“Oh, it’s nothing.  It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

“Let—­me—­see—­it!” commanded Amy sternly.  “Well, I’d say you did whack it!  Stretch out there and I’ll rub it.  Oh, shut up!  I’ve rubbed more knees than—­than a centipede ever saw!  Besides, it won’t do to have you laid up, Clint, old scout.  Think of what it would mean to the second team—­and the school—­and the nation!  I shudder to contemplate it.  That where it is?  I thought so from your facial contortions.  Lie still, can’t you?  How do you suppose I can—­rub if—­you—­twist like—­that?”

“Don’t be so—­so plaguey enthusiastic!” gasped Clint.

“Nonsense!  Grin and bear it.  Think what it would mean if you were lost to the team!”

“Oh, dry up,” grumbled Clint.  “How did you get on with your silly tennis today?”

“All right.  We’ll finish up tomorrow, I guess.  I play Kennard in the morning.  He’s a snap.”

“Why don’t you pick out someone who can play?  Don’t win the tournament too easily, Amy.  They’ll get onto you.”

“That’s so, but I can’t afford to take any chances.  There you are!  Now you’re all right.  Up, Guards, and at them!”

“I’m not a guard; I’m a tackle,” corrected Clint as he experimentally bent his knee up and down.  “It does feel better, Amy.  Thanks.”

“Of course it does.  I’m a fine little massewer.  Let’s go and eat.”

But the next morning that knee was stiff and painful and although Amy again administered to it, it was all Clint could do to hobble to Wendell for breakfast.  “Boots” sternly demanded an immediate examination and an hour later Clint was bandaged about his knee like a mummy and told to keep away from practice for several days and not to use his leg more than he had to.  He limped out of the Physical Director’s room in the gymnasium with the aid of a cane which Mr. Conklin had donated and with a dark scowl on his face.

“Of all the mean luck!” he muttered disgustedly.  “Just when I was going well, too!  Now, I suppose, Robbins will get my place, hang him!  Bet you this settles me for the rest of the season!”

CHAPTER XIII

AMY WINS A CUP

In the afternoon Clint hobbled down to the tennis courts to watch the final match in the tournament between Amy and Holt.  They were hard at it when he arrived and half a hundred enthusiasts were looking on and applauding.  Clint didn’t play tennis and thought it something of a waste of time.  But today he had his eyes opened somewhat.  Amy was a brilliant player for his years, and Holt, who was a substitute end on the varsity football team, was scarcely less accomplished.  In fact, Holt had secured the lead when Clint reached the court and the score of the first set was 5-2 in his favour.

“Byrd hasn’t found himself yet,” volunteered a boy next to Clint.  “He lost two games on his service.  Banged the balls into the net time after time.  He’ll get down to work presently, though, I guess.”