ace he would have lost the set.  So he tried to serve one that would settle the matter, but only banged it into the net.  The next one Amy had no trouble with and sped it back along the side line to the corner.  But Holt was there and got it nicely and again lobbed.  Amy awaited with poised racket and Holt scurried to the rear of the court.  Then down came Amy’s racket and the ball sailed across almost to the back line and bounded high, and although Holt jumped for it, he missed it and it lodged hard and fast in the back net.

“Byrd wins the set, 6—­4!  The score is one set each!”

Amy, passing the end of the net to change court, stopped a moment in front of Clint.  “How’s the knee?” he asked.

“Rotten, thanks.  Say, I thought you said you weren’t taking chances, Amy.”

Amy grinned and doubling up the towel with which he had been wiping his face and hands let it drive.  Clint caught it and draped it over his knees.  “Go on and take your beating,” he taunted.

But it was quite a different Amy who started in on that third and deciding set.  Holt never had a real chance after the first two games.  Amy took them both, the first 50-0 on his service and the second 30-50 on Holt’s.  After that Amy found himself and played tennis that kept the gallery clapping and approving most of the time.  It was only when he had run the set to 4-0 that he eased up a little and allowed Holt the consolation of one game.  The next went to deuce and hung there some time, but Amy finally captured it.  By that time Holt’s spirit was pretty well broken and he put up scarcely any defence in the final game and Amy slammed his serves over almost unchallenged and won a love game.

“Game, set and match to Byrd!” announced Westcott above the applause.  “Byrd wins the School Championship!”

Amy and Holt shook hands across the net and Clint, hobbling up, tossed Amy the towel.  “Got a conundrum for you, Amy,” he said.  “Want to hear it?”

“Shoot!” replied Amy, from behind the towel.

“Why are you like a great English poet?”

“Give it up.  Why, Mr. Johnsing, am I like a great English poet?”

“Because,” replied Clint, edging away, “you surely can play tennis, son!”

“Play ten—­Oh!  Help!  Officer, arrest this man!”

“Huh,” said Clint, “that’s a better joke than you ever sprung.  Where are you going?”

“To get that nice pewter mug over there and then to the gym for a shower.  Come along and then I’ll go over with you and watch that wonderful team of yours bite holes in the turf.”

Some of the fellows who remained demanded a speech when Amy accepted the trophy from Westcott.

“Fellow-citizens,” responded Amy, “I can only say that this is the proudest moment of my young and blameless life.  Thank you, one and all.  Where’s the flannel stocking that goes with this, Harry?”

The bag couldn’t be found, however, and Amy bore away his prize without it.  They paused at a neighbouring court to watch for a moment a white-clad quartette of boys who were battling for the doubles championship.  “Semi-final round,” explained Amy.  “The winners meet Scannel and Boynton tomorrow.  It’ll be a good match.  What’s the score, Hal?”