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 rapidly behind his glasses. At the corner he stopped short for one last look at the Court House. His glance rested a moment on the flag flying above the granite building.

The class would probably have been filled with amazement had some prophet told them that what Oliver Morse had seen in the court room that day was to write its result in the history of the school.

Somebody at Northfield had once said—it may have been Mr. Banning—that Martin did not take school work seriously enough. But this indictment could not be charged against him once he stepped out on the baseball field. Here his body grew intensely alive, his interest quickened, and his eyes flamed with an eager light.

Jennings, physical instructor and coach, stood at the plate to-day, a bat poised in one hand, a ball held in the other.

"Man on first," he called, and then the bat swung out and the ball streaked along the ground to the left of the shortstop.

Martin seemed to move even as the bat was hit. His gloved hand reached out, found the horsehide, held it. His spikes bit into the ground and began to halt him even as he tossed the ball to Chandler, the second baseman with almost the the same motion with which he had fielded it.