Perched on a barrel, overlooking the court, George Rawson, the Assistant Scout Master, was scoring; while several other scouts had various points of vantage and were watching the game with eager interest.

In the middle of a rally, Don hit the ball a low, smashing stroke, intending to place it in the far corner of the court.  Instead, it grazed the net and dropped dead on the serving line, before Walter could return it.

“Vantage out!” called Rawson.

Walter laughed a trifle “sore-ly” as he returned the balls for his opponent’s next serve.  He hated to lose, but he was a lad who could take defeat gracefully if he had to, and this last play only served to put him on his mettle.

Don’s first ball was a cut, but Walter returned it easily, and a new rally commenced.  The captain of the Foxes played a net game, trusting to his height and reach to stop every ball that came over, while Walter preferred to, stand well back on the court where he could place them better.

Back and forth flew the ball with such swiftness that Rawson had all he could do to keep track of it.  All at once, Walter lunged forward to return a particularly difficult shot which Don had placed close to the net.  Biff! he just caught it and gave it a swift cut which sent it whizzing past Don’s extended racket to the base line, where it raised a little spurt of dust.

Amid a murmur of applause from the young spectators, Rawson decided in an instant.

“Out!” he called.  “Game and set.”

Before the cheers had died away, Walter walked up to the net and shook hands with the victor.

“If you play like that when you’re rusty, as you said you were, Don,” he said pluckily, “I’d hate to be up against you when you’re in practice!”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t, old scout!” was Don’s hearty response.  “Why, I remember times when you put it all over me!  I’m afraid of that famous serve of yours still!”

“Whoop-ee!” yelled Cooper Fennimore, a scout in Don’s patrol, springing up and waving his cap around his head.  “That’s some playing, I tell you!  For a chap that hasn’t had a racket in his paw for three months, that’s going some!”

“Talk about speed!” put in another Fox.  “Gee!  I’m glad I wasn’t in Walter’s place!”

The boy to whom these remarks were addressed, Blake Merton, a Hawk and one of young Osborne’s staunchest friends, flushed.

“If you had been in Walter’s place, you would have lasted about two minutes!” he retorted.  His naturally quick temper—–­usually kept in control—–­often flared up and led him to say things which he afterward regretted.

“Huh!” exclaimed the Fox, scornfully.  “You seem to think Walter Osborne can win all the time!  Don did start in rusty, but he soon warmed up—–­just a little!”

“Let’s play a set, Coop, you and I,” suggested Blake Merton, turning his back upon Don’s elated follower.  “Do you feel like it?”