“No, we couldn’t use him,” said Kindlings. “It all depends on Sid. I wish the exam was over. It’s like waiting for a jury to come in.”
The whole team was on tenterhooks. No one felt like talking, and some one would start a topic only to witness it die a natural death. The members of the nine paced to and fro on the diamond. They were waiting for news from Sid. If he did not pass he could not play, and it practically meant a lowering of their chances for the pennant.
An hour went by. A few lads began coming from the recitation room where the examination was being held.
“Some of them have finished,” commented Tom. “Let’s ask ’em how Sid’s making out.”
One of the Latin students strolled over toward where the ball players were.
“How’s Henderson doing?” asked Kindlings.
“Sweating like a cart horse,” was the characteristic answer. “It’s a stiff exam all right.”
There was a groan in concert and the anxious waiting was resumed. Fifteen minutes passed. Several more students had come from the room.
“Where can he be?” murmured Tom.
“There he comes!” cried Phil Clinton as Sid appeared, coming slowly toward the group.