; but somehow I have been
hustling more for the baseball championship than----"

A curt question cut short further apologies:

"Your studies have not been too difficult for you, then?"

"Oh, no. I can easily make them up with a tutor," was the eager
response. "I guess if you ask Mr. Christopher he will let me take the
examinations over again before school closes and the next time----"

"There is to be no next time," put in his father quietly.

Peter stared.

"Wh-a-t--do--you mean, sir?"

"You will see."

Without another word the older man turned away. Peter saw him walk to
the garage, and a few moments later the motor-car shot past, spun down
the drive, and the music of its siren horn announced that it was turning
into the street. Where had his father gone so suddenly?

He had but just come home, and it was never his custom to dash off in
such an abrupt fashion. It was easy to see that he was annoyed about the
school report. That was not strange--of course he would be. Peter was
himself. But at least Mr. Coddington had not lost his place as pitcher
of a ball team, and since he hadn't there seemed to be no reason why he
should be so cut up. Then an inspiration came to the boy. Perhaps his
father had gone to demand that Mr. Christopher take his son back on the
nine. Ah, that must be it! His father was much interested in athletics
Peter knew, and when in college had pulled the winning shell to a
spectacular victory for his Alma Mater. His father would never stand by
and see the star pitcher of the Milburn High School swept off the team
just because of a few failures in Latin, algebra, and other such
rubbish.

Peter drew a sigh of relief.

Yes, his fortunate star would rise again; he was confident of it. All
would yet be well. He would tutor up for the examinations, pass them
gloriously, and win back his place on the team. None of the fellows need
be the wiser. His father would fix it up--nay, he probably was fixing it
up at this very moment.

Until dusk Peter waited anxiously for the sound of the motor's return.

It was nearly seven when over the gravel rolled the heavy rubber-tired
wheels that announced Mr. Coddington's arrival. The boy sat in precisely
the spot where his father had left him and after alighting from the car
the elder man made his way toward the motionless figure sitting so still
in the June twilight.

"I have been to see Mr. Christopher," began Mr. Coddington when he came
within speaking