jeered; he has been called the Northfield Jackass—and yet there has been more real Northfield spirit in his little finger than there has been in this whole nine. You don't represent the school; you represent Martin. You're his kind."
One of the outfielders, red-faced and angry-eyed, took a step forward. "That's not so, Coach."
"Yes it is, Vance. When Martin was dropped, you fellows quit. The only fellow who held on was the Owl—he shouldn't have coached Martin. He did the right thing. Where's Martin to-day? Is he in the stands? Has he been to our last two games? I doubt it. But you'll find the Owl out there in the first center aisle in the seventh row. Post!"
"Yes, sir." The shortstop elbowed his way forward.
"Go out there and get the Owl. Bring him back with you. He's going to walk out of this place with the squad; he's going to sit on the bench. By Heavens, I want somebody there on whom I can put a hand and say 'This is the Northfield spirit'."
Resentment, beginning as a murmur, grew into a volume of sound. Vance's voice rose above the tumult. "Why didn't you tell us this before?"
"Why?" The agony of unexpected hope was
