That afternoon the fog changed to a soft drizzle that puffed in from the Sound on a southwest breeze and cast a pall of gloom and moisture over the school. Luckily there was no outdoor practice scheduled, for the field was soft and slippery and just in condition to produce a crop of sprains and bruises. Instead, there was a solid two hours of signal drill and talk in the gymnasium. The plays selected for the morrow were drawn on the blackboard and explained again by the Coach, after which the players were “quizzed” on each and afterwards were made to go through them, first at a walk and then at a trot, until they went off smoothly. Toward the last the lights had to be turned on, and the players, their rubber soles patting the boards, moved back and forth, two squads of them, with their foreshortened shadows dodging and leaping about the floor with strange effect. The voices of Simms and Holmes, the first high and sharp and the latter like an angry growl, called the signals, the centers shot back the balls, the poised players broke into seeming confusion, there was the sound of pattering shoes on the floor, of hurried breathing, and then quiet again as the teams reformed, quiet broken by the even voice of Coach Payson.

“Cousins, you started too soon. Wait until quarter turns. Your duty is to make the play safe. If there had been a fumble you’d never have got the ball. Try that again, please. And, Burtis, keep your head straight. If you turn it you may give away the play. Remember that, everyone. Don’t indicate by a look or movement where the ball is going or where the attack is to be made. Same play, Simms.”

At the edge of the shadow cast by the running track a half-dozen substitutes watched and awaited their turns. With them were Davis, making interminable notes in his book, and Andy Ryan, the little red-headed trainer, his sharp eyes following the players’ every movement. Finally it was over, and the fellows trooped down the stairs to the showers, the edict “Ten o’clock bed, fellows!” ringing in their ears.

Meanwhile Gerald was leading a dozen or so scantily attired youths over the cross-country course, plugging up the slippery hillsides and splashing through puddles, with the rain soaking their running clothes and squish-squashing in their spiked shoes, and all for the glory of Yardley. And, although no one knew it, far out on the golf links, a solitary figure in the rain-swept landscape, George Kirk was tramping doggedly along in the wake of a wee white ball. The golfing days were growing fewer and fewer and, although it would be a good six months before he could lead his warriors against Broadwood again, he must miss no chance to prepare for a victory. And this, too, was for the glory of Yardley.

By supper time the drizzle had turned to a driving rain that beat against the front windows of the halls and filled the walks with unexpected puddles into which you walked unseeingly. It was what The Duke, sprinting back from the library after supper—even The Duke had to look up a reference occasionally—termed to himself “a dark, dank, drooly nicht.” He reached the entrance to Clarke out of breath and somewhat damp, but his spirits were not affected. It took more than that to affect them. Even the fact that authority in the person of one Edmund Gaddis, instructor in English, familiarly known as “Old Tige,” had decreed that The Duke should hand in a theme before Saturday noon, and that Saturday noon was less than seventeen hours away, cast no spell of gloom over his gayety. When, having reached the head of the first flight, he descried Adler coming along the corridor, he immediately stationed himself against the newel post, clapped a hand to an imaginary sword hilt and scowled silently at the approaching figure. Adler, sighting his foe at the same moment, placed a quick hand on his own weapon and, hugging the further wall, advanced cautiously, with an insolent expression. No word was spoken. Eyeing each other intently, haughtily, they met and passed. The weapons were not drawn. Adler, circling at a safe distance, reached the stairs and, with a last malevolent glare, which was met and returned, passed from sight. Whereupon The Duke dropped his hand from his sword hilt and proceeded upstairs, three steps at a time. Just why the two went through this procedure they did not know, but they always did, wherever and whenever they met. Doubtless it added spice to life.

Cotton was writing at the study table when The Duke flung open the door of Number 47. At sight of his roommate Cotton quickly turned the written sheet face downward and drew a blotter half over it, afterward pretending to trace figures on the blotter with his pen. The Duke observed him disgustedly.

“Oh, chuck the mystery, Cotton! I don’t want to see what you’re writing. Every time anyone comes around you you hide something like a silly conspirator. Why the dickens don’t you write something you aren’t ashamed of, eh?”

“I’m not ashamed of anything I write,” replied Cotton with intense dignity. “But I don’t want fellows to read my letters, do I?”

“You do not! Nor does anyone want to read your old letters. I’ll bet a dollar and seven cents no one could read ’em!”

The Duke had seized a towel and was vigorously mopping the rain from his face and hair. Cotton scowled.

“If I couldn’t write better than you I—I’d use a typewriter!”

“Is that impossible?” scoffed The Duke, tossing the towel aside and slicking his hair with a pair of military brushes. “Sweet youth, I wouldst tell thee something an thou willst hearken. My name is Lester S. Wellington, and the S stands for Spencerian. I, O Colossal Lump of Ignorance, invented the art of writing!”

Cotton said “Humph!” in an unflattering tone and gathered up his writing. The Duke, feeling better after his burst of confidence, pulled a slip of crumpled paper from a pocket and smoothed it out. It contained the notes written in the library. He had started for his room with his mind made up to sit down at once and compose that English theme. But now he viewed the notes distastefully. The virtuous impulse was dying fast. Besides, how could a fellow do anything with Cotton there? An English theme—especially to The Duke—was something requiring ideal conditions of quiet and vast concentration. And it was absolutely impossible to concentrate when Cotton was scratching his pen or shuffling his feet at the other side of the table. Besides, there was still to-morrow morning. He would arise early and do the theme before chapel. One’s faculties are always at their best in the early morning. The Duke slipped the notes between the pages of a blue book and smiled relievedly. He even viewed his roommate with a forgiving smile.

“Coming over to Oxford?” he asked.

“What for?” growled Cotton, not so ready to make up.

“Why, for the mass-meeting, O Flower of Chivalry!”

“What do I care about the mass-meeting?” inquired Cotton with a scowl. “A lot of idiots howling and some more idiots making speeches! What does it amount to?”

“Why, you unpatriotic sinner!” exclaimed The Duke. “I honestly believe you’d rather see us beaten than not!”

“We’re going to be beaten, whether I want it or don’t. Besides, there’ll be plenty of fellows there to make a noise without me.”

The Duke viewed him with deep disgust for a moment. Finally, “Cotton, at times I experience a most frantic temptation to kick you out of the window. Isn’t that strange? Can you explain it?”

“You’d better try it,” replied the other belligerently.

“No, I shall try to resist,” answered The Duke, shaking his head gently. “You just say that so I’ll spoil a perfectly good window and get in trouble. I don’t think that is very nice of you, Cotton. In fact, I think it shows a mean spirit. No, when I do kick you, O Delectable One, it will be through the door, with the door open.”

“You—you——” began Cotton angrily.

“Don’t ask me!” interrupted The Duke, holding up a hand. “I’d like to oblige you, Cotton, but I will not kick you out the window. You must try to be reasonable about it. Put yourself in my place, Cotton. As much as I love you, O Joy of My Heart, I will not sacrifice a good window merely to satisfy your selfish whim. No, no, Cotton, it must be the door! You must be satisfied with the door. Not another word, I beg of you! I am adamant!”

And The Duke, smiling sweetly but reprovingly, passed out, leaving Cotton sputtering with indignation and rage. By the time The Duke’s footsteps had died away in the corridor, however, his roommate’s wrath had wasted to grumblings.

“Silly fool,” muttered Cotton. “Stuck-up idiot! Thinks he’s so beastly clever, does he? Huh!” He caught sight of the paper The Duke had slipped into the book, and he reached across the table and drew it out. “Notes, eh?” he murmured. “For his theme, I guess. Well, he can go and get some more, he’s so smart!” And very deliberately, grinning the while, Cotton tore the sheet into tiny pieces and, opening the window, let them flutter out. Then, chuckling, he returned to the table, uncovered his letter, dipped his pen and began to write again:

He didn’t sign his name. Folding the letter he slipped it into an envelope and addressed it to “William Gibson, Esq., Broadwood Academy, Greenburg, Ct.” Then, putting it into his pocket, he slipped quietly down the stairs and across, through the rain, to the letterbox in front of Oxford. Although there was no one in sight Cotton took no risks of being seen, and the way in which he extracted the letter from his pocket and slid it through the slot was a marvel of dexterity. Then, as a sudden burst of cheering reached him from upstairs, he passed into the hall and sought the meeting, just as, in spite of his declaration to the contrary, he had intended to do all along.