bers of the nine paced to and fro on the diamond. They were waiting for news from Sid. If he did not pass he could not play, and it practically meant a lowering of their chances for the pennant.
An hour went by. A few lads began coming from the recitation room where the examination was being held.
"Some of them have finished," commented Tom. "Let's ask 'em how Sid's making out."
One of the Latin students strolled over toward where the ball players were.
"How's Henderson doing?" asked Kindlings.
"Sweating like a cart horse," was the characteristic answer. "It's a stiff exam all right."
There was a groan in concert and the anxious waiting was resumed. Fifteen minutes passed. Several more students had come from the room.
"Where can he be?" murmured Tom.
"There he comes!" cried Phil Clinton as Sid appeared, coming slowly toward the group.
"I'll bet he failed," said Kindlings solemnly. Certainly in Sid's approach there was not the air of a conqueror.
All at once he stopped, bent down to the ground and appeared to be tearing something to pieces.
"What's he doing?" asked Tom.
"Let's go see," proposed Kerr.
They advanced and beheld a curious sight. Sid was tearing up a book and making a little heap of
