“Fine! I can last all right. It’s the batting I’m worried about. Langridge will do his worst, and we must look for a fierce game. We’ve got to practice until the gong rings.”
Tom worked his men to the limit, with Coach Leighton to help him. Matters seemed a little brighter, and in spite of his words Tom had a forlorn hope that, after all, the faculty might relent, and allow Sid to play.
But this hope was dashed to the ground the night before the game. Then Sid came into the room, despondency showing on his face and in every motion. He began hauling his things out of the closet and bureau, and packing them in his trunk.
“What’s up, old man?” asked Phil in great surprise.
“I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?” burst out Tom.
“Yes. Expelled. Faculty just had a meeting on my case, and it’s all off. I’m done!”
“Look here!” cried Tom. “Are you going to let it go this far, Sid? Aren’t you going to speak—going to tell your secret, and exonerate yourself?”
“I can’t,” answered Sid simply, and his tone was so miserable that his chums forebore to question him further. His trunk was soon packed, and he left the room. Neither Phil nor Tom felt like talking and went to bed early. Sid did not return that night, and the two ball players were out early, for practice on the diamond, in anticipation of the great and deciding game which was to take place that afternoon on the Boxer Hall grounds.