"Everybody saying it, eh?"
Tom Clifton's thoughts sprang back to the beginning of the season, when, full of confidence and enthusiasm, he had expected the High's team to go from one victory to another. "Vanitas!" The word rang in his ears. He recalled now that his zeal and earnest efforts in behalf of the nine had called forth remarks of a somewhat similar nature before. But his armor of confidence was so great that the shafts dropped harmlessly aside.
"I never could have believed it," he murmured. "The fellows are twisting my words and manner into something wholly undeserved. They ought to see that it was only because I'm red-hot for the school and team."
The first baseman was so deep in thought that he scarcely heeded the voices of the fans, or the sharp cracks of the bats as the balls were sent flying over the field.
"So everybody's saying it: if we don't get the field I'll be one of the chaps who's most responsible, eh? By George! I wonder if it's true! I'll find out before night."
Tom's thoughts turned to the crowd—the fickle crowd—ever ready to yell itself hoarse when things were breaking right, but which, he reflected bitterly, was often equally ready to jeer and hoot a player off the field on small provocation.
"What's the matter, Tom? Aren't you going to practice to-day?" called Roger Steele, catching sight of him from his position near home plate.
"Sure!" responded Tom, making a strong effort to change the channel of his thoughts.
"Anything wrong, son?" Steele came forward. He lowered his voice. "You look kind of down in the mouth."
"Oh, it's nothing," said Tom.