It was a brute of a day, with a chilling, drizzling rain and a sodden, sloppy field. Toby had been out of sorts since the moment of his awakening to a dimly-lighted room and the sound of dripping eaves. He had pecked at his breakfast, more than usually averse to the ruddiness of his steak and willing to exchange a whole pitcher of milk for one heartening cup of hot coffee. Recitations went badly. There was an evident listlessness on the part of the students and a consequent lack of sympathy on the part of the instructors. In Latin Toby made a horrid mess of things, his brain having apparently forgotten to function, and “Chawles,” as Mr. Coburn was known among the boys, became quite testy and rendered a lengthy oration on the shortcomings of the class, which, while intended for the entire assemblage, was aimed directly at Toby. I mention these incidents that you may better understand what happened in the afternoon when the Second Team stood rather morosely around in the drizzle and waited for practice to start and Toby, hands rolled in his sweater, glowered across to where the First Team was warming up for the Forest Hill contest and damp but enthusiastic cheers arose from the stands. It seemed to Toby that a whole lot of fellows, including T. Tucker, were wasting the golden moments of life in vain pursuits. Could Toby have chosen an occupation just then he would have been a bearded and brawny pirate afloat on a tropic sea, a cutlass between his teeth and an assortment of pistols thrust in his blood-red sash. Which shows that Toby’s normally gentle and sane disposition had a bad kink in it to-day.

And at such an inopportune moment Roy Frick, whose disposition, unlike Toby’s, was never worthy of being termed gentle, saw fit to make himself obnoxious. In justice to Frick it should be explained that he had an inherent dislike for the sensation of raindrops trickling down the back of his neck, which sensation he was now having. Frick was a sturdily-made, hard-muscled fellow of seventeen with a broad, not ill-favored face. He was vain, arrogant and pugnacious, although there were those who said that he liked to talk fight better than he liked to fight. Perhaps in an effort to forget his misery, Frick had taken a ball from the canvas sack in which they were brought to the field and was passing with Lippman. Frick was behind Toby, but the latter was dimly aware of what was going on, just as he was aware of the late-comers, George Tubb among them, who were dawdling down from the gymnasium. Once the pigskin, made slippery by the rain, escaped from Frick and bobbed across the wet turf to where Toby stood, and Toby sent it trickling back with a touch of his foot. Perhaps there was something antagonistic in the brief, careless glance exchanged with Frick, for Toby felt antagonistic to everything at the moment. In any case, Frick doubtless resented that look, and a minute later the football collided with a dull, damp thump against the back of Toby’s head.

“Sorry!” called Frick grinning. “The ball’s slippery, Tucker.”

Toby flushed, walked onto the gridiron, where the pigskin was wobbling erratically about, and picked it up. Then, facing the longest stretch of the field and trying to recall all he had learned of punting, he swung his right foot against the dropping ball and was rewarded with a very healthy-sounding thump. Such a performance in a game would have won him applause, for the ball, in spite of its sodden condition, arched toward the further corner of the field in a fine, long flight and came to earth a full forty-five yards away. But there was no applause on this occasion, unless the amused glances of those who happened to see the feat could have been construed as applausive. Frick came running, his face redder than Toby’s had been.

“What’s the idea, Tucker?” he demanded threateningly. “You go and fetch that now!”

“Not likely,” answered Toby in a growl.

“Yes, you will, or I’ll knock your red head off! You get it, do you hear?”

Toby’s face paled from red to white. “Yes, I hear,” he said in a low and steady voice. He covered the distance of a scant yard that separated them in one quick step. “I hear a lot I don’t take stock in, Frick. I hear you’re a fighter, for instance!”

Frick’s right arm went back, elbow crooked, hand clenched, and his right foot moved back with it, but Toby didn’t wait. Instead, he stepped suddenly forward with his own left foot and thrust shoulder and flattened hand against Frick’s chest with the result that the latter staggered back, failed to recover his balance and sat down hard. He was up in an instant, his eyes blazing, silent, and just a bit doubtful. And Toby, who had followed, stood ready. But, while a fight would have been a welcome relief from boredom, the others interposed. Watson and Farquhar and Sid Creel and several more got between the opponents with words of caution and displeasure.

“Cut it, you chumps!” said the big center, pushing Frick away. “Here comes Mr. Burtis!”

“What do I care?” cried Frick. “Think he’s going to knock me down and get away with it? Let go of me, Ben, or I’ll—I’ll smash you! I will! Take your hands——”

But Watson wouldn’t, and Farquhar was there too, soothing and ridiculing, and every one had mixed in and the incident was perforce closed. And lest Toby, who really seemed quite calm and peaceable, should attempt to continue the discussion, Sid Creel and Stover stood guard over him. And onto the scene strode Coach Burtis and Captain Beech, suspicious but asking no questions, and every one strolled casually somewhere else and looked very innocent.

“What was the trouble?” whispered Sid Creel as he and Toby wandered along the side-line. Toby related the incident in a few words, and Sid observed him curiously.

“Gee, you must have had a grouch,” he exclaimed wonderingly. “Never knew you had a temper like that, Toby!”

“Well, I have,” answered Toby dryly. “Of course, it was a silly thing to do, but he had no business lamming me with that wet ball!”

Sid grinned. “Well, it wasn’t his fault the ball was wet, was it?” he asked.

Toby managed a weak smile. “It’s his fault he will have to chase after it,” he answered.

But of course Frick didn’t have to do any such thing. There is always some obliging person about in such an emergency, and it was young Lovett, hopeful candidate for end position, who scurried off and brought it back to an indignant Gyp. Then practice began and every one had other things to think of for the succeeding hour. Now and again Toby and Roy Frick encountered each other, on which occasions Frick glowered or sneered and Toby pretended to have forgotten the other’s existence. Toby was rather ashamed of himself by now and quite willing to consider the affair closed.

There was no scrimmage this afternoon, and at a little after four the squad was dismissed. Taking only time enough to wrap themselves in blankets, the Second hurried in a body across to the other gridiron and won a ripple of laughter as they appeared like so many blue wraiths, around the corner of the covered stand. It seemed like an accident, but possibly wasn’t, that George Tubb scuttled into the seat next to Toby.

“Guess that guy would have mopped the ground up with you if the fellows hadn’t butted in,” observed George with one of his malicious grins. “He’s a lot heavier than you, Tucker.”

“I had a lucky escape then,” replied Toby. “Know what the score is here?”

“Nothing to nothing. Forest Hill’s too fast for those First Team yaps. Say, I wish Frick would try to get gay with me some day! I don’t like that blow-hard.”

“Perhaps he will,” said Toby pleasantly. “At least, you can hope, Tubb.”

George eyed him suspiciously. Toby’s tone had suggested that he viewed the idea with favor. George grunted. “Well, if he ever does he will get a lot more’n he expects,” he growled. “You ought to have handed him a punch instead of just pushing him, Tucker. He’ll be after you the first chance he gets. They say he’s a clever scrapper, too.”

“Do they?” asked Toby indifferently. “Then there’ll probably be enough left for you to tackle, Tubb.”

The third period ended just then, and Toby’s gaze, turning away from the players, encountered Tubb’s. For some reason Tubb colored, and then blurted: “Say, you never came around to the room like you said you were going to, Tucker. You’re getting sort of choosey, too, I suppose.”

“I called last week, Tubb. You were out. Didn’t Ramsey tell you?”

“Yes. I forgot. How’d you know I’d be out?” Again that objectionable grin! Toby frowned.

“I didn’t,” he said shortly. Then: “Can’t you ever be decent, Tubb?” he asked. “This thing of always having a chip on your shoulder is a bit tiresome.”

“I haven’t any chip.” Tubb laughed a mixture of apology and defiance. “I’ve got some—some pride, though! No fellow needs to know me if he doesn’t want to!”

“That goes without saying,” answered Toby dryly.

George scowled darkly. “Well, it’s so. A lot of you guys with wrist-watches make me tired! Gee, if——”

“I don’t happen to wear a wrist-watch, Tubb, and making you tired is nothing in my young life,” said Toby wearily. “Let’s cut out the love-pats. I’m not feeling awfully gay to-day. How do you like playing end?”

“All right,” replied George after a moment. “If Mr. Burtis wasn’t a bonehead, though, he’d let me play half. I always have played half.”

“Always?” asked Toby, idly, watching Snowden kick-off to Forest Hill. “How long is ‘always’?”

“Well, last year and some the year before. I was the best back on our team, anyway!”

“I didn’t know you had played so much. When I asked you——”

“Oh, well, you sounded so blamed patronizing,” growled George.

“Didn’t mean to. I’m glad you stuck it out on the squad, Tubb. Beech said the other day that—well, he seemed to think you were going to make a pretty good end.”

“Huh!” said George scornfully. “I could show him some real end playing right now if he’d give me a chance! But he’s stuck on Mawson and Connell.” In spite of his words, Toby got the idea that George was nevertheless pleased by the compliment to his playing. “I suppose they belong to the same Society Beech does!”

“No, as a matter of fact, Tubb, Beech is Cambridge and Connell is Oxford. I don’t know which Mawson is, but I don’t think it matters. I wouldn’t make remarks of that sort if I were you. Fellows don’t like them.”

If Tubb made any reply Toby didn’t hear it, for Halliday had got away around Forest Hill’s left and pulled down a long and desperate forward-pass, and now he was streaking up the field with the ball and the stand was on its feet, shouting and imploring. Halliday dodged the first of the enemy and sped on. Then the Forest Hill quarter was on him, there was a confusion of rolling bodies and Ted was free again to go plunging on toward the nearing goal-line. The pursuit gained but never quite reached him, and Ted at last subsided between the posts. That was all the scoring done by either team, and shortly after Captain Fanning had missed an easy goal the game ended. The visitors considered, and not without reason, that they had virtually won the honors of the day and departed cheering through the twilight drizzle.