At second Apthorpe was sitting on the bag, joyfully kicking his heels into the earth. On the bench the scorer made big, trembling dots on the page. Everywhere pandemonium reigned. The home nine had won game and championship.
Curly jumped to his feet, dusted his bedraggled clothes, and walked into the arms of Harris.
"The best steal you ever made!" cried Harris, thumping him on the back. As he went to the bench he heard an excited and perspiring youth exclaim proudly, "I have him in Greek, you know!"
Two minutes later the cherry-colored banners of Durham departed, flaunting bravely in the face of defeat.
Willard's danced across the terrace, shouting and singing. In their possession was a soiled and battered ball, which on the morrow would be inscribed with the figures "9 to 8," and proudly suspended behind a glass case in the trophy room.
Curly and Harris sat together in the former's study. Supper was over. Curly held a sealed and addressed letter in his hands, which he turned over and over undecidedly.
"Then—if you were in my place—under the circumstances—you—you wouldn't hand this in?" he asked.
"Let me have it, please," said Harris, with decision. He tore the letter across, and tossed the pieces into the waste basket.
"That's the only thing to do with that," he said. And in the successful two years of teaching since then Curly has come to feel that Harris was quite right.