“Pretty bad; was I, Andy?”

“Yes.”

“Whew! What a headache! Any ice water left?”

“I’ll get some.”

“Never mind. What’s there’ll do.”

It was morning—there always is a “morning after.” Perhaps it is a good thing, for it is nature’s protest against violations of her code of health.

Dunk drank deep of the water Andy handed him.

“That’s better,” he said, with a sigh. “Guess I won’t get up just yet.”

“Going to cut out chapel?”

“I should say yes! My head is splitting now and to go there and hear that old organ booming out hymns would snap it off my neck. No chapel for me!”

“You know what it means.”

“Well, I can’t be in much worse than I am. I’ll straighten up after a bit. No lectures to-day.”

“You’re going the pace,” observed Andy. It was not said with that false admiration which so often keeps a man on the wrong road from sheer bravado. Andy was rather white, and his lips trembled.

“It does seem so,” admitted Dunk, gloomily enough.

“Any more water there?” he asked, presently.

“I’ll get some,” offered Andy, and he soon returned with a pitcher in which ice tinkled.

“That sounds good,” murmured his roommate. “Was I very bad last night?”

“Oh, so-so.”

“Made a confounded idiot of myself, I suppose?” and he glanced sharply at Andy over the top of the glass.

“Oh, well, we all do at times.”

“I haven’t seen you do it yet.”

“You will if you room with me long enough, Dunk.”

“Yes, but not in the way I mean.”

“Oh, well, I’m no moralist; but I hope you never will see me that way. Understand, I’m not preaching, but——”

“I know. You don’t care for it.”

“That’s it.”

“I wish I didn’t. But you don’t understand.”

“Maybe not,” said Andy slowly. “I’m not judging you in the least.”

“I know, old man. How’d you get me home?”

“Oh, you were tractable enough. I got a taxi.”

“I’ll settle with you later. I don’t seem to have any cash left.”

“Forget it. I can lend you some.”

“I may need it, Andy. Hang Gaffington and his crowd anyhow! I’m not going out with them again.”

Andy made no reply. He had been much pained and hurt by the episode in the theater. Public attention had been attracted to him by Dunk’s conduct; but, more than this, Andy remembered a startled and surprised look in the eyes of Miss Fuller, who came out on the stage when Dunk interrupted the tramp act.

“If only I could have had a chance to explain,” thought Andy. But there had been no time. He had helped to take Dunk away. When this Samaritan act was over the theater had closed, and Andy did not think it wise to look up Miss Fuller at her hotel.

“I’ll see her again,” he consoled himself.

The chapel bell boomed out, and Andy started for the door.

“What a head!” grumbled Dunk again. “I say, Andy, what’s good when a fellow makes an infernal idiot of himself?”

“In your case a little bromo might help.”

“Got any?”

“No, but I can get you some.”

“Oh, don’t bother. When you come back, maybe——”

“I’ll get it,” said Andy, shortly.

He was late for chapel when he had succeeded in administering a dose of the quieting medicine to Dunk, and this did not add to the pleasures of the occasion. However, there was no help for it.

Somehow the miserable day following the miserable night ended, and Andy was again back in the room with Dunk. The latter was feeling quite “chipper” again.

“Oh, well, it’s a pretty good old world after all,” Dunk said. “I think I can eat a little now. Never again for me, Andy! Do you hear that?”

“I sure do, old man.”

“And that goes. Put her there!”

They shook hands. It meant more to Andy than he would admit. He had gone, that afternoon, to the theater, where Miss Fuller was on for a matinee, and, sending back his card, with some flowers, had been graciously received. He managed to make her understand, without saying too much.

“I’m so glad it wasn’t—you!” she said, with a warm pressure of her hand.

“I’m glad too,” laughed Andy.

“No sir—never again!” said Dunk that evening, as he got out his books. “You hear me, Andy—never again!”

“That’s the way to talk!”

It was hard work at Yale. No college is intended for children, and the New Haven University in particular has a high aim for its students.

Andy “buckled down,” and was doing well. His standing in class, while not among the highest, was satisfactory, and he was in line for a place on the freshman eleven.

How he did practice! No slave worked harder or took more abuse from the coaches. Andy was glad of one thing—that Gaffington was out of it. There were others, though, who tackled Andy hard in the scrimmages, but he rather liked it, for there was no vindictiveness back of it.

As for Mortimer, he and his crowd went on their sporting way, doing just enough college work not to fall under the displeasure of the Dean or other officials. But it was a “close shave” at times.

Dunk seemed to stick to his resolution. He, too, was studying hard, and for several nights after the theater escapade did not go out evenings. Andy was rejoicing, and then, just when his hopes were highest, they were suddenly dashed.

There had been a period of hard work, and it was followed by a football disaster. Yale met Washington and Jefferson, and while part of the Bulldog’s poor form might be ascribed to a muddy field, it was not all that. There was fumbling and ragged playing, and Yale had not been able to score. Nor was it any consolation that the other team had not either. Several times their players had menaced Yale’s goal line, and only by supreme efforts was a touchdown avoided. As it stood it was practically a defeat for Yale, and everybody, from the varsity members to the digs, were as blue as the cushions in the dormitory window seats.

Andy and Dunk sat in their room, thankful that it was Saturday night, with late chapel and no lessons on the morrow.

“Rotten, isn’t it, Andy?” said Dunk.

“Oh, it might be worse. The season is only just opening. We’ll beat Harvard and Princeton all right.”

“Jove! If we don’t!” Dunk looked alarmed.

“Oh, we will!” asserted Andy.

Dunk seemed nervous. He was pacing up and down the room. Finally, stopping in front of Andy he said:

“Come on out. Let’s go to a show—or something. Let’s go down to Burke’s place and see the fellows. I want to get rid of this blue feeling.”

“All right, I’ll go,” said Andy, hesitating only a moment.

They were just going out together when there came the sound of footsteps and laughter down the corridor. Andy started as he recognized the voice of Gaffington.

“Oh Dunk! Are you there?” was called, gleefully.

“Yes, I’m here,” was the answer, and it sounded to Andy as though his chum was glad to hear that voice.

“Come out and have some fun. Bully show at the Hyperion. No end of sport. Come on!”

Mortimer, with Clarence Boyle and Len Scott, came around the corner of the corridor, arm in arm.

“Oh, you and Blair off scouting?” asked Gaffington, pausing before the two.

“We were going out—yes,” admitted Dunk.

“We’ll make a party of it then. Fall in, Blair!”

Andy rather objected to the patronizing tone of Mortimer, but he did not feel like resenting it then. Should he go?

Dunk glanced at his chum somewhat in doubt.

“Will you come, Andy?” he asked, hesitatingly.

“Yes—I guess so.”

“We’ll make a night of it!” cried Len.

“Not for mine,” laughed Andy. “I’m in training, you know.”

“Well, we’ll keep Dunk then. Come on.”

They set out together, Andy with many misgivings in his heart.

Noisy and stirring was the welcome they received at Burke’s. It was the usual story. The night wore on, and Dunk’s good resolutions slipped away gradually.

“Come on, Andy, be a sport!” he said, raising his glass.

Andy smiled and shook his head. Then a bitter feeling came into his heart—a feeling mingled with despair.

“Hang it all!” he murmured to himself. “I’m going to quit. I’ll let him go the pace as he wants to. I’m done with him!”