Bartlett who, in turn, passed it on a line to Bergen Merritt who waited under the basket. A warning cry rang out from the Highland rooters. A visiting guard leaped desperately upon the boy prepared to shoot. The whistle blew.

"Foul on Highland, charging!"

Merritt smiled pleasantly, trotted to the white chalk-mark and, with a graceful, nonchalant movement, tossed the ball fairly through the basket.

The Glenwood supporters cheered wildly. Ned Bartlett, clapping Merritt upon the back, sped to his position, his eyes shining, his lips phrasing words of encouragement to the team. The centers jumped; the ball shot back and forth; but suddenly a blue-suited youth dashed upon the floor, hand held high. The whistle blew.

"Time's up," the referee announced. He raised his hand for silence. "Grenwood wins, thirty-four to thirty-three, and will play Millville next Friday for the county championship."

When the din of this announcement had died away, Tom Allen followed the other players into the dressing room. He saw Ned Bartlett grasp Merritt's hand and tell him he had played a great game. In his heart there arose a sullen resentment against the brilliant forward whose work had made the victory possible.

He eyed his team-mates speculatively. Flushed with the thrill of victory, they chatted eagerly, mentioning this good pass, that sensational shot; and always Bergen Merritt was given the greatest credit.

Tom dressed slowly, pondering over the whim of fate which had led Merritt to return to Glenwood after a two years' absence. If he had only waited until after the basketball season, Tom would have been satisfied, for then there would have

been no rivalry for the honor of being chosen the "best basketball man."

Basketball had taken a big hold on the people of Glenwood, not only among the students of the school, but also among the townsfolk. Mr. Alonzo Harding, the young president of the Glenwood State Bank, who had played the game himself— and played it well-while in college, had given a silver trophy, surmounted by a silver ball, upon which the name of the best man on the team was inscribed at the end of each season. The practice had been in vogue for only one year, and but one name adorned the cup, that of Captain Ned Bartlett, who, although he had still a year to play, was voted the best man at the conclusion of his Junior term.

Everybody had believed that Tom Allen's would be the next name on the cup, and Tom himself had thought so until Bergen Merritt appeared to contest his claim. Bergen had been the star forward of the school, and in every contest he had accounted for the majority of the team's points. Tom, at guard, had done his very best, but his work was steady and consistent rather than brilliant, and Merritt had gradually become the favorite of the spectators. Tom, pondering rather sullenly over the probable outcome of the season, drew on his coat and made his way leisurely out of the dressing room, meeting Ned Bartlett on the steps of the school.

"Some game, wasn't it?" The captain spoke enthusiastically. "All we have to do now is to beat Millville and the championship is ours."

Tom walked along silently, filled with a sudden resentment at Ned's lightheartedness. It was all right for him to talk; his name was already on the trophy. But to Tom, the winning of the championship was only of secondary importance; the one thing that mattered was the honor of

being chosen the best man on the team. Suddenly he realized that all through the season he had been playing, not for the school, but for himself. Slightly abashed at this disclosure of his selfishness, he walked along silently, answering in monosyllables Ned's attempts at conversation. He wanted his name on that trophy-but was he really deserving of it? He tried to convince himself that he was, and resolved to prove it.

On Monday afternoon he reached the court early, resolved to get in some extra practice before the other players appeared. For twenty minutes or so he tried long shots from the end of the court, with fair success. Ned Bartlett, standing on the side-lines, watched him for a time without speaking, a thoughtful light in his eyes. Finally, the others having arrived, he called the players together.

"I've got the Millville game all planned out," he announced. "We're going to play the short passing game. No long shots, no big chances; if we want to win, we'll have to use team-work."

"But we always did have team-work," Tom protested.

"Yes, but not good enough to beat Millville. This time it's different. We'll have to keep one man free, and feed him."

"Who's the man?"

"Why, Merritt, of course!" Ned looked surprised. "He'll play hang forward and it's up to us to feed him all we can." He glanced at the clock. "Come on, we'll get in a good practice."

Throughout the afternoon Tom and the others "fed" Bergen Merritt. The new plan worked well against the second team, and when the captain called a halt, the score stood 72 to 13. In the dressing room the players bubbled over with enthusiasm.

"We'll play Millville right off her feet,"

"Stew" Terrill, the second forward, announced. "With Tom as hang guard and the rest of us all over the floor, they won't stand a chance."

Even Tom admitted that Ned's idea was a good one. But with it, he saw his own hopes go glimmering. All through the week he pondered over the turn affairs had taken. It was hard to lose his one ambition when it was just within his grasp, doubly hard because of the manner in which it was being lost. Gradually his resentment grew. It wasn't fair! They had no right to take it from him!

On the night of the contest he made his way listlessly to the gymnasium. What he wanted most then was to have the game over with; he felt that he never wanted to see a basketball court again. Bergen Merritt smiled at him pleasantly, but Tom only nodded.

Outside in the "gym" the rival rooters were cheering noisily. Millville, thrice champions, had brought over a large band. of followers; Glenwood, in her home court, was not lacking in supporters. It promised to be a great game.

In practice the Glenwood team worked smoothly; up and down the court they swept; their passing sure, deliberate, their handling certain. And always, when they reached the basket, the ball was shot to Bergen Merritt, who tossed it neatly through the hoop. The Millville players watched closely. They were larger than the Glenwood boys; their brawny arms and sturdy limbs gave an impression of rugged strength.

At the sound of the referee's whistle, they took their places quickly, eagerly.

The ball shot into the air. Ned tapped it to Terrill; Merritt dashed across the floor, took the pass from his fellow-forward and flung it cleanly into the basket for the first score. The Glenwood rooters

cheered happily. Twice more the process was repeated before the Millville players became alive to the situation. But with

the score six to nothing against them, they settled down to the game which had brought them a steady stream of victories throughout the season, until, at the end of the half, the score stood 11 to 9 in favor of Glenwood. Bergen Merritt had been the only man to make a basket for the leaders; his three field goals and five free throws had accounted for the Glenwood total.

The second half started much the same as had the first. Glenwood got the jump and scored three times before the visitors found themselves. And then, with his team eight points in the lead, Tom's longnourished resentment suddenly found an outlet. He refused to play according to directions. Snatching the ball from his opponent, he ignored Ned's shrill warning and, aiming hastily, caged a neat basket from his end of the floor.

The Glenwood rooters cheered wildly, but Ned Bartlett faced him with flashing eyes.

"Cut out the long throws," he said shortly. "Pass the ball."

Tom took his place sulkily. Yes, that was it! Give Merritt all the glory! The ball flashed into the hands of his opponent who in turn slipped it through the hoop for a basket. Tom had been caught unawares; his man had made a goal!

"Wake up!" Ned warned him. "Come on, fellows, get in the game!"

Play waxed fast and furious. The ball shot back and forth, bodies clashed, cheers shook the rafters of the building; occasionally the piercing whistle of the offcials punctuated the din.

Gradually the Millville team cut down the lead which Glenwood had gained; try as they might, Ned and his team-mates

could not stop the onward rush of the visitors. Twice Merritt broke loose and scored, but three times in succession the visiting center found the basket.

Tom, in the thick of the scrimmage, played desperately, almost savagely. He followed his man closely, taking grim pleasure in thwarting his efforts to cage the ball. But in spite of all that he could do, the visitors gradually closed the gap. With but three minutes to play, the score stood 27 to 25. Then a Millville forward, making a sensational shot over his shoulder, counted two more points for his team, and the game was tied.

The players ran to their places and stood waiting, tensely alert. Ned Bartlett, arms raised, leaped upward, but his opponent, timing his jump, tapped the ball over the Glenwood captain's shoulder. Tom and his opponent rushed forward and seized it. The whistle blew.

"Held ball!”

They were directly under the visitors' basket. Tom, glancing backward, saw the danger and jumped with all his might. But the Millville player, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder, held him down and knocked the ball cleanly through the hoop, The visiting rooters, rising from their seats, cheered wildly. Tom, suddenly beside himself with anger, rushed to the referee.

"It was a foul," he shouted. "He used his arm."

The official looked at him quietly. "I think I'm capable of refereeing this game," ," he remarked. He held up his hand for silence. "The basket doesn't count,' he announced. "Double foul-holding, and talking to the referee."

Amid the most intense silence, the Millville center took his place carefully on the white foul line. Apparently unaffected by the tension of the occasion, he glued his

eyes on the basket, the crowd forgotten. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his arms, shooting the ball squarely through the iron hoop. A cheer arose from the Highland rooters but died down as Bergen Merritt, with assumed carelesness, walked to the fifteen-foot line before his own basket. His hand was steady as he took careful aim. Suddenly the ball shot out, struck the baseboard, bounded back, hit the front of the hoop, wavered for a moment, and then fell outside. A groan went out from the Glenwood section.

Ned Bartlett, eyes flashing with determination, sprang into position. His lips moved, but the noise was too great for the others to hear what he was saying. The ball shot upward, the players shifted, and suddenly Tom found the ball in his hands, the nearest man ten feet away. He took a step forward, and still no one came to intercept him. And then, out of the mass of players shot Bergen Merritt. For a brief instant he stood under the basket, uncovered, needing only the ball to bring victory to Glenwood.

In that brief instant, Tom Allen fought a fight with himself-and lost. All the pent up resentment of a season of disappointment seemed to burst forth. He forgot the team, forgot the training of the past week, forgot everything except that Bergen Merritt was waiting for the chance to cover himself with glory. A Millville player rushed toward him; he dodged, stepped aside, and then hurled the ball in a graceful semi-circle toward the basket. It struck the outer edge and danced crazily. A girl in the gallery shrieked hysterically. Tom watched, fascinated, as the ball rolled lazily around the edge, hovered uncertainly for a moment, and then dropped in. The whistle blew. "Time's up," the referee announced.

"Glenwood wins."

A group of rooters climbed down from the gallery and carried Tom in triumph. to the dressing room. Merritt clapped him enthusiastically upon the back, and the others hovered around, offering congratulations. Tom was the big hero; he had made the deciding basket, and had brought the championship to Glenwood. His cup of happiness should have been filled to overflowing.

But somehow, something was wrong. Even in the tense excitement of the moment, he noticed that Ned Bartlett, out of all the team, did not come forward to shake his hand. Ned stood at the edge of the crowd looking at Tom with a queer expression on his face. Over the heads of the others, Tom caught the look, and blushed crimson. The joy of victory seemed suddenly to have deserted him.

It took an hour or more for the team to dress; there was so much to talk about, so many plays to review, that it was after ten before they adjourned to the school office for the selection of the "best basketball man." After Ned had called the meeting to order, "Stew" Terrill arose.

"I want to propose the name of Tom Allen," he said. "He's the man who won the game tonight; he deserves the trophy of the silver ball."

F

EET should be in good condition for your hikes, Scouts. Inspect insides of shoes. Remove protruding nails. If rough spots cannot be smoothened, have the shoemaker cover them with insoles.

A man who walks a lot says, "Cut the toenails square across-not round like the finger nails-and keep them clean. Bathe the feet at least once a day. Have corns removed-if you have any-and avoid shoes that produce them. Take care of cuts and scratches, otherwise blood poisoning may result. Wear whole not holey stockings."

For a halfday or a whole-day hike in good weather the pockets are all the pack you need. Make up a packing list and try it out. For example:

Right trousers pocket-knife, metal match box (matches dipped in paraffin). Small box of grease for fire lighting.

Left trousers pocket-first aid outfit.
Watch pocket-cheap watch.
Right shirt pocket-whistle on lanyard.
Left shirt pocket-handkerchiefs.

Right coat pocket, lower-meat for lunch, well wrapped.

Left coat pocket, lower-bread, butter (in small glass jar), salt, potato.

Right coat pocket, upper-flash light, map, toilet

paper.

Left coat pocket, upper-twine, fish line, fish hooks (in box), candle, extra shoe string, needle and thread.

If your stomach is larger than your pockets, carry additional grub in a package slung over the shoulder. But don't tote, or eat, too much.