could he recall a
single instance when Mr. Coddington had broken his word. It was this
knowledge that made Peter so uncomfortable as he glanced once more at
the bedraggled report card. What had his father meant by saying he
would grant him one more chance?

The boy wished now that he had considered the matter in a more serious
light. He had known all along that his marks were dropping behind, and
every morning he had vaguely resolved to make a spurt that day so that
when examination time came he might cross the tape neck and neck with if
not in advance of the other fellows. The promised spurt, however, had
not been made. Instead he had drifted along, studying only enough to
keep his head above water and putting all his zeal into tennis or
baseball until the present climax with its direful calamity had been
reached.

Unquestionably it was perfectly fair that he should forfeit his place on
the team. All the boys knew the rule of the school. But somehow it did
not seem _real_. When a fellow could kick a goal and pitch a ball as he
could something must surely intervene to prevent such a fate. Nothing
dreadful had ever happened to Peter before. It was not likely, he argued
optimistically, that it could happen now. Considerably cheered by this
logic he slipped his grimy report into its still more grimy envelope and
began to whistle. Buoyed up by comfortable reveries he whistled fully
five minutes, when the tune came to an abrupt end. A step on the gravel
had arrested it. Looking around Peter saw his father coming along the
drive toward him.

"Not at the game to-day, Peter?" exclaimed the elder man in surprise.

"No, sir."

"How is that?"

"I did not feel like going, Father."

"Not feel like going! Why, that's something new for you. You're not
sick?"

Peter was conscious of a swift scrutiny.

"I'm worried about something," he blurted out.

"I'm sorry to hear that, my boy. What is the trouble? Grass stains on
your new white tennis flannels?"

Peter shook his head in reply to the smiling question.

"It is a real trouble this time," he answered.

Silently he drew from his pocket the crumpled envelope which he handed
to his father. As Mr. Coddington took out the card and scanned it
rapidly the quizzical expression that had lighted his face gave way to a
frown of displeasure.

"Well?" he questioned.

"I'm mighty sorry, Father," began Peter. "You see I kept thinking I
would make up my work before the exams came