for a tackle. But Joel had no
mind for keeping off; that cut in his head was aching like everything,
and his own advice to Wills occurred to him and made him grin. Cloud
swerved sharply, but he was too heavy to be a good dodger, and with a
leap Joel was on him, tackling hard and true about the runner's hips.
Cloud struggled, made a yard, another, then came to earth with Joel's
head snugly pillowed on his shoulder. A shout arose from the crowd. The
field came up and Joel scrambled to his feet. Cloud, his face red with
chagrin and anger, leaped to his feet, and stepping toward Joel aimed a
vicious blow at his face. The latter ducked and involuntarily raised his
fist; then, ere Greer and some of the others stepped between, turned and
walked away.

"That will do, Cloud," said Remsen in sharp, incisive tones. "You may
leave."

And with a muttered word of anger Cloud strode from the field, passing
through the silent and unsympathetic throng with pale face and
black looks.

"First's ball down here," cried Greer, and play went on; but Joel had
lost his taste for it, and when, a few minutes later, neither side
having scored again, time was called, he trotted back to the gymnasium
in a depressed mood.

"You did great work," exclaimed Outfield West, as he joined Joel on the
river path. "That settles Cloud's chances. Remsen was laying for him
anyhow, you know, and then that 'slugging!' Remsen hates dirty playing
worse than anything, they say."

"I'm sorry it happened, though," returned Joel.

"Pshaw! don't you be afraid of Cloud. He's all bluster."

"I'm not afraid of him. But I'm sorry he lost the team through me. Of
course I couldn't have let him go by, and I don't suppose it could have
been helped, but I wish some one else had tackled him."

"Of course, it couldn't have been helped," responded West cheerfully.
"And I'm glad it couldn't. My! isn't Cloud mad! I passed him a minute or
two ago. 'You ought to try golf, Bart,' said I. You should have seen the
look he gave me. I guess it was rather like 'rubbing it in.'" And West
grinned hugely at the recollection.

"How about the tournament, West?" asked Joel.

"Fine! There are twelve entries, and we're going to begin at nine in the
morning. I did the fourth hole this afternoon in two, and the eighth in
three. No one has ever done the fourth in two before; it's the Bogey
score. Don't forget that you have promised to go around with me. They
say Whipple is practicing every