What should he do?
The thought of again facing the jeering, critical "fans" of the opposition and the sarcastic cries which were bound to come from Benny Wilkins and others on the smallest provocation made the hot blood mount to his face.
He paused before the window, to gaze out upon the starlit sky and the long lines of houses and lights which lost form and brilliancy in the distance. Mechanically, he watched the passers-by, envying their apparent freedom from care and trouble.
"I wonder if Bob has ever thought I should get off the team!"
Tom Clifton had never before been assailed with such conflicting emotions. Was Mr. Barry's field destined to become the monument to the folly of a few?
"I'll go right over and see Bob now," he decided, suddenly.
And then, just as Tom was about to open the door, the sarcastic, grinning face of Benny Wilkins seemed to flash before his eyes.
"Am I going to let that chap think I'm a quitter?" he exclaimed, aloud. "No, sir; not on your life! I'll play the game to the end."
A heavy load of anxiety seemed to instantly take wing. The grim, set expression about the first baseman's lips relaxed. He walked with a springy step to his study table and plumped himself down on a chair before it.
"No, Mr. Benny Wilkins, you'll never have a chance to say I have a yellow streak," he muttered. "I understand those chaps. Work to beat the band to scare a fellow off the team, and when he does call him a quitter."