The tennis tournament began two days after the pow-wow between the quartet on the lawn. In spite of Trevor’s wishes on the subject, he found himself drawn for the preliminary round, and opposed to a lower middle boy named Page. But he had no trouble in winning two sets running, and so qualified for the finals.

The tournament went slowly, for those were busy days at Hillton, and allowances had to be made for the demands of crew and baseball training. But Friday night left only four contestants—Trevor, Stewart, Hollis, and Montgomery. Play in the semifinal round began early Saturday morning. Trevor defeated Montgomery 3-6, 6-2, 6-2, and Stewart won from Hollis 6-3, 7-5. After a half-hour’s rest Trevor and Stewart faced each other smilingly across the net in the final round to decide the school championship.

It was a perfect morning for tennis, bright and warm, and though it gave promise of heat later, at ten o’clock a soft, fresh breeze blew across the campus from the woods. Trevor won the toss and chose the south court.

“I see my finish here,” he said with a grin.

Stewart laughed.

“I’m glad I’ve got you scared. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“So’m I; so look out for yourself.”

Trevor’s fears appeared to be justified by events, for Stewart took the first set from him very easily, six games to three, and won the second after a somewhat harder battle to the tune of 7-5. But after that Trevor seemingly found himself, and the third encounter was brilliant enough to win almost unceasing applause from the fairly large throng of spectators. It went to him finally by six games to four, and the fourth set begun.

The two boys played very different tennis. Trevor at his best was supremely careful and painstaking; one might have thought that tennis was a game like chess, in which each stroke was the result of deep study. He played slowly, relying upon scientific placing for his points. His serve was a justly celebrated overhand cut which against almost any boy in the school save his present opponent was very dangerous. But Trevor and Stewart had played together all the spring, and knew each other’s style from A to Z, and Stewart had from long experience learned to return Trevor’s puzzling service with a forehand stroke off the ground that was almost always successful. Trevor played well back as a rule, and was the possessor of a back-hand return that was the admiration of all.

Stewart on the court was like a whirlwind in white flannels. He was all dash and go. Lithe and lightly built, he seemed capable of being everywhere at once, and that without any special effort. His playing was brilliant in the extreme; his service was a swift stroke that landed the ball almost invariably on the service-line, and that required the opponent to stand back of base-line to receive it; his return was a long, lightning-like drive that just topped the net; and his smashing was something terrific. But, like most whirlwind players, Stewart took long risks and occasionally got very wild.

The fourth set went to Trevor after a hard battle, eight games to six, and the decisive struggle commenced. It was Trevor’s serve, and for the first time during the contest he won a love game on it, Stewart returning every ball out of court. On Stewart’s service Trevor failed almost as signally, getting but one return over. Stewart tried lobbing in the next game with disastrous results, and Trevor again won. With the games 1-3 Stewart took a decided brace and secured the next on his service, and the following one partly through Trevor’s poor work and partly through fine handling of the puzzling serves. It was then Trevor’s turn to win twice running, and he brought the score to 3-4; Stewart by faultless service made it four games all; each then won on his service and the score was games all.

It had been decided that the final set should not be a vantage set, and hence the next game would settle the contest. The two lads changed courts, and the audience looked for a speedy termination of the struggle. Trevor led off with a fault and followed it with a poor serve that allowed Stewart to return a slashing ball far into the right angle of side- and base-lines. Trevor was too late, and amid the applause of the crowd, and somewhat disconcerted, he repeated his previous performance; the first ball went into the net and the second bounced obligingly into Stewart’s racket and came skimming back swift and low, touching the canvas strip and dropping almost lifeless in the shadow of the net. This was also lost to Trevor, and the score was love-thirty. Trevor looked grimly determined now, and Stewart watched sharply for the next serve. He found it and returned it, and Trevor, with excellent judgment, crouched out of its way and let it go by well out of court. The next serve was one of Trevor’s best, and it found a good big hole in his adversary’s racket. The score was thirty all. Stewart found the next serve and put it into Trevor’s hands; the latter cut it to the left of the opposite court, but Stewart sent it back neatly toward the base-line. Trevor reached it by a long run, and with a magnificent back-hand stroke tried to place it over his opponent’s head. But Stewart was watchful and alert, and ran back in time, and again volleyed, sending the sphere down the right-side line. Trevor again returned, seeking a place out of reach of his nimble adversary, and Stewart, after a hard chase across court, got it on the bound and played it gently over. Trevor had followed up, however, and it was all over on the next play, for although Stewart dashed back again to the territory he had just left unprotected the ball was dead when he reached it. The score was now 40-30, and the game, set, and match might be won on the next stroke.

Trevor was breathing hard, but there was a grim determination in his eyes. Stewart appeared less tuckered, but he was somewhat pale despite the easy smile that played over his boyish face. Up went Trevor’s racket; up went the ball. There was a line of white through the air; Stewart put the head of his racket to the gravel; the ball in its low rebound struck it fair and went hurtling back. Stewart ran up to within a yard of the net. Trevor waited for the bounce, glanced hurriedly over the opposite court, chose his place, and sided his racket. But his plans were wrecked by a pebble. Up went the ball on the rebound almost straight into the air. Trevor darted forward. There was no time for niceties of cutting or placing. Ball and racket came together, and the former went skimming forward, head-high, straight as a dart for Stewart’s racket!

The crowd held its breath, picturing the terrific smash to follow, and Trevor scuttled back to the rear of the court from where it might be barely possible to get the ball on its long rebound. Stewart swung his racket back, strong fingers grasping the end of the handle, swung it down with all his force—and stared in seeming amaze. A groan of dismay went up from the onlookers as the ball passed by untouched and dropped into court.

“Game and set and match!” called the umpire. And then the applause began. Trevor advanced to the net, and he and Stewart shook hands.

“Beastly luck, that last stroke,” said Trevor heartily.

“Rotten playing, you mean,” answered Stewart, smiling. “I’m glad you’ve won, Trevor, honestly; but some time you and I’ll have it out again, if you like.”

“All right; I’d like to. And there’s another tournament coming next year, you know.”

Dick, who in company with Carl and many other friends, had watched the match from the side-line, slapped Trevor on the shoulder.

“Good work, chum! And you played like a cyclone, Stewart; you ought to have had it.” Then Trevor took possession of the little silver mug and wondered where the engraver was going to find room for his name on it, and the crowd broke up and hurried toward the Yard and dinner. On the way Stewart found himself beside Dick. Trevor and Todd were some distance ahead, the latter, who could play tennis about as well as an elephant can jump rope, explaining to the champion where he had made his mistakes.

“That was a queer stroke of yours, Stewart,” said Dick.

The younger boy darted a fleeting glance into the other’s smiling face.

“Rotten, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it rotten exactly; I should say it was remarkable.”

Stewart again glanced up to find Dick looking at him quizzically. For a moment the two eyed each other; then Stewart laughed and Dick joined in.

“No more remarkable than the way in which Trevor lost the two hundred and twenty yards at the indoor meeting, was it?” he asked.

“No,” replied Dick. “I should say they were about on a par. But I didn’t think that you suspected——”

“You must think I’m blind then. I knew it well enough, and I made up my mind then to have my revenge. And I’ve had it to-day. But, I say, Dick, I’d rather you wouldn’t tell Trevor. I don’t think he knows.”

“No, I won’t say a word to him,” replied Dick with a smile. “You’re a funny pair, you two.”

But he went on up the river-path with one crimson-clad arm over Stewart’s shoulders.

The week that intervened between the tournament and the boat-race passed quickly. There was an air of expectancy and excitement in the air. Examinations were approaching, class day was almost at hand, and Hillton and St. Eustace were about to match their prowess both on the water and on the diamond. The varsity crew was on the river twice daily, but the hardest of training was over, and a period of light work took the place of the former grinding labor. The time for sledge-hammer blows was past, and the efforts of coach, captain, and coxswain were directed toward putting the finishing polish on their handiwork. From Marshall came the news that St. Eustace’s head rowing coach was firmly of the belief that he had succeeded in turning out a crew no whit inferior to that of the preceding year, and it was evident in many ways that the backers of the Blue were confident of another victory.

Dick was himself again; contented, hard-working, even hopeful despite his dark forebodings. He had not forgotten his lapse from honor; he often spent miserable moments in thinking about it; but, what with earnest promises to atone for it and with work and study enough to occupy every moment of his waking time, he found his periods of self-abasement becoming fewer and fewer. He was certain of passing his examinations well, and believed he would graduate an honor man of three terms.

On Thursday he and Trevor and Muggins sat in the grand stand and cheered nine clever young gentlemen on to a decisive victory over the ball players of St. Eustace, a victory that indicated a second to come when Hillton played the last game of the series at Marshall the following week. Gray was elated, and Hillton was proud of him, and gave evidence of its pride by well-nigh raising the roof when he appeared in dining-hall.

And after the game was over Dick and Trevor went to training-table for the last time; and every one was very hopeful and rather sad, and decidedly nervous—every one save Kirk, who did most of the talking, and told strange and interesting stories of life at Hillton when he was a boy there. There had been no work on the river that day, for the shell had been shipped to Marshall; but a two-mile trot on the road, followed by a five-minute bout with the weights, had taken the place of it. After supper the men went to Society House, where the second crew, disbanded the previous day, joined them, and Professor Beck and two graduates spoke to them in earnest, hopeful strain until it was bedtime. Then the varsity crew got together and cheered long and loud for the second, and the second cheered the varsity, and they both cheered Coach Kirk and Professor Beck and the two graduates. Whereupon all scattered for bed.

The next morning, bright and early, the varsity and substitutes journeyed to Marshall, and at eleven o’clock were paddling slowly over the course of the next day’s race, watched here and there by groups of St. Eustacians. They put up at the hotel, where Muggins, attired in a gorgeous crimson blanket adorned on each side with a great white H, attracted much interest, and afforded not a little amusement. He knew every member of the crew and every substitute by nightfall, and gave each a place in his affections. And when, after dinner, the St. Eustace Glee and Mandolin Clubs, followed by a number of boys from across the river, put in an appearance and gave a concert on the veranda, he planted his front feet wide apart, raised his blunt nose toward the starlit sky, and howled loudly and dismally until Trevor bore him off to bed.

And, although the concert still went on, Trevor did not return to the veranda again. Something, perhaps the excitement of the day, had given him a splitting headache and a queer feeling all over that was difficult to define. So he undressed, climbed into bed, and, cuddling Muggins closely to him, fell off into a dream-troubled slumber.