y knew the truth!
Well, I suppose he'll find out before long, for Rackliff will blow on
me. I'll have to face it, that's all. I wonder wh-where Grant is."

A few moments later he found the fellow he was seeking, the doctor
having just finished bandaging Rod's injured fingers. Springer
hesitated, feeling that it was almost impossible for him to approach
the Texan, and, as he was wavering, Grant, still wearing his playing
suit, started for the Oakdale bench.

"I--I bub-beg your pardon," stammered Phil as Rodney was passing.

"Oh!" exclaimed the young Texan, stopping short. "Is it you--Phil?
What's the matter?"

"I--want--your--suit." Springer could not meet Rod's eyes, and he
could feel his cheeks burning; for over him had swept a full and
complete understanding of his own folly in permitting jealousy to lead
him into the course he had been pursuing.

"My--my suit?" said Rod, as if he did not quite understand. "You----"

"Eliot sus-sent me for it," Phil hastened to explain. "You know he
hasn't a spare man on the bench now, and if anything should happen to
another pup-player----"

"Come on," said Rod, turning sharply. "The dressing room is over back
of the seats here."

In the dressing room Grant got out of the playing suit as quickly as
possible, while Springer stripped off his street clothes and
unhesitatingly donned each piece as it was tossed to him. Both were
silent, for the situation was such that neither could seem to find
words to fit it. However, having put on Rod's clothes down to the
brass-clipped pitching shoes and being on the point of leaving the
Texan struggling slowly into his everyday garments, Phil stopped and
half turned, after taking a step toward the door.

"I'm sus-sorry you got your fingers busted," he stated in a low tone.

"Thanks," returned Rod, without looking up.

"He despises me," whispered Springer, as soon as he was outside.
"Well, perhaps I deserve it."

At the end of the tiered seats he came upon Herbert Rackliff, who had
just arrived at the field. Herbert's eyes widened on beholding
Springer in that suit. His face was pale save for two burning spots
upon his hollow cheeks.

"What the dickens does this mean?" exclaimed Rackliff, his wondering
eyes flashing over Phil from head to heels.

"Nothing," was the answer, "only Grant's hurt, and I'm going onto the
bub-bench as spare man--at Eliot's request."

An odd smile twisted Rackliff's lips. "Now wouldn't that ki