"Shoot!" replied Amy, from behind the towel.
"Why are you like a great English poet?"
"Give it up. Why, Mr. Johnsing, am I like a great English poet?"
"Because," replied Clint, edging away, "you surely can play tennis, son!"
"Play ten--Oh! Help! Officer, arrest this man!"
"Huh," said Clint, "that's a better joke than you ever sprung. Where are you going?"
"To get that nice pewter mug over there and then to the gym for a shower. Come along and then I'll go over with you and watch that wonderful team of yours bite holes in the turf."
Some of the fellows who remained demanded a speech when Amy accepted the trophy from Westcott.
"Fellow-citizens," responded Amy, "I can only say that this is the proudest moment of my young and blameless life. Thank you, one and all. Where's the flannel stocking that goes with this, Harry?"
The bag couldn't be found, however, and Amy bore away his prize without it. They paused at a neighbouring court to watch for a moment a white-clad quartette of boys who were battling for the doubles championship. "Semi-final round," explained Amy. "The winners meet Scannel and Boynton tomorrow. It'll be a good match. What's the score, Hal?"