have you your ticket ready?" asked the chairman anxiously. "Here's one!"

"Yes, but of course I sha'n't vote. You don't expect a man to vote for himself?"

"You've got to. If every one on the ticket refused, we'd lose. It's too close. Bottle up your nonsense, Strong, and put that ballot in!"

Instantly, John was the center of an excited group that proceeded to impress upon him the grave necessity of his voting for himself as well as for the rest of his ticket. It seemed to John a new ideal of personal delicacy; yet he did not want to be fussy and priggish.

"It's politics!" urged the chairman. "Don't you know politics make everything --- um -different?"

"I suppose so," admitted John. He silently folded his ticket.

Two o'clock struck.

"Now, boys, ready!" The call rang from all the leaders. The boys surged up to the ballotbox, guarded by representatives of both factions. But the Tories had gotten in ahead, and were blocking up the way with exasperating coolness and slowness.

Now don't rush, fellows! There is plenty of time! Take it easy!" cried a Commons leader. Then came the yells:

"Hurrah for Lambkin!"

"Bully for Strong!"

"Whoop her up for Dalstan!"

"Sunshine to the front!"

There was not much doubt which was the confident party.

But if a Commons observer had been close enough, he would have seen sinister looks exchanged between the two fellows who occupied the front seat on a certain Lawrence sleighride. He would have seen them anxiously consulting their watches, shoving the Commons boys back, and looking forward to the door, as if waiting for something to happen.

"It's all right," whispered one in the ear of the other, "I hear 'em at it. Don't you worry" ---

"Fire! Fire!! FIRE!!! Latin Commons on fire!"

The cry pealed through the campus and down the street.

Cling---clang---clang! rang out the school bell with that peculiar and terrible vibration it only takes to itself at the time of such a catastrophe. The boys in the hall stared at each other. For an instant those excited voters seemed as uncertain what to do as a setter between a bone and a gunshot.

It might have been noticeable that a few of the boys were not so astonished at this alarm as they should have been.

"Man the engine!" a cry rang from their midst. It was the conspirator in the checked suit who yelled. He had but just put his watch in his pocket.

Lambkin, who was the captain of the suction hose, lost no time in the general perplexity.

"What house is it?" he called to the boy who had opened the door and given the alarm.

"No. 6 on fire !" Somehow, to a careful ear the tone would not have seemed genuine; but what Commons boy thought of that?

"It's my room!" cried one.

"It's mine!" echoed another, in a phrensy.

"It's mine!" shouted the third wildly. They stampeded the hall.

Duty was clear, and Lambkin followed it.

"Come with me, fellows, to the engine! Double quick!"

With a rush, and a mad scamper, the Commoners dashed out to the scene of the conflagration.

"We might as well vote before we go, boys!" said the arch-Tory, stopping the flight of his own party. "We'll get there in time. 'Tisn't our funeral you stay there!" to the two Commons boys who were one half of the committee at the polls, "and see that we vote fair!"

With wonderful rapidity they threw in their ballots, as their names were checked off, and hurried out. The four boys with the precious box were left alone.

Cries of "Fire! fire!" were now heard from all directions.

"Shall we go?" asked a Tory of a Commoner.

"I don't think we ought," was the slow reply.

"But what's the use of staying here alone?" "I suppose, according to the by-laws, the polls must be open until the time is up."

"Oh! bosh the time!"

"I guess there are plenty there, we'll stay. You can go." The sturdy Commoner rather enjoyed the other's impatience, even at the expense of his own. So these four officers of the occasion waited eagerly until the clock tolled the half-hour, then they rushed madly from the chapel with their box, and the last Philo election was legally over.

As the boys who roomed in Commons dashed out, following Lambkin, an ominous cloud of black smoke greeted their eyes. The wind blew from the Milktoast Club in direct line down the row of gray dormitories. If No. 6 went they were all doomed. The danger seemed imminent. It is true nobody would have been very sorry; but property was property ---even the Latin Commons. And fires do not stop where they are told to, and a general blaze on the Hill would have been no joke.

"'Rah, for the engine!" yelled Lambkin, making for the engine-house opposite the old pump.

The Principal, aroused by the cries and bells, appeared upon the scene. He was, ex officio, the head of the engine company. His scholars were as proud to be under his guidance in trundling "Old Phillips" out and spouting water up to some third-story window on training afternoon, as to follow his guidance in the mazes of an abstruse demonstration. Lambkin will always count it one of the chief honors of his school life, that he was captain of the spout under Uncle Jim.

"Where is the fire? Get her right out, boys!"

"No. 6, Latin Commons, sir," answered Lambkin, breathing heavily, and pointing to the smoke.

With fifty boys at the ropes the engine rolled out as quickly and as easily as a baby-carriage. The boys bent to their business, and they were at the fire in no time.

"This is a false alarm, gentlemen," cried the Principal, who was not to be trifled with at a fire any more than in recitation. "Why was I called out to see a fence burn? Who set this afire?" Uncle Jim's majestic form swelled at the affront. As every boy's heart beat the faster when he crossed the threshold of the Senior classroom door that bore the mystic No. 9," so every heart beat the slower when that commanding eye swept from the boys to the bonfire, and back again to the boys.

Some one had evidently emptied a half a barrel of kerosene on a pile of shavings at the foot of the fence by the last building in Latin Commons. A blaze had flared up with black smoke. Some of the fellows had exaggerated the alarm --- was it merely for fun? The bells rung, the Fire Department aroused, Uncle Jim summoned from his empty study---

"The truth! I demand the truth!" exclaimed the Principal to the school. The fire was forgotten, the bells were silent. The situation was strained.

"Look up there !" cried a voice, breaking in. "Look!"

It was John Strong who spoke. He pointed with his stick at a bright flame perched upon the roof of No. 6.

"Man the brakes!" roared the Principal. The school rushed to the engine and to the Shawsheen cistern. Here was a case of real fire. Only a few shavings soaked with oil, and only blown by the wind upon the old, dry roof, but what mischief might have come of it! The quick eye of the quiet boy had averted a serious conflagration.

But before the pump was got to work, a well-known head emerged from the scuttle on the roof, and a figure glided to the menacing flame. A quick jerk, and it was thrown down.

"Dalstan !" cried the crowd, "Daistan!"

Dalstan roomed in No. 6, and had evidently been up there before, for his agility was remarkable, and when the danger was over, the school roared at his timely appearance. The boys remembered too well that the spring before John entered school, Dalstan used to climb up on the roof of No. 6 midnight after midnight, and sit astride the ridgepole, making night hideous with a cracked violin. Missiles could not dislodge him. He perched immovable, while the indignation of Latin Commons, and indeed of the whole neighborhood ran high. Finally, a deputation of citizens waited upon Uncle Jim for relief.

"Sir!" said Uncle Jim to Dalstan in his sternest tones, "sir, you may deliver to me your musical instrument

"Which?" asked the nonplussed boy, "I have thirteen, sir!

When the engine was put away, Lambkin bethought him for the first time of the Philo election. The Commons made for the hall to vote. It was empty. The clock struck three.

"I am so sorry," said Sunshine, when they had found him. "It's too bad. I suppose we've got to go in!"

"Go in?" cried the Commons in amazement. "Yes!" interrupted the complacent Tory; " haven't you fellers heard? I understand that the committee has just formally counted the ballots cast by the end of the allotted time. We got thirty-two votes, and you only cast three. You see we elected our ticket straight!"

Thus fell the blow of this political coup d'état upon the Commons and their candidates. The wrangling began hotly. Nightfall only finished it. Two teachers acting as arbitrators decided that technically the Commons had defeated themselves.

But when the fire was finally laid at the door of, the new vice-president of Philo, its embers proved too hot for him, and he resigned his office. Uncle Jim never knew who burnt that fence. Sometimes a school does its own punishing, and it is well that it should be so.

John Strong had not noticed the unusually kind look that Uncle Jim had given him when he observed the flame on the roof. He was too much absorbed in his discovery. In the hot political discussions of that day, he did not take much part. He was disappointed, but not overcome by his defeat. To be trusted by the boys and nominated, seemed a great experience.

That night, when he went into his dark room after taking care of his furnace, the match that he struck flared upon an envelope laid against the match-safe and addressed to himself. A sum of money fell from the envelope --- small, but large to him. Who sent it? Whence did it come? What did it mean? John did not know what waves of kindness could sweep over the heart of an unapproachable man---yet was he not the man whom every boy that walked the streets of Andover dared to call "Uncle?"

Long afterwards, John suspected the truth. These fluctuations in Uncle Jim's feeling toward the boy whom he did not understand, were among the mysteries of his strong character.

AT last the long step between winter and spring was over. These six weeks of snow, of slush, of mud, of raw winds, of flurry, of little sunshine, of hope long delayed, of promise never performed, of colds and rubber boots, of impatience and of endurance, were a little more hated in Andover than in any other part of New England. To read of greenness and blossoms in New Jersey, and to be unable at the time to detect with a microscope the first symptoms of them in Massachusetts is aggravating for Phillips boys. It is much more aggravating for Abbott academy girls. The Fem. Sems. look forward to no part of their thorough course of study more eagerly than to Gray's Botany.

But now the warm sun had burst upon Andover hills and valleys to stay. Its lingering coquetry was over. It dried up the walks; it coaxed pussy-willows from their hiding-places; it commanded the chestnuts to unfold broad leaves and prepare their white plumes; it whispered to the birds who opened their throats and sang mad carols to please their new mates; it smiled upon the dark pines and upon the soft meadows by the Shawsheen River. Then the glorious old sun, satisfied with its work, took John Strong by the hand and led him down through the oaks, back of English Commons, down the road, over the river, under the railroad bridge, until he rested at the foot of Indian Ridge, panting and thanking God that he could walk so far.

John was intoxicated with this his first spring walk. He sat down near the road and looked into the river and the woods. There glittered one or two white points beyond the little valley. These were the monuments in the Old South Cemetery, now bathed in light. At John's feet ferns were trying their best to uncurl. The boy looked from the cemetery to the struggling fronds, and gravely wondered how it was possible that anything could die. Then he remembered that on the winter night of Doc.'s death he had wondered that anything could live.

What a thing of life is sunshine ! Hot rays shot down this Saturday afternoon. It was the last day of April, and John, who had been brought up in a cold New Hampshire village, thought it the warmest April afternoon he had ever seen. His feet were in the sun, but he sat in the shade. He was alone. He had never walked so far in all his life. As he sat there, his lameness, his hardships were forgotten---only the beautiful of life remained. John was in a state of exhilaration. It was as if he had breathed nitrous oxide. Was this ecstasy purely physical, or was it like that of a disembodied spirit? John was a delicate boy, and he sometimes asked himself such questions.

Now, while he sat there in the sun, his soul floating away in a pleasant revery, a chattering and laughing and screaming awakened him. Instinctively he drew back. He did not wish to be seen or to see. Such solitude was too rare to be thrown away. John plunged like a frightened animal as fast as his feet could carry him, up the gravelly side of the hill, into a little glade, and up again, until he stood trembling in the path on the top of Indian Ridge. He listened intently. He looked along the path in both directions; as far as he could see no one was visible. He heaved a short sigh of content. The most beautiful spot in Andover was still his.

He began to walk slowly here and there, searching for a dry resting place. Deeper in the woods he found a well-trodden path which he followed with the expectant longing that woodland explorers feel. It led up into a hollow basin. From the south and west there was an opening through the pines. Spring had sought out this place and had clothed it with grass and warmth and moss. A thick bush of elderberry caught John's eye. He sauntered up and looked behind it. Ah, there was the cosiest place in all the world! He crept in gently. The ground was covered with pine needles, dry and warm. John threw himself down contentedly. He could see the open space, but could not himself be seen. His eyes wandered here and there delightedly. What freedom was this!

Suddenly he caught sight of a single white anemone growing within reach of his hand. It was at the sunny edge of the bush, and under it. The delicate petals were tinged with pink. There was but one flower on the stem. John stretched out his hand as if to pick it. Then he drew back. He would let it grow until he went home. It would not wither then. A gentle wind came, and the lovely anemone swayed its head as if it thanked the boy for leaving it a little longer. John gazed upon it rapturously. It was the first anemone of the spring for him. Perhaps it was the first in all that country round. Of course there must be a first somewhere. John studied it, blew upon it, that it might bow before him again. Then he loved it.

He now lay upon his back, peering into the blue of the sky between the branches of the bush and of the trees. He faintly heard some catbirds scolding each other. He looked at the anemone again. It seemed to nod to him. He nodded back as if it had been a live thing. Then a resinous drowsiness overtook him, and he fell asleep.

He could not have slept long, when he was awakened by the sound of footsteps. He opened his eyes dreamily and lazily. He did not stir. At first he thought that the interruption was a dream-sound, for he saw nothing; the steps had stopped. He was closing his eyes once more, when he distinctly heard the cracking of twigs. Pretty soon a gray figure grew into sight. It strolled with averted head looking for something on the ground. It was the slight figure of a young girl. John Strong hardly moved a muscle as the girl walked straight toward him into the sunny, open space. But still she held her face bent down. She was looking for wild flowers. John gave a start. It was Miss Elva Selfrich, the girl of whom he had hardly dared to think.

He had not spoken to her since the night of the Levee. He had only passed her now and then on the street, and had given her his best bow. Beyond this John was too honorable to intrude himself upon her, even in his thoughts. But now as he recognized her, a fear swept over him. He really wished that she might not see him, that he could not see her. A blush of embarrassment flushed his face, that, unknown to her, he should watch her. He felt it a discourtesy that he could not help. He hoped she would turn and go away. And still he looked.

The young lady sauntered leisurely. She enjoyed the quiet spot and the solitude. She made a motion to sit down, but the thought that the other girls would troop up and spoil her peace deterred her. Then the teacher's whistle might sound at any moment, to call the gentle flock together. Besides, this was the first botanizing trip, and Miss Marks, their teacher, had offered a prize for the first anemone brought to her. The girls had dispersed in an exciting hunt. Elva slowly and carefully sought out the places where the anemone ought to grow. She followed the little opening around, and was now coming surely to the bush behind which John was hidden. John was in a quandary. He didn't know whether to arise and bow and flee, or to trust to luck that she would pass him by. He decided on the latter course and waited breathlessly. Miss Elva drew nearer. As she walked slowly with her eyes glued to the ground, she gave a little cry. She had espied at a short distance the single anemone that John had left, nodding in the bright air. With an exclamation she rushed upon it.

"Oh! you little beauty. Oh! you dear little beauty." Then she started back. She did not scream, she was too frightened. She groaned "Oh-h!" She had seen the outline of a man behind the bush. She could not stir. She was fastened to the ground with terror.

"O, please, Miss, don't! Don't be frightened. Oh! I am so sorry it is I. Don't you know me?" John had jumped to his feet. He looked very handsome as he stood before her. The young lady paled and flushed and paled again:

"Oh! how could you?" she said thoughtlessly.

"And, if you'll excuse me, Miss Selfrich, I didn't."

John spoke manfully enough, but in fact the sensitive boy was keenly hurt. Elva Selfrich was quick enough to perceive this.

"Of course," she said gently; "how could you know I was coming?"

"I thought that I was out of the way here. I didn't suppose that I should bother anybody. I came to --- er - think," said John, wondering what he did come for.

"Did you? I didn't; I came to botanize." The anemone at their feet shrunk at this reply.

"It is a long time since I have talked to you " --- The boy plunged boldly in, and then stopped short with discomfiture. What did she care if he never talked to her again? "That is, since the Levee --- I mean " ---

"Yes. That was a hard night for you." Then, with a slight flush, "I am glad it wasn't any other Academy boy under that bush. I shall never forget or forgive you the fright you gave me, sir!"

John did not understand this girlish nonsense. He was about to apologize again, when Elva gave him a smile, so sweet and so reassuring that it bewildered him. John was not used to talking to girls. He had no sisters, and with this young lady whom he liked so much, he felt himself at a loss, such as forward, over-experienced young men will not understand.

"I --- I hope you're quite well."

As John ventured this original remark, he wiped the dew of agony from his brow. Elva was a kind-hearted girl, and now comprehending at last that the poor boy suffered from the awkwardness of the situation, she hastened to say easily:

"Yes, thank you, I'm very well. I always am; and ---I'm very glad to see you, although I suppose it is against the rules."

"I will go," John hastened to say chivalrously.

An amused expression flitted across the eyes of the pretty girl, though her lips remained grave. She was not used to precisely this ideal of honor between Academy boys and Fem. Sems. There were no traditions extant to such effect. She made a graceful motion with her hand.

"Perhaps it wouldn't be wrong if I staid a minute?"

"A minute?" said Elva. "No, I don't think it would. I'll go back to Miss Marks presently. I must get my anemone first. Besides, it isn't my fault that I found you."

And now John found it easy enough to talk.

He wondered how he ever could have felt embarrassed before her. Her well-bred sympathy put him immediately at his ease. It seemed to him that she had a peculiar power in understanding him, and in drawing him out.

"And so you take many long walks now, Mr. Strong?"

"O, yes!" answered the boy, with a toss of his brown head; "I am so much better. I never walked before. This is the longest walk I ever took. It is glorious to be like other boys. Perhaps" --

"Perhaps you will get well?" interrupted Elva, "I am sure you will."

"God knows," said John solemnly.

"I am sure," said Elva simply, "He'll do it if He can."

People speak of religious matters instinctively in Andover. It is natural to the place. Many a young student thinks that to achieve a position piety must be flaunted about. Many a girl discovers that a sacred topic will please her teacher. But with this boy and girl it was different. They were both too genuine --- and as for John, he was too retiring --- to touch on religious matters too easily or too often. With instinctive reserve they silenced the deep chord to which both hearts had, for that one moment, vibrated.

"I understand from Mr. Mansfield," continued Elva, after a little pause, and with a slight blush, "that you are quite a ball-player."

"O, no! It does me good to pitch. I think the exercise has helped me. I pitch to get well ---if I can."

"Will you play on the nine?"

"I haven't the time," answered John quietly. "You see, it's different with me; I have to study and live, too."

"Live?" asked the girl vaguely.

"Support myself," explained John, coloring.

"Do you support yourself?" asked Elva, after a moment's hesitating silence.

"Why, yes; I have to, of course. I always have." John said this so modestly, making neither a disgrace nor a parade of his poverty, that Elva's bright, light heart was touched. Elva had always had all the money she needed --- pretty clothes, pretty things; she had never known in all her life what it meant to desire some one of the common comforts of life desperately, or need it bitterly, and have to say, "I can't have it ; I must do without." She looked at John with gentle perplexity. Her eye caught the poor quality of his clothes, their awkward rural fit ; perhaps she had never noticed this before. She could not understand what poverty meant; what biting, scraping, suffering poverty like John Strong's must mean. But she had the womanly instinct and tender imagination that go far to supply the place of experience, and she looked at John, and her sweet young face quivered a little.

"Too bad!" she said, under her breath, "I am so sorry."

"Squee-ee! skwieck ! te- sk -- sk squee-ek!" A very feminine attempt to blow a masculine tin whistle quavered along the ridge. The sound might have been a quarter of a mile off, or only a hundred feet.

"Oh ! I must go ; it is too bad. It is Miss Marks. When we have to go back she blows the whistle. At least, Mr. Strong," said Elva, with a pretty look, "at least, sir, you will pick me my anemone?"

John stooped. If he had only foreseen that this drooping pink bell was to be hers, how much more would he have loved it! He bent upon one knee and picked the fresh flower, which did not seem to shrink now, but bowed toward him gladly. John could have touched the flower to his lips on its journey from the grass to Miss Elva's hand. This sentimental thought was but a foolish flash. Of course he did nothing of the kind. But he did offer the single anemone to Miss Selfrich after a right knightly fashion, on one knee, and she did receive it with such a sweet smile that ---

"Miss Selfrich ! I am surprised. Sir, are you a member of Phillips Academy? You shall be reported to Dr. Tyler. You may retire, sir! Miss Elva, you may come with me!"

Discovered in this unconventional attitude, John jumped up with flushed face, while Elya started back, still holding to her precious flower. Miss Marks advanced upon the guilty couple. Her bonnet shook, but she controlled herself admirably. Her voice vibrated with displeasure. Two or three girls now appeared, and to judge by their suppressed giggling, were not so much shocked at the discovery of the young man as a member of the Fem. Sem. is taught to be.

"Is this interview preconcerted?" The teacher's gloved forefinger pointed austerely at John, while her severe voice was projected toward Elva.

"No, ma'am; I was alone. I had gone to sleep here. I didn't know it. It was a great surprise, I assure you." John turned to explain. This mollified matters. Elva gave him a grateful glance.

"Your name, sir? You may go, and see that it does not occur again."

"See," said Elva, rushing up to her botanical instructress. "I found it ---the first anemone! Will you please tell us its botanical name? I'll analyze it to-night."

The other girls crowded around the surprised flower with cries of ecstasy. The good teacher had met her hobby, and John was saved.

"Yes, young ladies," she continued, with a change of tone, "it is the nemorosa, of the family ranunculaceœ. It is also called the windflower. You will notice that it has but one flower, which has six petals, or sepals, rather. This is a very purply-pink specimen. The nemorosa has an involucre of" ---

But John heard no more. He had passed beyond the lecture.

He was walking down the eastern slope of Indian Ridge, making his way through the woods, over the gravelly slide toward the street, when a sudden sound stopped him. It seemed like a cry of distress, nay, like cries of distress. John listened. The cries redoubled; they became shrieks. They were pitched in a high, piercing key; they could only come from women. They could only come from the ladies he had just left. John dashed back up the slope with all his speed. He dug his stick into the ground to help him along. The cries increased as he drew, nearer. Parting the branches, he plunged panting into the open glade. Had Indian Ridge evolved an Indian? or, what was more probable, a tramp? John stopped and looked around. The ladies were there, in an excited, shrieking group. The tramp he did not see.

"Where is he?" cried John. "Where is he? Which way did he go,? How was he dressed? How tall? I'll catch him. I'll thrash him!"

John flourished his stick bravely, looking around vainly for the foe. At his appearance, Miss Marks swallowed a shriek with a desperate gulp, and tried to speak. By far the coolest of the group was Elva, and catching John's eye, she pointed unsteadily to the ground, and managed to ejaculate:

"There he is, oh! Do kill him!"

John's eyes followed the young lady's gesture. Prone upon the ground, he lay, nearly six feet long ---a black and writhing object.

"It's a snake! A horrid snake!" cried the girls in chorus.

"It is a very disagreeable serpent," said Miss Marks, recovering her dignity. As John approached with caution, grasping his stick with a firm hand, the snake curled itself into a coil, raised its head, and regarded the young man mildly. It did not breathe flames, or shoot out forked tongues, or hiss, or spring with venomous leap as snakes generally do in novels. This was an Andover snake, and as harmless as an exploded doctrine. It looked at John sluggishly, but with a gentlemanly expression as if it were trying to shake hands. The sunshine had warmed it into benevolence. Undoubtedly, hearing the ladies' flute-like voices, it had crept out from its hiding-place with the very best of intentions. Snakes are proverbially fond of music. How could John kill such an innocent and confiding creature?

"He's perfectly harmless, ladies!"

"Oh, no, no! Kill him! kill "---

"But why don't you leave him here?" suggested John. "It's easier to walk away than to kill him."

"I can't walk!" cried one of the girls. "I'm rooted to the spot!" There was nothing else to do, and with a few blows of his stick, John dispatched the wondering and inoffensive monster. The girls covered their eyes and turned their backs while the execution was in progress. Their shrieks gradually subsided to a few gasps.

"Is it really dead, young man?" ventured Miss Marks. "We're under great obligation to you, sir." John bowed modestly. ,It was a brave deed," continued Miss Marks.

"It was heroic," sobbed a feeble blonde.

"St. George and the Dragon!" whispered another.

"It was very manly and --- a --- convenient," said Elva sensibly.

The teacher, who had now fully recovered herself, gathered the scattering girls about her, and, mindful of the rare opportunity, pointed to the corpse:

"This, young ladies, is a common black snake, a large specimen of extraordinary development. It is known to scientists as the coluber constrictor. You may hereafter speak of it by this name. It is fond of basking in the sun. It feeds on mice, toads, frogs, moles, lizards, and eggs. This constrictor was evidently about to prey on a rabbit or a chicken. It destroys its prey by the constriction of its folds. Hence its name. Young ladies, is bite is perfectly harmless."

John took in this zoölogical discourse with perfect gravity. When he saw Miss Elva's eyes twinkle at the last sentence, his own responded merrily. But he had too much tact to give utterance to the words that sprang to his lips:

If you knew it was harmless, why call me to kill it?"

At this junction, Elva formally introduced John to her teacher and her friends. Miss Marks received him with condescension and the girls with effusion. And before he knew how it happened, John found himself in the unusual position of escorting a Fem. Sem. party down the side of Indian Ridge, up the street, toward home.

Miss Marks was very gracious. She permitted Miss Elva to walk on one side of him while she herself occupied the other.

"It seems as if one Columbine Conflictor"---

"Coluber Constrictor, Miss Selfrich," interrupted Miss Marks. "At any rate," resumed Elva, "we might have given him a funeral; he and his name were long enough."

Under the reproving look which this levity provoked, she and John exchanged joyous glances. John felt indefinably happy. What was the matter with him? Even a black snake could not destroy the delicate romance of this afternoon on Indian Ridge.

ANDOVER, June 8, 18--

MY DEAR MOTHER:

The Draper Speaking came off last night. I didn't tell you about it before, so as not to worry you. Nine of us spoke. I spoke "The Last Day of Pompeii.' I did my best. I haven't quite recovered from the strain of last term. After all, I miss poor Doc. A fellow whom they call "Sunshine," a good friend of mine and a great base-ball chap, took, first prize, and they gave me second. The prize is twelve dollars, and the money will help me very much to get through. I don't feel so badly about not getting first. All the boys say I deserved it. To comfort you, I quote from to-day's Phillipian:

"The audience as usual were disappointed in the award. The committee seemed to have been 'cracked' on technicalities. These are very good things; but when a speaker who forgets half of his piece, clips his words and murders his English takes first prize over one whose least defects are to speak clearly and understandingly and who does not rant around the stage as a professional mountebank, it seems as if it were time to make a change."

Base-ball occupies the most exciting part of our time. They say Exeter has a rattling team. Our final examinations come on soon. Then hurrah for home and you, sweet mother.

Ever your affectionate son,

JOHN.

P. S. The two-dollar bill I inclose will help you out on something.

School, after all, is life. There is the same rush. And when work is faithfully done, it becomes, in the phraseology of the Phillips boys, a "cold rush." Perhaps John Strong breasted his work with as much rushing enthusiasm as any of them. Nevertheless, he had the sickening suspicion that he could never retrieve the loss of last term. Uncle Jim's manner to him, if nothing else, told him that the high rank he had worked for had slipped through his fingers. John had never been stronger in his life. His lessons were as perfect as diligence could make them. The care that nearly broke him down was gone. The June air --- and there is none in New England more invigorating than that on Andover Hill ---began to bring the glow back to a face paled and pinched by suffering, watching and poverty. The cane that Selfrich had reason to remember, was seldom used. Strong could walk down to the post-office and back with exhilaration, and yet he flatly refused to play on the great Academy nine, much to the disgust of the school and to the amazement of the Faculty.

"Look here," said Lambkin to John a few days after the Draper, and only a week before the game, "you can't do that, you know. You must play. Of course you will."

"I can't," answered John simply.

"Why not? Out with it now. You needn't try to bat. If you do happen to hit the ball, you just walk down to first base as slow as you please. Some one else will run for you there."

"It isn't that."

"Well, what is it, then? Tell a fellow! You haven't got a better friend. I'll understand. I guess I can help you."

Father Lambkin looked at John with great pride and affection as he stood before him. He thought there wasn't another such a fellow as John in the world, and took his friend's misfortunes very much to heart.

"The truth is," answered John quietly, "the Faculty are down on me enough for pitching last term in the Gym. and keeping it up this term on the campus. They think I neglect work for base-ball. I know Uncle Jim thinks that I shirked last term for Gym. practice."

"But how can he?" answered Lambkin, with astonishment. "He knows, everybody knows, you slaved yourself to death for Shelby, and if it hadn't been for that little pitching you'd have followed him, sure as fate."

"Yes, yes." John spoke wearily, as if he were tired of the argument. "I know; but Uncle Jim doesn't see it that way. He never understood how Doc. held me down. He thought I could study just as well with him sick the whole term in my room as I could alone. Nobody really understood the case but you, Lambkin. You see, if I pitched in that game, and I haven't pitched at all except to practice the nine, Uncle Jim will think I'm sort of a hypocrite. Don't you see? He's been good to me. He's really supported me. I don't want him to be deceived in me. Baseball is small compared with his good opinion."

"But the honor of Old Phillips!" exclaimed Lambkin in despair.

"I guess the nine will take care of itself."

John spoke cheerfully. His pitching had really become wonderful. Phillips had nothing to compare with it, and naturally tried to get him to play on its nine. The base-ball management had offered every inducement, but to no purpose. It didn't matter so much in all the preliminary matches. They were but rehearsals for the game of the year, the match between Phillips and Exeter---rival academies for fifty years and more. Nowhere was this competition keener than in the field of athletics. These two schools meet like gladiators twice a year, and measure skilled strength at foot-ball and at base-ball. Exeter had won the foot-ball championship on her own grounds the previous fall to the sorrow of all Andover. Now was the time to recover prestige and glory.

The placards announcing the great game were posted on all the fences of the town. The Saturday afternoon was drawing near. Telegrams were continually exchanged between the rival fitting schools. It was the Friday night before the match. The excitement of anticipation was almost too great to be borne. Rumors that two hundred and fifty Exeter boys were coming to "fight the game through," shook the Academy with apprehension. John Strong had consented some time previously to eat with the "nine" at the training table, in order to be able "to pitch practice balls for the team," the manager said.

"Won't you play at all?" asked Lambkin that night after a prolonged consultation with the manager and captain. "The whole school wants and needs you."

"I'm awfully cut up about it, but I don't see how I can." John spoke sadly.

"Then the manager wants you to sit with the boys at the game and help coach them on the quiet; you can encourage them a lot, you know." Lambkin played his last card for the sake of Phillips.

"Oh! I just as lief sit with them, or keep score, or anything of that kind. The nine has got to win. If yelling will do it I'll put up my share."

"You'll be sure to be there, won't you?"

Lambkin put a hand on John's biceps. "You've got fine muscle," he added musingly.

"I hope we'll win. The boys will play for all they're worth."

"Of course they will. I'll be there. What Phillips boy won't?"

"If that's all I can get out of you I guess I'll go." Lambkin, dissatisfied with the success of his mission, left the room.

"Are you ready? Play!"

The clear voice of the Harvard umpire rang out like a cornet upon the tumultuous air. The last "Rah!" died away from both sides and left the unnatural stillness of mutual expectation ready to be hilariously broken by the side that scored the first advantage.

By an oversight on the part of the weather bureau, unexampled in the history of Andover, it did not rain on the day of this great match. The day was perfect. It was warm, and truant clouds veiled the glaring sun from the eyes of the players. Ladies were gaily perched on benches behind the high board fence that separated the grounds of the Principal's house from the campus. In front of these was the old stage coach, transformed beyond the most astute powers of recognition. It was festooned in blue and white, Andover's modest colors, and on its top flags waved and horns tooted tremendously. Pete was in his element.

"I wa'n't a-goin' to drive any them Exeter fellers; Andover boys are good enough for me." And in recognition of this superlative patriotic sentiment, considering that he had refused a large bonus from the Exeter contingency, Pete was feasted with ginger pop and ice-cream from Dal Minton's inexhaustible stock, to his complete and inward satisfaction.

Directly before this bannered stage the Andover boys were massed. There were three hundred and twenty of them trained to encourage their nine by all the yells known to school invention. Diagonally opposite them on the right were the Exeter boys. They were all there. Their marshals, with batons decorated with crimson and white, kept them in order. They had secured two barges, one of which held a band that they had brought with them to celebrate their confident victory.

The blue and crimson streamers waved defiance at each other. But now fell the first quiet --- now the game had begun. A thousand unblinking eyes were fixed upon the players. Exeter had won the toss, and Andover was at the bat.

"Sunshine to the bat, and Lambkin on deck!" cried the official scorer for the Andover side.

With a look of determination the captain of the nine, the winner of the Draper prize, and since that winter night one of the most popular boys in school, stepped up. Fierce excitement was in his face.

"Now," cried the marshal of the Andover crowd, waving his stick decorated with blue and white, "now, boys, give him three times three and a tiger!"

How the fellows yelled. But Exeter was not outdone. If anything, they could howl the louder Amid these shrieks that were as important a part of the game as the ball itself, the umpire cried:

"Strike one

"Hi-yi-yi-hoop-Bang-Ra-ra!" responded the Exeter gang with glee.

"Ball one"---

"Foul---Out!"

Flags of crimson waved tumultuously in the deafened air. The drums from Exeter's barge beat with defiance of victory.

"Ugh --- S ---s---s" -groaned Andover. The sound expressed derision for the opponents and hope for themselves.

"Lambkin to the bat!"

The scorer spoke a trifle nervously and reached to the pail for a tin cup of water. The rest of the Andover nine sat stolidly upon the bench awaiting their turn.

"Ball, one!" haughtily spoke the Harvard umpire, glancing disdainfully over the hooting rivals.

"Ah-h! Hurrah! Bully for you! run her down --- a beauty!"

The Andover boys went beside themselves as Lambkin let fly right over second, a sure base hit.

"Now three times three for Lambkin!" shrieked the marshal, hopping up and down like a madman before the line of boys behind the tight-strung rope.

"Runner out!" quietly the umpire decided. It was fearfully close.

"Boom!" went a great torpedo behind Exeter's ranks in joyful derision.

"A nice umpire! S --- s --- s --- down with the umpire ! " yelled the Andover crowd, thoroughly disgusted.

"Shut up, boys! We'll be gentlemen," answered John Strong at that moment. "We'll teach them, boys! Let's give them more than fair play!"

The traditions of Andover are all opposed to the discourtesy of hissing opponents on the athletic field. Once in a while her boys break away from this unwritten law in the excitement of close rivalry. But such spasms of ungentlemanliness are invariably frowned upon, and always will be, by those to whom the honor of "Old Phillips" is dear.

The game went on. We cannot chronicle each hit and every error. Andover went out in the first inning double-quick without scoring.

When Exeter came to the bat, the first man led off with a base hit. Number two got his base on balls. Number three was given his base by being hit by a pitched ball. The next man went out on a foul. So did the next. Number six made a three-bagger and let in the three on the bases. He then got put out on an attempted steal to home plate.

"Score 3 to 0 in favor of Exeter."

By this time Dal Minton's team was emptied by the Exeter crowd of all his ginger pop and creams, and he retired satisfied with his score on that day.

In the first of the second inning only one Andover man got to third, and that on a passed ball. Exeter then came in and added one more run to her score.

Third inning. Andover hit safely and freely for bases, but were forced out. They might have had three runs, but luck was against them. By this time Andover had begun to despair, and three hundred faces were as blue as their ribbons.

Exeter came in again and hit Andover's pitcher with ease for five base hits, but good fielding and sharp playing held them down to one run. Score, Exeter 5, Andover 0.

The fourth and fifth innings were more even. Exeter hit the pitcher, but could not score. Andover neither hit nor made a run. At the last of the fifth inning Andover's third baseman was hit full in the chest by a terrific drive. He had presence of mind to hold the ball amid enthusiastic cheers. Then he dropped. The umpire called time. It looked as if Andover were now completely demoralized. Their pitcher had evidently given out. He was almost knocked out of the box, and the manager and the captain consulted while the wounded man was moved off the field.

John Strong had felt the disgrace of defeat so keenly that tears of mortification blinded him. Growls of disappointment were freely heard along the Andover line. The boys had lost the art of cheering. They were disheartened, and wished the game were done and the misery of the moment over.

Now the Andover manager stepped before that line of gloomy lads. He made a sign with his cane and then dug it into the ground to steady himself for his last and only move. He raised his voice so that it rang over the field:

"The third baseman is forced to retire, and Strong will substitute and pitch. Lambkin will catch. Now, boys, give the Phillips yell!"

Like wildfire the announcement inflamed the school: "P-H-I-L-L-I-P-S! Ra! ra! ra!" Dignified professors and delicate ladies joined in this time-honored cry. It was repeated three times. New enthusiasm caught the nine as it did the school.

"Now three times three for Strong !"

"Ra-ra-ra! Ra-ra-ra! Ra-ra-ra --- Strong!" answered the line madly.

John was thus artfully committed before the whole school.

"But how can I --- I'm not a substitute?" said Strong to the manager, with trembling lips. He was amazed beyond measure at the manager's audacity.

"O yes, you are! Your name's down!"

"Never mind the uniform. Pitch in your shirt sleeves. Pitch anyhow. You've got to do it to save the day."

John instinctively glanced at the seats where the Fem. Sems. sat, a conspicuous row of loyally bedecked girls in summer dresses. Miss Elva Selfrich sat among them, sweet and fair. One look from her gentle eyes seemed to encourage him, and John made up his mind at once.

The Exeter crowd, not knowing what this change and new enthusiasm meant, answered, nothing daunted:

"Hoo! Ra! Ray!"

"Hoo! Ra! Ray!"

"Exeter--- Exeter---

"P. E. A-a-a!"

"Time! Are you ready? Play!" sang out the umpire.

Sunshine led again. He swung the bat viciously and struck the ball.

"Ah! Eh! Boom-ta-ra!" yelled the line.

"Now, boys!" shouted the maniac of an Andover marshal, wild at this unexpected turn of affairs.

"What has he done? What has he done?"

"He lined it out for base number one!"

What a cry that was! Three hundred throats repeated it until exhausted. Power struck the batsmen and they pounded the ball. At the end of the first half of the sixth inning the score stood 5 to 3 in favor of Exeter. Andover had recovered her pluck.

At last John Strong faced the school, the Exeter batsman, and held the ball. The excitement was intense. Cheer after cheer followed from hoarse throats.

"Boom–tah--rah---Boom--tah--rah---Boom -- tah--rah --- Strong!" The shriek died away.

"High ball," indicated the umpire.

"Strike!"

No one had time to think; hardly to see.

"Strike, two !"

It is useless to attempt to describe the scene. While the catcher was putting on his mask and the Exeter batsman was moistening his hands and shaking his bat in bewilderment, the Andover lads were enthusiastically repeating in unison at the top of their lungs :

"Now let him be; now let him be."

"He'll put him out on strike number three!"

John stood with shaking legs, the central figure of the school. He thought that he should fall. He thought his spine would collapse at this supreme moment. But he pulled himself together when he caught Lambkin's encouraging look and a secret sign indicating the character of the next ball to be pitched.

The sphere sped from Strong's hands. It went in direct line for the batsman who jumped back like a cat.

"Strike, three and out!" rang from the umpire.

The ball when only five feet from the base, described a wonderful out-curve, the reason of which utterly baffles scientific theorists, and passed over to the edge of the home plate. It was now Exeter's turn to be discouraged. Their school shouts were not diminished, but they were executed in a perfunctory way simply to drown Andover out. The Harvard umpire gave John a keen glance as the boy walked with a perceptible limp to the bench.

In the seventh inning Andover made two more runs --- such is the impetus of enthusiasm -and Exeter was tied. In the second half of the inning John held Exeter down to one hit and no score. The eighth inning passed, each side getting only a "goose egg." John held to it pluckily, but was evidently reserving his strength for the final inning.

Matters were as serious as they can be in a ball-game when Andover went to bat at the first of the ninth inning. The two schools were exhausted, and contented themselves with local cries along the line. They settled for the contest. Strong was the last batter on the score, and now stepped to bat for the first time. He was not used to this. The school knew it as well as he, and fully expected him to strike out. But the pitcher, not knowing but that Strong batted as he pitched, threw the ball warily.

"One strike. Five balls!" called the umpire.

"Take it easy, John. Don't strike. He won't pitch over the plate. He can't," whispered Lambkin.

But the Exeter pitcher, seeing that he had but one more "called ball," sent an easy one right over the base. John saw it coming and swung the bat as never before. To the surprise of everybody the ball flew over the third baseman's head and rolled far beyond. For any one else it would have been a "clean two-bagger."

"Run her easy, John," shrieked the "coach." "They can't get you. There you are!"

"Safe on first!" cried the umpire, as John landed on the bag about two seconds before the ball was fielded in.

"Dalstan, take his place and run him," ordered the captain; and John retired with all the added honor of an unexpected hit.

Sunshine came to bat. Dalstan, who had taken John's place, now stole second. None out, one on second. The chances were strongly in favor of a score.

"Strike two!" cried the umpire above the din, after Sunshine had made two ineffectual attempts. Batsmen often make the mistake of trying to strike the ball too hard. Sunshine fell into that common error in the excitement of responsibility.

"Whew! Ra-ra-ra --- Sunshine!" . What a clear hit that was! Dalstan came shooting in over the home plate like a locomotive.

Led by the marshal, Andover shrieked from its raw throat

"What did he do ? What did he do?"

"He lined it out for base number two!"

Only he who has been present at one of those match games, the memory of which still sends the blood surging through the veins after years of absence from school, can understand the triumph of such a unanimous cry.

In the confusion Lambkin stepped up and "flied out" to right field. Sunshine stole third. The next man fouled out, and Number four was thrown out at first.

Score at the end of the first of the ninth inning 6 to in favor of Andover.

But the game was not yet won. Exeter had still her turn at the bat. She might tie or win. With roars, cat-calls, whistles, the beating of drums and tooting of horns, Exeter encouraged her nine to meet the crisis. Andover was not behind in her vociferations. Each Academy shouted its school yell in opposition to the other. The crimson strode to the bat. John Strong in the pitcher's box, faced his opponent at this crisis. His face was a deadly pallor.

"Low ball! Play!" shouted the umpire, trying to keep up the show of superior coolness in this final struggle.