. And a regular tussle of boys were getting in
the wildest excitement when it was announced that Pepper and Ricketson
had won the second set, the referees trying to quiet them so that the
game could proceed.

In the third set, Joel seemed to have it all his own way, and fairly
swept Ricketson along with him. The excitement was now so intense that
the boys forgot to yell, afraid they would miss some strokes.

David clenched his hands tightly. The net and flying balls spun all
together inextricably before his eyes as he strained them to see Joe's
brilliant returns. This was the deciding set, as the cup was to go to
the winners of two sets out of three.

Joel's last serve was what finished it; the ball flashing by Tom with
such impetus, that even the St. Andrew's champion said he couldn't ever
have returned it.

Everybody drew a long breath, and then the crowd rushed and converged to
Joel; surrounded him, fighting for first place, the fortunate ones
tossing him up to their shoulders to race him in triumph around the
yard.

"Take Ricket!" screamed Joel, red in the face. "Take him!" he roared.
"He beat too, as much as I." So a second group seized Fred; and up he
went to be trotted after, the crowd swarming alongside, yelling,
tumbling over each other,--gone perfectly wild; Joe waving the cup,
thrust into his hand, which would be kept by the winners for a year.

* * * * *

It was the middle of the night. Davie, flushed with the happiest
thoughts, had peacefully settled to dreams in which Mamsie and
Grandpapa, and Polly and Jasper, and all the dear home people, were
tangled up. And Phronsie seemed to be waving a big silver cup, and
piping out with a glad little laugh, "Oh, I am so glad!" And now and
then the scene of operations flew off to the little brown house, that it
appeared impossible to keep quite out of dreamland. Some one gripped him
by the arm.

"Oh, what is it, Joe?" David flew up to a sitting posture in the middle
of his bed.

"It isn't Joe. Get up as quick as you can."

David, with a dreadful feeling at his heart, tumbled out of bed. "_Isn't
Joe!_" he found time to say, with a glance in the darkness over toward
Joel's bed.

"Hurry up, don't stop to talk." The voice was Tom Beresford's. "Get on
your clothes."

Meantime he was scuffing around. "Where in time are your shoes?" But
David already had those articles, and was pulling them on with hasty
fingers. "Oh, tell me,