back breathless but triumphant.

"Say, you're a crackerjack," said Tom; "here's another."

Meanwhile Larry was in the hands of his sisters, who had delightedly
kissed him to his shamefaced chagrin, and introduced him to their
new-found friends.

"So this is Larry." said Miss Hazel Sleighter, greeting him with a
dazzling smile. "We have heard a lot about you. I think you must be
quite wonderful. Come here, Tom, and meet your friends."

Poor Larry! In the presence of this radiant creature and of her
well-dressed brother, he felt terribly conscious of the shabbiness of
the second best suit which his mother had thought good enough for
the journey in the car. Tom glanced at the slight, poorly dressed,
pale-faced lad who stood before him with an embarrassed, almost a
beseeching look in his eyes.

"Can you play ball?" asked Tom.

"Not much," replied Larry; "not like Sam. Come here, Sam," he called,
remembering that he had not introduced his friend. Sam shuffled over
with an air of complete nonchalance.

"This is Sam," said Larry. "Sam--I have forgotten your name."

"Nolan," said Sam shortly.

"Miss Hazel Sleighter," said Larry.

"How do you do, Miss Hazel," said Sam, sweeping her an elaborate bow,
and then gazing boldly into her eyes. "I hope you're well. If you're as
smart as you look, I guess you're way up in G."

"I am quite well, thank you," returned Miss Hazel, the angle of her chin
indicating her most haughty air.

"Say, young lady, pass up the chilly stuff," replied Sam with a laugh.
"It don't go with that mighty fine complexion of yours. Say, did you
ever see the leading lady in 'The Spider's Web'? Well, you make me think
of her, and she was a peacherino. Never seen her? No? Well, you ought to
see her some day and think of me."

Hazel turned a disgusted shoulder on Sam's impudent face and engaged
Larry in vivacious conversation.

"Well, I am off to the ball practice," said Tom. "Got a match on
Saturday--High School against the world. Guess they would like to have
you, Sam, only I wouldn't care to have you play against us. You don't
play baseball, eh?" continued Tom, addressing Larry. "What do you
play--football?"

"Not much; never tried much," said Larry, flushing over his lack of
sporting qualifications.

"He plays the fiddle," said a quiet little voice.

Larry, flushing violently, turned around and saw a little, brown-faced
maid gazing thoughtfully at him.

"Oh, he does, eh? Ha, ha, ha. Good